Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and settings are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The psychological concepts referenced in this story are for narrative purposes only and do not constitute professional mental health advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress, please reach out to a qualified professional.
This story opposes all illegal activities and violence. Nothing in this novel should be interpreted as endorsement or encouragement of unlawful behavior.31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUIQmMGRpiD
The wind chime rang while Kanade was washing glasses behind the bar.
He looked up to find Sakurako Ogawa standing in the doorway. She wore a cream-colored knit cardigan today, a square tin box in her hands, tied with a blue satin ribbon. The bow was perfectly neat, like a prize prepared for a student.
"Yuri-chan!" Kotaro's voice exploded from the kitchen. "You're here! I missed you!"
"Did you miss her, or did you miss what she brings?" Tsubasa walked over, a clean towel draped over one arm.
"Both!"
Sakurako laughed as she entered. Her steps were lighter than before, her spine straighter. Kanade noticed her ring finger was still bare, but the pale indentation where a band had once sat had faded.
"What's this?" Kanade dried his hands and stepped out from behind the bar.
"Homemade cookies." Sakurako held out the tin. "I baked them yesterday. Chocolate with walnuts. They were my husband's favorite."
Kanade took the tin. The metal was cool against his palms, but a warm scent drifted from within—butter, cocoa powder, toasted nuts.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Sakurako looked around the club, her gaze lingering on every corner. "This place... has changed."
"Has it?"
"It's grown livelier." Her eyes found the mood card wall behind the bar. The new additions had filled it out, made it richer, more vibrant. "Last time I came, it was quiet as a library. Now... it feels like people actually live here."
Kanade followed her gaze. The mood cards caught the light in their various colors—blue for sorrow, red for anger, yellow for gratistude, green for hope. A rainbow pieced together from fragments.
"That's because someone started listening," Sakurako said, her voice soft.
She turned to look into Kanade's eyes. They were as sharp as the first time they'd met, but the sharpness now held something else. No appraisal—only recognition.
"Kanade, do you know what I was thinking the first time I came here?"
"What?"
"I thought I wanted a place to talk." Sakurako settled onto a bar stool, her purse in her lap. "I thought I just wanted to speak. But later I realized, I didn't want to talk at all. I just wanted to confirm I was still alive."
Kanade didn't answer. He simply listened.
"My husband passed three years ago. The first year, I cried. The second, I pretended I was fine. The third, I came here." Sakurako's fingers traced the edge of the tin. "You remind me of him. Not because you're alike, but because you're both willing to listen quietly. That kind of person is rare."
Kanade felt something stir in his throat. It wasn't quite sadness—more like the weight of being understood.
"What was your husband like?"
"He taught math. Quiet man, but he remembered every little thing I ever said." Sakurako smiled, and this time there were no tears in it—only fondness. "We were married thirty years, and he never once raised his voice at me. Once I asked him, why don't you ever get angry? He said: 'Because your voice is the one I most want to hear. Why would I waste it on arguments?'"
Kanade's chest tightened.
"Kanade," Sakurako looked at him, "are you asking these questions because you genuinely want to know, or because that gift of yours is telling you to ask?"
The question landed like a pebble dropped into still water.
Kanade remembered Ren asking him the same thing. After his first session with Sakurako, Ren had leaned against the bar and said offhandedly: "Do you really want to know, or is your gift telling you the 'right' thing to do?"
He hadn't answered then. Because he didn't know.
Now, he did.
"I genuinely want to know," Kanade said. His voice was quiet but clear. "I want to know who you are. Not because of analysis, not because of technique. Just because... you're you."
Sakurako's eyes flickered. Then she reached out and gently patted the back of Kanade's hand. Her hand was dry, with faint calluses from knitting, rough but warm.
"That's enough," she said.
Sakurako stayed for two hours.
She shared her cookie recipe with Kotaro, debated with Tsubasa over which tea paired best with sweets (Tsubasa recommended Ceylon black, his tone so professional he might as well have been a tea master), and helped Ren reorganize the cup shelves behind the bar. Her movements were efficient, carrying a teacher's inherent sense of order.
When she left, she paused at the door and turned back.
"Kanade," she said, "I'm going to the northern city-state next month to visit my son. Might be staying a while."
Kanade blinked. "How long?"
"Three months. Maybe longer." Sakurako pulled her cardigan collar a little higher. "My son says he wants me to see the snow there. I haven't decided whether to move, but... I want to go look."
"That's a good thing."
"Maybe not for you." Sakurako smiled. "You lose a guest."
Kanade shook his head. "You're not a guest."
"Then what am I?"
"You're..." Kanade paused, searching for the right word. "The person who showed me this club could do right by people."
Sakurako's smile deepened. There was pride in it, and warmth, and something else that might have been reluctance to part.
"When I come back, I hope to find you still here." She said. "Not because this club needs you. Because you need this club."
The door closed. The wind chime gave a soft ring.
Kanade stood behind the bar, the tin still in his hands. Butter and chocolate drifted through the seam, tugging at something in his memory.
He opened the box. The cookies were arranged in neat rows, each one perfectly round with edges browned just right. On one of them, a tiny moon had been drawn in chocolate icing.
After closing, Ren asked Kanade to stay.
The others had left. Kotaro said he was going home to sleep, Tsubasa said he was stopping by a convenience store for coffee, Yuri said she was taking a walk. They'd filed out one by one, like a tide receding, leaving only two people on the shore.
Ren didn't make tea. He poured a drink—amber liquid swaying in a tumbler.
"Drink?"
"I'm not old enough to drink."
"No one's checking IDs here."
"...Just a little, then."
Ren pushed the glass over. Kanade took a small sip. The liquid left a burning warmth on his tongue, then slowly slid down his throat. Whiskey. Stronger than he'd expected.
"Sakurako said she's leaving," Ren said. It wasn't a question.
"Three months. Maybe longer."
"How do you feel?"
Kanade watched the amber light refract through the glass, casting fine patterns.
"I think she should go," he said. "Her son's waiting. She's been staying here because she's afraid of the quiet. But now... she doesn't seem so afraid anymore."
"Because of you."
"Because of this place." Kanade looked up. "Not me. This club. All of you."
Ren said nothing. He took a drink, his Adam's apple moving once. The bar light fell from above, casting faint shadows across his face.
"Kanade."
It was the first time Ren had called him by name. Not Kujou, not "young master," not "you." Kanade.
Kanade's fingers tightened around his glass.
"Are you still thinking of leaving?" Ren asked.
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Kanade didn't answer right away. He thought of a month ago, standing by the canal in Ryusawa, speaking to the water: Mom, you said to use my gift to understand people, but where do I start? Back then, he'd had a hundred thousand Nocti and an old down jacket. He'd thought he was just looking for a place to hide.
He'd thought this place was temporary. A shelter, a waystation. He'd wait for the storm to pass, then move on to the next place.
But the storm hadn't passed. And he didn't want to leave anymore.
"Not anytime soon," Kanade said.
"How long is 'not anytime soon'?"
"...I don't know." Kanade answered honestly. "Maybe three months. Maybe a year. Maybe longer." He paused. "But this is the first time I've wanted to stay somewhere. Not because I have nowhere else to go, but because... this place is worth it."
Ren's gaze rested on Kanade's face for a long time. Something was shifting in those eyes, like water finally finding its way out from beneath the ice.
"Why?"
"Because everyone here is trying their best to live." Kanade's voice came out steadier than he'd expected. "Kotaro uses smiles to hide his loneliness. Tsubasa uses confidence to hide his insecurity. Yuri uses indifference to hide her kindness. And you—" He looked at Ren. "You use silence to hide the deepest kindness of all. I want to be part of you. Not as an observer, not as an analyst. Just as... Kanade."
Ren set down his glass. The sound of the base meeting wood was soft, but in the quiet night it rang clear.
"You know this club might not last three months?"
"I know."
"You know you might not get paid?"
"I know."
"You know this place is broken, and small, and old?"
"I know."
Ren stood and walked behind the bar. He opened a drawer, took something out, and came back, setting it in front of Kanade.
It was a small silver keychain with a key and a star-shaped charm. The charm was worn at the edges, rounded smooth—clearly held in someone's hand many times before.
"What's this?"
"The key to Starry Night," Ren said. "Every employee gets one. From today, so do you."
Kanade looked at the key. Small, silver, catching the light with a faint gleam.
"What does it mean?"
"It means you're not a guest anymore." Ren turned and walked back behind the bar. "It means you can come in anytime, leave anytime, come back anytime. This door is always open for you, but you're not obligated to stay."
Kanade picked up the key. The star charm was cool in his palm, but soon warmed to his body heat.
"Thank you."
Ren didn't answer. He just picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink. But Kanade saw it—a faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth. Small, barely visible, but there.
Ten minutes later, the door burst open.
"We're back!"
Kotaro charged in, holding up a convenience store plastic bag. Tsubasa followed with two bottles of rice wine. Yuri brought up the rear, a lollipop in her mouth and a box of rice rolls in her hand.
"You..." Kanade looked at them. "Didn't you all go home?"
"Going home is boring!" Kotaro dumped the bag on the bar. "And today's an important day!"
"What important day?"
"The day Kanade gets his key, duh!"
Kanade looked at Tsubasa. Tsubasa shrugged. "Kotaro saw Ren buying alcohol at the convenience store and called us. He never misses these things."
"How did you know Ren buying alcohol meant I got my key?"
"Because the manager only..." Tsubasa paused, then corrected himself. "Because it's tradition. New guy gets a key, we have a celebration meal."
"We've never had that tradition," Ren said.
"Starting today we do!" Kotaro was already pulling things from the bag. "I got chips, chocolate, and this—convenience store limited edition instant noodles!"
Yuri walked over and set the rice rolls box on the bar. "Best rice rolls in Ryusawa. The owner owes me a favor, so discount."
Tsubasa placed the rice wine bottles beside the rice rolls. "Cheap stuff. Don't complain."
Kanade looked at the growing pile of food on the bar, then at each person's face. Kotaro excitedly tearing open packages, Tsubasa pretending to be annoyed but already working on a bottle, Yuri swinging her legs on a bar stool, Ren searching for cups behind the bar.
"You..." Kanade's voice came out a little rough. "You all planned this?"
"No." Yuri said. "But Kotaro's instincts are rarely wrong. He said we were eating together tonight, so we came."
"That's called team synergy!" Kotaro held up a bag of chips.
"That's called having no privacy." Tsubasa said, but he handed the opened bottle to Ren with practiced ease.
Ren lined up five cups in a row and started pouring. The scent of rice wine spread through the air, sweet with rice fermentation.
"Kanade." Ren pushed the first cup toward him.
"Hmm?"
"Welcome to Starry Night."
The words weren't spoken with ceremony. No exaggerated emotion, no forced warmth. Just five words, simple and direct, like a freshly poured drink.
Kanade raised his cup. His hand trembled slightly, but he steadied it.
"Thank you."
Five cups met in the air. The sound was crisp—a small promise made between them.
The next two hours were the most chaotic night Kanade had ever seen.
Kotaro insisted on playing rock-paper-scissors where the loser had to drink a sip of instant noodle broth, then lost the first round to Yuri and chugged a mouthful of salt-laden soup, his face scrunching up. Tsubasa sneered and said "that's what you get," then lost the second round himself.
"This game is rigged!" Tsubasa set his cup down. "The broth is way too salty!"
"You suggested it." Ren said.
"I did not!"
"You said 'let's play something exciting.'"
"I meant drinking, not noodle soup!"
"You should've been more specific."
Kanade sat watching all of this, feeling something expand in his chest. It wasn't pride, and it wasn't quite gratistude. More like belonging—a lost bird finally finding a branch it could rest on.
"Kanade," Kotaro leaned in, potato chip crumbs still on his face, "are you gonna stay here forever?"
"I don't know."
"But do you want to stay?"
Kanade looked into Kotaro's eyes. They were bright with a kind of hope he couldn't quite name. That hope reminded him of himself as a child, standing beside his mother's piano, watching her play, wanting that moment to last forever.
"Yeah," Kanade said. "I want to stay."
Kotaro grinned. That smile was huge and bright, like it lit up every lamp in the room.
"Great!" He spread his arms wide. "Hug!"
"No."
"Hug!"
"I said no—"
Kotaro had already launched himself forward. Kanade stepped back but didn't dodge. Kotaro's head collided with his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his back.
"Kanade's our family now," Kotaro's voice was muffled against Kanade's shoulder. "No more running away."
Kanade's hand hovered in the air for a moment. Then, slowly, he patted Kotaro's back.
"...I won't run."
Tsubasa watched from the side, the corner of his mouth twitching. It was a faint smile, almost invisible, but there.
"Disgustingly sentimental," he said, then turned to grab more rice wine.
Yuri leaned against the bar, pulling her lollipop out. "I'll admit, this scene is a little touching."
"Just a little?" Kanade asked.
"Enough for me." Yuri popped the lollipop back in. "My touching-ness quota is limited."
Ren sat behind the bar, an empty cup in his hand. He didn't speak, just watched everything. His gaze traveled over each face, finally settling on Kanade. There was no appraisal in those eyes, no observation—only a quiet satisfaction.
Like he'd finally seen something he'd been waiting for all along.
By the time the celebration wound down, it was three in the morning.
Kotaro had fallen asleep on the sofa, half a lollipop still in his mouth. Tsubasa covered him with a jacket, his movements gentler than his usual self. Yuri sat nearby scrolling on her phone, occasionally glancing out the window.
Ren washed glasses behind the bar, water running steadily—a familiar lullaby.
Kanade grabbed the trash bag, pushed open the door, and stepped into the back alley.
The early morning in Ryusawa was cold. His breath turned to white fog in the air, quickly dissipating. One of the alley lights was out, leaving only a single streetlamp casting a swaying pool of yellow light.
He tossed the bag into the dumpster and stood there a moment.
At the end of the alley lay the canal. He could hear the water, soft and low, like someone whispering in the distance. The neon lights along both banks were still on—red, blue, purple—reflecting off the water's surface, shattering into a swaying river of stars.
He thought of his mother.
Thought of her sitting at the piano, her back to him. Thought of her saying: Use your gift to understand others—not to control, but to let them know someone is listening. He hadn't understood back then. He'd thought understanding was a skill, a tool to achieve some goal.
Now he understood. Understanding wasn't a technique. It was a choice. Choosing to set aside your judgment, choosing to listen quietly, choosing to let someone know that here, in this moment, one person had stopped for them.
He touched his pocket. The silver key was there, the star charm pressing against his thigh through the fabric, a small cool presence.
He circled around from the back alley to the front and stopped before Starry Night.
The sign was still lit. Faded neon tubes spelled out the three characters of "Starry Night"—the red "star" half burned out, only the "moon" and "night" still flickering. Below the sign, the wooden door was painted deep red, the edges worn white, but the handle was wiped clean.
Kanade stood there, looking at that sign.
Three months ago, he'd thought he was looking for a shelter. A place to hide. He'd thought this club was like everywhere else he'd been—temporary, transitional, just somewhere to wait until the next decision.
But this club was different. The people here were different. They weren't perfect, or glamorous, or wealthy. But they were real. Each in their own broken way, they'd pieced together a place where others could find harbor.
And he wanted to be part of that place.
Not because he had nowhere else to go. Because this—this—was where he wanted to be.
Kanade looked up at the faded sign. Neon light painted his face in mottled colors.
Welcome to Starry Night.
He said it in his heart. Not to himself, but to everyone who had ever been lost. To Sakurako, to Kenta, to himself, to everyone who hadn't yet pushed open that door.
The door opened behind him.
"Kanade! What're you doing out here? Come inside, it's freezing!"
Kotaro's voice drifted out from the club, sleepy and pouting.
Kanade turned and pushed open the door. Warm air rushed out to envelop him. The smell of food, the smell of rice wine, and that indescribable something that was purely, uniquely Starry Night.
At the bar, Tsubasa and Yuri were arguing over who got the last piece of rice rolls. Ren was washing the final glass. Kotaro stood in the doorway waiting for him, eyes half-closed, clearly still half-asleep.
"Kanade," Kotaro said. "See you tomorrow."
Kanade looked at all of it. At this broken, warm, chaotic place. At these imperfect but real people.
He smiled. And this time, he didn't hide it.
"See you tomorrow."
The door closed. The wind chime gave a soft ring.
At the other end of the alley, a figure paused beneath a streetlamp. It was a young woman in a black coat, phone in hand, the screen showing Starry Night's stream page. She looked up at the faded neon sign, then back down at her phone.
"...So this is the place."
She spoke softly, her voice carried away by the early morning wind.
Then she turned and walked into the gradually brightening dawn.
(End of Volume 1)
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