However, there is no widely known public figure, celebrity, or historical person directly named or with that exact combination of names in major databases (Japanese entertainment, history, literature, or sports).

“That song,” he said, voice dry as autumn leaves, “was about a woman who left. Never came back. Ironic, isn’t it? The singer stayed. The audience left.”

The café was empty except for them.

Shōetsu didn’t answer.

His stage name. His past.

She continued: “My mother played your cassette until it broke. ‘44 Days of Rain,’ she said it saved her.”

Behind him, on the wall, a faded poster:

She smiled. “Then play it. For one person.”

He set down the glass. For the first time in a decade, Shōetsu Otomo – Reona – walked to the small upright piano.

He finally looked up. Gray hair. Tired eyes. Forty-four years old, and still running from a song he wrote at 24.

A young woman sat at the counter. She pointed at the poster. “You’re Reona, aren’t you?”

Ōtomo Shōetsu wiped the same whiskey glass for the third time. He wasn't cleaning it – he was hiding.