Mitsuha just keeps sobbing.

“I came to see you,” I tell her.

Her tears are as clear and round as little marbles.

I smile and keep going. “Seriously, it was a rough trip! You’re way out here.”

That’s right: way, way out here. Somewhere even the time is different.

Mitsuha looks at me, blinking.

“Huh? But… How? Back then, I…”

“I drank the sake you made.”

As I tell her, remembering how much I’ve gone through for this, Mitsuha’s tears stop dead.

“Huh…?”

She’s speechless. Well, sure she is. Anybody would be really moved by that, right?

“Y… y…”

Slowly, Mitsuha backs away from me… Hmm?

“Y… you drank that?!”

“Huh?”

“Idiot! Pervert!”

“Huh—? Wha…?!”

Her face is bright red. Apparently, she’s mad. Wait, is that something to get mad about?!

“Oh, and—! You touched my chest, didn’t you?!”

“What?!” I’m completely rattled. “H-how do you know about…?”

“Yotsuha saw you!” Mitsuha plants her hands on her hips, talking as though she’s scolding a child.

“Uh, yeah, sorry… I just…” Tch! Rotten little blabbermouth. My palms are getting sweaty. An excuse. I’ve gotta give her an excuse. On the spur of the moment, I blurt out, “Once! It was just once!”

Like that’s any kind of excuse! I’m a moron!

“…Just once? Hmm…”

Huh? She’s considering it. So “just once” is okay? I might actually get through this. However, as if correcting herself, Mitsuha’s eyebrows come down.

“No, it’s the same no matter how many times you do it! Idiot!”

So it’s not going to work. Giving up, I clap my hands together and duck my head in apology. “Sorry!” I really can’t tell her that I actually felt ’em up every time.

“Oh, that’s…”

Mitsuha’s expression changes abruptly. She points at my right hand in surprise. I glance at my wrist.

“Oh, yeah. This.”

It’s the braided cord. The one she gave me three years ago. I undo the little metal fastener that keeps it in place and unwind it from my wrist, talking to Mitsuha as I work.

“Listen, don’t come visit me before we meet. How was I supposed to know it was you?” I hand the cord to Mitsuha. “Here.” Remembering what she felt on that train, a softness fills my chest. “I’ve had it for three years. This time, you hang on to it.”

Mitsuha looks up from the cord in her hands and smiles happily. “Uh-huh!” When she smiles— I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s like the whole world is happy right along with her.

Mitsuha wraps the cord around her head vertically, like a headband, and ties it into a bow over her left ear.

“How’s this?” She blushes, looking up at me through her lashes. The braided cord bounces at the side of her bob, like a ribbon.

“Uh…”

It doesn’t really work, I think. It’s sort of little-kiddish. And she didn’t have to chop off that much hair. First she shows up without asking, then she gets traumatized for no reason… I like long black hair, all right?