Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and settings are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The psychological concepts referenced in this story are for narrative purposes only and do not constitute professional mental health advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress, please reach out to a qualified professional.
This story opposes all illegal activities and violence. Nothing in this novel should be interpreted as endorsement or encouragement of unlawful behavior.
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After closing, Starry Night felt like a submarine sinking into an ocean trench.
All the lights were out except for one small lamp above the bar, its warm yellow glow barely covering the wooden counter. Ren stood at the center of that circle of light, slowly placing the last few cups upside down on the drying rack. His movements were deliberate, each cup spaced apart by precisely measured seconds, as if performing some kind of ritual.
Kanade had already changed into his casual clothes and was heading out. He reached the door, his hand just brushing the handle.
"Stay."
Ren's voice came from behind him—quiet, but enough to stop Kanade's fingers cold on the metal.
Kanade turned around. Ren still had his back to him, holding a bottle Kanade had never seen before. Dark green glass, a faded label with two characters written on it: Ruri—Lapis Lazuli.
"Something wrong?" Kanade asked.
"The Three-Cup Promise." Ren turned, two glasses now in his hands. "You owe me."
Kanade blinked, remembering. During the interview, Ren had indeed mentioned this—the Three-Cup Promise. First cup: why are you here? Second cup: what can you do? Third cup: what are you willing to pay?
"I thought we drank it on interview day."
"That was a test." Ren set the glasses on the edge of the bar. "Today is official."
Kanade walked back and sat on a stool. The leather surface still held the residual warmth left by daytime guests—a vague heat seeping up through his thighs. The air in the shop carried a faint scent of alcohol mixed with wood and old sofa. This smell was always masked by perfume and food during business hours; only at night could you truly smell it.
Ren poured. The liquid was pale gold, refracting tiny points of light. A fragrance rose—not the sharpness of alcohol, but something woody with a citrus finish.
"What is this?"
"Not alcohol." Ren pushed the first cup toward him. "My mother's recipe. Only enough for three cups."
Kanade looked down at the cup. Pale golden tea, a small petal floating on the surface. The petal's shape was irregular, its edges slightly withered, but the center still held a faint trace of pink.
"First cup." Ren poured one for himself too. "Tell me why you were nervous today."
"I wasn't nervous."
"You wiped the table seven times." Ren's gaze never left his cup. "And you re-tied your necktie three times after the initial knot. Kotaro thought you were practicing magic."
Kanade's fingers instinctively moved to his collar. He'd changed into casual clothes—no necktie there now—but his fingertips still remembered that repetitive adjusting sensation.
"...Because of Sayuri Sakaguchi." He finally spoke.
"What about her?"
"She saw through me." Kanade stared at the petal in his cup. "Not through my background. Through my..." He couldn't find the right word.
"Loneliness." Ren finished for him.
Kanade's fingers tightened.
"She said I had loneliness in my eyes. Completely different from what Tsubasa said—he said I build walls with my knowledge. But Sayuri... she just said it outright. No analysis. No judgment."
"That scared you."
"I'm not scared."
"Then why did you wipe the table three more times after she left?"
Kanade opened his mouth. Closed it.
Ren raised his cup. "Drink."
Kanade took a sip. The tea flowed down his throat, perfectly warm, a gentle heat spreading from his stomach to his limbs. That woody aroma lingered in his mouth, gradually shifting into something citrus-fresh. The faint astringency on his tongue reminded him of the herbal tea his mother used to brew. After she passed, he'd never tasted anything like it again.
"What kind of tea is this?"
"My mother called it Kisou—'Returning Home.' She said drinking it makes you want to go home." Ren set down his cup. "But you don't have a home to return to, do you?"
Kanade's cup froze mid-air.
The warmth of the tea seeped through the glass into his palm. He suddenly realized that from the moment he left the Kujo household until now, he had never once thought about the word "home." He had an apartment. A workplace. Temporary places to stay. But nowhere he could call home.
"...No." He admitted it.
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"Second cup."
Ren filled the second cup. The tea's color was deeper than the first, shifting from pale gold to amber. That petal had sunk to the bottom now, faintly visible in the darker liquid. It had found its place—even if that place was the bottom of a cup.
"Tell me why you ran away."
Kanade's fingers encircled the cup wall. The glass's temperature reached his palm—a presence neither light nor heavy.
"I didn't run away."
"Hmm."
"I chose to leave. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
Kanade stared at the petal on the bottom. It lay there quietly now, no longer floating, no longer moving.
"Running away is forced. Leaving is voluntary." His voice grew softer. "I don't want to become my father. I don't want to live my whole life trapped in other people's expectations. I don't want to wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and realize the person staring back isn't me anymore."
He paused. The steam from the tea rose up, blurring his vision.
"So I snapped the black card."
Ren said nothing. He picked up his own second cup and drank slowly. His Adam's apple moved up and down with a faint sound.
"What kind of man is your father?"
"Masataka Kujo." The name tasted astringent on Kanade's tongue. "Chairman of Kyoshin Group. His phone has three thousand contacts, and not one of them is a friend. His office is three hundred square meters, and he sleeps four hours a day. He calls that 'success.'"
"You hate him."
"I don't hate him." Kanade shook his head. "I'm afraid of becoming him. That's worse than hate."
Ren set down his cup. His expression softened in the lamplight—not sympathy, but a calm that said I understand.
"Do you know why I opened this shop?"
Kanade shook his head.
"Before my mother passed, she said: 'Ren, you've spent your whole life running. Running from your father's expectations, running from the piano, running from relationships with people. Open this shop. Give yourself nowhere to run.'"
Kanade looked up.
"So you opened this shop," he said, "not to carry on your mother's legacy. To trap yourself."
Something bitter flashed in Ren's eyes. Not a smile—a bitter acknowledgment.
"We're the same." He said. "You ran here. I locked myself in here. Different forms, same essence."
Kanade picked up his second cup and drank it in one go. The amber liquid was more astringent than the first, but the aftertaste lingered longer, a sweetness rising from deep in his throat.
"Your mother..." Kanade set down the cup, "what kind of person was she?"
"Loud." Ren said. "She loved to laugh. When she played piano, she closed her eyes like the rest of the world didn't exist." His voice grew distant. "When she opened this shop, she said she wanted everyone who walked in to find their own song."
"Did she succeed?"
"For the guests, yes." Ren looked toward the mirror behind the bar, covered in mood cards. "For me... after she left, I closed the piano lid. And I never opened it again."
Kanade followed his gaze. Countless colorful paper fragments spread across the mirror's surface, each one a trace left by a stranger. Between these fragments, he could almost see the outline of a woman—laughing as she played, eyes closed, the entire world shut outside.
"Do you hate that piano?"
"No." Ren said. "I'm afraid of it. Afraid to touch it."
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"Third cup."
The tea poured into the cup, its color so deep it was nearly opaque. That petal was almost invisible now in the dark liquid, but its shape was still there—just hidden deeper.
"Tell me what you're willing to pay."
Kanade looked at the third cup. This was the hardest one. On interview day, he'd said "I'm willing to give up everything," and Ren had called it a lie. Because he couldn't give up the talent he was born with.
"I don't know." He said honestly.
"You don't know?"
"I thought I was willing to give up everything. Reputation, status, money. But these past few days..." He paused, gathering his thoughts, "I realized there are things I can't give up. Like my habits—I still analyze people without thinking. Like my pride—I can't stand it when Tsubasa looks down on me. Like my fears—I'm afraid this shop will close, not because I'll lose my job, but because..."
He couldn't continue.
"Because what?"
"Because I've started to care." Kanade's voice went hoarse. "I care whether Kotaro's hugs really make him feel better. I care whether Sayuri will finish knitting that scarf before her next visit. I care why Tsubasa hates rich people so much. I care about you—" He stopped.
"Care about me what?"
"I care why you play piano in the air every night."
The light above the bar flickered once. In the distance came the low, continuous sound of canal water flowing.
Ren was silent for a long time. Long enough that Kanade thought he wouldn't answer.
"Because I don't dare touch it." Ren finally said. "That piano is what my mother left behind. The last person to play it was her. If I touch it, it means admitting she's really gone."
Kanade felt something expanding in his chest. Not sadness—something more complicated. Two people who had both been running, finally admitting what they were hiding from, under this yellow lamplight.
"Kanade."
"Yeah."
"You asked me why I gave you a chance. Now I'll tell you the real reason." Ren lifted his eyes, his light brown irises flickering in the lamplight. "Because when you snapped that black card, you weren't just giving up your past. You were searching for a place to stop running."
Kanade's fingers gripped the cup so hard his knuckles turned white.
"This is that place." Ren said.
For the third cup, both raised their glasses and drank them dry.
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The sound of cups returning to the bar was especially crisp in the silence.
Ren stood up and began gathering the cups. Kanade sat on the stool, feeling a warmth rising from his stomach to his eyes. He blinked and looked toward the window.
"Welcome to Starry Night."
Ren's voice came from the direction of the kitchen, so soft it was almost drowned out by the running water.
Kanade didn't turn around. He was afraid that if he did, tears would fall where they shouldn't. The warmth of those three cups still lingered in his throat, a strange courage—not his own—slowly rising from his stomach.
"...I'm not crying." He said to the window.
"I know." Ren's voice held a faint, barely-there smile. "I didn't say you were crying."
"I just choked on the tea."
"Mm."
"...Thanks for the tea."
"No need to thank me." The kitchen door opened, and Ren walked out holding Kanade's jacket. "It's late. Go get some sleep."
Kanade took the jacket, his fingers brushing Ren's fingertips. In that instant, he felt something pass through the point of contact—not his tuning ability reading emotions, but something more primitive. A human connection.
"Ren."
"Mm?"
"That piano..." Kanade put on his jacket, "someday, I want to hear you play it."
Ren's eyes flickered. Fear, hope, and a little shock at being touched so directly.
"Go sleep." Was all he finally said.
Kanade smiled. This time it was genuine—the curve of it surprising even himself.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
The door closed behind Kanade. The wind chime rang softly, piercingly clear in the deep night.
Kanade stood on a street in Ryusawa District, the sound of the canal coming from his right. He looked up at the Starry Night sign—the faded neon had gone dark, leaving only the outline of a moon barely visible in the darkness.
His eyes were still a little hot.
He wiped them with the back of his hand, then shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and walked toward his apartment. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the empty streets, steady and rhythmic.
This time, they weren't the footsteps of someone running away.
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