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Haru leaned forward. The scene matched a margin note: "1979—balcony, balloon—link." He read the word aloud as if testifying. The image blurred and shifted, resolving into a memory he had no conscious ownership of. He remembered the scent of rain on the asphalt, the texture of his mother's wool scarf brushing his cheek, although he had not stood on that street in decades. His chest tightened; the sense of being watched was not discomfort but a peculiar, intimate revelation, like stumbling into a private conversation preserved for him alone.