He would watch it again tomorrow. The wind would rise again.
"Will you wait for me?" she asked.
At 1:42:15 — he checked the timestamp — Nahoko stepped out of the sanatorium into the golden field. Her parasol spun once. Jiro reached for her hand. The wind caught her hair, and the PSYCHD encode held every strand separate, like spun glass.
The story unfolded like a dream he'd already lived. Caproni's straw hat tipping in the breeze. The great Kanto earthquake tilting trains and swallowing streets. Nahoko catching a falling umbrella with the grace of a paper crane.