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They performed at dusk. The crowd was a tangle of noses and scarves and expectant faces. Waka's pulse slid into place against Jun's steady rhythm. They didn't mimic the glossy idols that ruled the airwaves; they offered something quieter and wilder: a song about leaving and returning, about the courage to be small and true. By the final chorus, people were standing, not because it was a spectacle, but because the truth in front of them had opened something inside.

Waka took the pen. Her life had been a chorus of departures and returns, of losing and finding a voice that belonged to herself. She wrote the first line and then the second, and the alley listened like it had always known the tune. When she sang it later that night, the crowd swelled not because the music promised stardom but because it promised home.