The sun was still out when we left the station, though already leaning toward that heavy orange light that makes everything feel slower. The Kamo River caught it, broken into little sparks where the current shifted. We walked along the sidewalk that ran beside it, our shadows stretching long on the concrete.

The air smelled faintly of rain from earlier, damp stone and grass. A few joggers passed us, headphones in. Two kids crouched near the water, throwing pebbles. The city was just a block away, but here it felt softer, like the sound of traffic had been muffled by the river's steady run.

We hadn't said much for a while. Merry's steps were light, mine a bit heavier. The sun dipped further, brushing gold across her hair.

That's when she stopped.

I nearly kept walking before I noticed she wasn't beside me. I turned and found her a few steps back, looking across the water. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowed, listening.

Then I heard it too.

The sound was faint at first, just a thread of notes. Not clean, not smooth — but steady.

On the embankment below sat an old man, cross-legged with a shamisen resting in his lap. The wood was dark with wear, the skin dulled, his fingers moving slow. He plucked, let the sound hang in the air, then plucked again. Not a song I recognized, just a drifting tune.

Merry stayed still, watching. I walked back to her side.

"Didn't expect that here," I said.

She shook her head slightly. "Me neither."

We stood there a while, listening. The notes weren't perfect — some bent too far, others flat — but they carried, blending with the river, with the voices of people passing, with the crows calling overhead.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "You think he does this every day?"

"Could be," she murmured.

"Even if no one stops?"

She glanced at me, then back at him. "Doesn't look like he's waiting for anyone to."

The man's case lay open in front of him. A few coins inside, nothing more. He didn't look up. Didn't try to catch the eyes of people walking past. Just kept playing.

"Not exactly... professional," I said.

Merry's mouth curved faintly. "Yeah. But maybe that's the point."

"Huh?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not everything's about being great at it, Renko. Maybe it's enough to just keep something alive. Even if it's messy. Even if nobody listens."

I looked back at him. His shoulders rose and fell with each note, calm as the river. Around him, the city carried on — bikes rattled across the bridge, conversations drifted, someone's phone buzzed. And yet he stayed, a single sound moving against all that noise.

"Doesn't seem like much of a purpose," I said without thinking.

Merry gave me a sideways look. "Maybe purpose isn't something big. Maybe it's just one small thing you do until the night comes."

Her voice was matter-of-fact, not lofty. Like she was just pointing out the weather. But it stuck with me, the way the notes stuck in the air.

The man shifted, played slower, then stopped altogether. He rested his hands on the shamisen, staring out over the water as if listening to something only he could hear.

We didn't move. The silence after the music felt heavier than the sound itself, stretching across the river with the last of the afternoon light.

Finally Merry started walking again. I fell into step beside her.

The city reappeared as we moved — traffic buzzing, neon signs flickering on. The music was gone, but it lingered in a strange way, like the afterimage of sunlight when you close your eyes.

I wondered if that was enough — a life spent sending small sounds into the air, knowing most of them would vanish before anyone noticed.

The river kept running, carrying the light with it, piece by piece into the evening.