







“Hai.”
One rainy Tuesday, the booking was a solo pianist named Hana Kirishima. The venue’s owner warned Reo: “She’s difficult. Says the room’s ‘sonic soul’ is wrong.” Reo simply nodded. He’d heard it all.
Hana arrived early, damp hair clinging to her cheeks, a worn leather satchel over her shoulder. She set up without a word, then walked to Reo’s booth. “You’re Fujisawa-san?”
Reo wiped his hands on his jeans. “You made me remember why I started this job. Not to control sound, but to catch it.”
“Good,” she said.