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In their wandering, and the parallel lines of the roads that they walk, it is the smallest of words that connect them, and it is the smallest of words that add up in the end to Haruka and Makoto. Not words like glory or winning, not glittering words that spill the world at their feet, but words like fish and saba and kitchen, words that promise not a future that dazzles but the warmth of the hearth.
Usually, at this time of the day, he’d be the one skipping up those stairs and calling out to his friend to go explore some other part of the town. But today, he’s sitting alone on the steps, bored.
It’s been five days since he last saw Makoto.