They began to talk. Not about Kenji, at first—about music, coding, the best kind of instant noodles, the way rain sounds on different rooftops. Kotomi was sharp and funny and sad in a way that felt familiar. She had stopped playing violin entirely. She taught beginners, children who still believed practice led to perfection. She hadn’t touched her own instrument in two years.
He opened the first one.
Her voice was young, but tired. Guarded. The kind of voice that had learned not to expect anything from a ringing phone.