Ichika’s fingers hover over the strings of her bass guitar. They don’t press down. They just hover, trembling slightly. The instrument is not plugged into an amp. In the silence, the only sound is the hum of the city below.

The screen fades to black. Then, a single chord—electric bass, clean tone, no distortion—plays over the credits. The chord is not complex. It’s just a root, a fifth, and a quiet promise.

A small, broken laugh escapes her. It’s the first laugh since October.

The title appears:

“So… I have to play for myself now.”

That’s what Ichika realizes now. Her mother was not a musician. But she was a witness.

“So…”

Her mother’s fox is gone. Buried.

“You’ll miss my cooking one day,” her mother would say, half-joking.

She returns to the bass. This was her mother’s idea, years ago. Not the bass specifically, but the music. The late nights practicing. The small, proud smile when Ichika finally nailed a difficult riff. Her mother never understood the songs—they were too loud, too fast, too young—but she understood the effort.

The word hangs there. So. A bridge to nowhere.

It is not a sad note. It is not a happy note.

A late autumn evening. The sky above Tokyo is a bruised purple, fading to black. Seta Ichika sits alone in her room at the rooftop flat she once shared with her mother. The window is open a crack, letting in the cold air and the distant sound of a train.