He finally looked up. Gray hair. Tired eyes. Forty-four years old, and still running from a song he wrote at 24.
She smiled. “Then play it. For one person.”
Behind him, on the wall, a faded poster: Shoetsu Otomo Reona 44
A young woman sat at the counter. She pointed at the poster. “You’re Reona, aren’t you?”
The café was empty except for them.
His stage name. His past.
She continued: “My mother played your cassette until it broke. ‘44 Days of Rain,’ she said it saved her.” He finally looked up
He set down the glass. For the first time in a decade, Shōetsu Otomo – Reona – walked to the small upright piano.