The camera chases through a narrow alley shrouded in morning mist. The stone pavement is still damp from the previous night's rain. Momoka Hanyuu, wearing a coarse cotton haori, trots along while waving to the director holding the microphone: 'Let me finish saying hello first.' At the alley's entrance, the first extra is an old craftsman selling kerosene lamps. He wipes his blackened palms on his apron and hands over the lamp he's just repaired. Momoka accepts it with a smile and thanks him earnestly. A little farther on is the young man who owns the bookshop. He's just been selected as a second extra. He stands under a weather-worn signboard and somewhat bashfully speaks his single line: 'Yes, my lord.' Nevertheless, Momoka painstakingly rehearses it with him again and again. The camera follows her through the corridor. The shopkeeper is simmering stew. Just as she lifts the lid, the steam bursts against the lens, and she blurts out a string of apologies. At the confectionery, the clerk gently brushes aside the children who are straining to peek in. Momoka makes a silly face at the doorway as she passes by, and everyone laughs. The boom mic keeps bumping against the low eaves, picking up the chime of wind bells and the cries of the vendors. Every single sound on the street is recorded on the tape, as the reels spin round and round. Before filming begins in the afternoon, Momoka sits on the rear bench of a prop cart. Around her, coachmen, vendors, and apprentices hired for the day crowd in to watch as she pins up a little girl's hair. The camera lingers on a strand of loose hair at her neck, damp with sweat, then slowly pulls back. The camera sweeps across the faded lattice windows of the townhouses, the moss-covered stone lanterns, and the power lines strung like webs between the wooden houses. No one could have possibly imagined that years later all of this would be reduced to ruins in a sudden eruption of violence. On this day, everyone is hard at work on a film that still feels underdeveloped. Laughter, chatter, and the clicking of the camera create a din that reverberates through every nook and cranny in Kajimachi. The final scene the director films that day shows Momoka standing on a bridge over the river, holding a floral bouquet that the crew gave her to celebrate the ending of filming. She turns back around to wave directly at the camera. The sunset casts a golden edge along the brim of her hat. In the background, the extras gradually disperse, their shadows trailing behind them as they head home. No one hurries to take down the planks laid across the river, as if filming will continue tomorrow with the same scene. That's the end of the outtake reel. Momoka's room is now silent, save for the ticking of the clock. She curls up into a ball on the sofa. On the TV screen, her younger self still stands on the bridge, waving at the camera. The river is dyed by the setting sun, thick and gleaming like boiled honey. She keeps watching for a long time, until the screen reverts back to the blue standby display. Only then does she raise the remote and switch it off. The room goes dark at once. A sliver of light peeks through from outside, faintly illuminating the small plant she keeps by her window and the faded photograph beside it—just like the sunset that slipped through the lattice windows of the old wooden house and brightened her heart so many years ago.