Aoyama has a remarkable ability to find melancholy in ordinary life. The book understands that endings rarely arrive with a clear conclusion. More often, they emerge gradually through routine. Someone moves away. A conversation becomes less frequent. A familiar presence slowly turns into a memory. The sadness comes not from a single event but from realizing that something has already ended before you've fully noticed it. The prose is beautiful in an understated way. It never strains for lyricism, yet certain passages linger because of their precision. Aoyama trusts small details to carry emotional weight, and more often than not, they do. If I have one criticism, it's that the novel can feel almost too quiet at times. But by the end, that restraint felt completely appropriate. A delicate, deeply human book about absence, memory, and the faint echoes people leave behind after they've gone.