[Bookstore owner × illustrator]
I made hundreds of sketches of him.
On the back of each one, he wrote the weather of the day.
"Why don't you write something else?"
"Because I don't dare."
The most recent time, my fingertips hovered one centimeter in front of his mole.
Not touched.
After he left, I found the notebook in his drawer.
The last page says——
"She didn't touch my mole. Fortunately, she didn't touch it."
At his funeral, everyone was crying.
Only I don't.
Because I don't know in what capacity I should cry for him.
