Chapter 77: The Gray Castle

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Translator: Soafp

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Saturday morning. Ginji wakes up before the alarm goes off. He tosses aside his shirt and takes a hot shower.

After fixing his hair, he changes into a shirt and jeans. Adjusting the angle of the framed picture of a motorcycle—one he received from Sora—that hangs in his room, he steps out and opens the front door.

Despite it being only 7 a.m., the sun is already scorching his skin.

“Alright!”

Ginji kicks up the bike stand with determination. He rides past the shopping district, enters a residential area, and arrives at a rugged concrete house. Just as he's about to ring the doorbell, Sora bursts out. Her hair is messy, and her spiraling eyes scream panic.

“G-Good morning, Ginji. S-sorry. I meant to change into proper clothes, but I stayed up painting and now it's morning…”

“Whoa, what the hell are you wearing?”

Ginji covers his face with his hand. Sora is wearing a gray jumpsuit halfway undone, the sleeves tied around her waist. Her upper body is clad in a white shirt, which, damp with sweat, clings to her and reveals the faint outline of gray undergarments.

“Eh? Aaaaah! I'll go change—wait in the studio, okay? And don't touch the cloth!”

She crashes into various things as she scrambles up the stairs, leaving Ginji holding his head.

“So sloppy…”

Still wearing his shoes, Ginji steps into the studio. It’s cooler than outside, the air conditioning running just enough without being excessive. It looks slightly more organized than last time, though it's still cluttered with stuff. The stacked canvases and sketchbooks resemble castle walls, and the dozens of paintbrushes crammed into containers stand like disordered spears.

At the center of this castle is a neatly arranged space: an easel draped with cloth, a chair, and a relatively tidy desk lined with paint tubes—all meticulously ordered.

On the desk sits a large box. It looks like an aluminum case, quite sizeable.

“…”

Ginji sits in the chair and closes his eyes, letting himself imagine the time Sora has spent in this space.

After about twenty minutes, he hears footsteps.

“Th-thanks for waiting!”

He turns toward the voice behind him. Sora, now freshly showered with her hair tidied up, wears a clean jumpsuit—still a jumpsuit, of course, but this one is spotless, without a single speck of paint. The fact that she's still in her jumpsuit feels very her.

“I thought you'd show up in a dress or something.”

“It'd get dirty…”

Sora puffs her cheeks at Ginji's teasing and slowly walks over to him.

“Um, well then… Would you watch me—I mean, me, while I paint?”

“Yeah, show me.”

“Okay, though… if it gets boring, I'm sorry.”

“It won't be.”

“I see… then this is what I'm working on right now.”

Sora sits in the chair and pulls off the cloth from the canvas. What's revealed is a cityscape. Ginji immediately recognizes it. It's the view of the city at sunset from the hill they always see on their way home from school. In the foreground, a head and shoulders are drawn, and the cityscape is slightly angled.

“It's beautiful… It's how you see the city, isn't it?”

“Yeah. ‘Ginji's Back and the Evening City.’ It's the view from that time we met and rode the bike together. It's almost done, so watch, okay?”

“Yeah. Take your time.”

Instead of looking at the painting, Ginji watches Sora's back. Through her small frame, the canvas is visible. The painting doesn't merely capture the scene like a photograph.

Through the gentle summer breeze, it captures the anxiety and hope Sora felt in that moment. Memory and emotion are layered into the image. Ginji watches both Sora and the painting closely. Once she picks up the brush, her concentration is astonishing.

Every delicate line has purpose. From Ginji's eyes, it's as if Sora's memories are being shaped by magic. He'd always thought of her as a genius.

But seeing her in action changes that impression—makes it clearer. Sora sees the world in a way completely different from him.

The Ginji in the painting has a strong back, dependable, and drawn with such trust that it embarrasses him.

Ever since he first saw the motorcycle painting, Ginji had a feeling: that Sora could express even emotions through her art.

Emotions have a kind of freshness. Surprise, anger, joy, sadness—they fade with time. But Sora is different. Spending time with her every day, Ginji had gradually realized she had an extraordinary memory. Seeing this city painting confirmed it.

Sora not only remembers what she sees, but also retains the emotions that come with the image. Otherwise, how could that moment's feeling be conveyed so vividly?

Their female classmates had tried to pretend nothing ever happened between them and Sora. But Sora had said, “I can't forget.” Of course not. The emotional wounds etched in her memory will always remain. She likely remembers with perfect clarity the pain of having her painting torn by Aika.

Realizing that, Ginji feels a tightening in his chest.

He remembers what Aika said yesterday:

“You're afraid of Sora, aren't you?”

In a way, she was right.

The Ginji in the painting is portrayed as a hero from Sora's perspective. For someone who can never forget, if Ginji ever hurt her, would he be able to live with that?

That thought terrifies him.