Kawashima Miki held Fujiwara Reya's hand for about five minutes before letting go.
Bending over and searching for something in her bag, she asked, "Hasn't Asakusa Shrine had any pilgrims for a long time?"
"Since the beginning of the year, there haven't been more than thirty." Fujiwara Reya's gaze fell on her bag.
A pure white GUCCI, with a simple, clean, and stable design but lacking warmth, like long sandy beaches with a fine rain falling.
"Generally," Kawashima Miki took out her phone, texting while asking, "people go to the shrine to seek something, right?"
"Mostly." Fujiwara Reya closed the Spanish dictionary, his hands flat on the cover.
"For example, what do they seek?"
"Everything."
"Specifically?" Kawashima Miki put away her phone, elegantly crossing her legs.
Thin black over-the-knee socks, beneath which faintly revealed creamy skin, the threads woven into the stockings had a strange allure that glued surrounding gazes to them.
