I don't know who he is. His grip on my hand is firm, almost protective. I can only see his back as we walk through an endless tunnel of darkness. There's nothing else around—just him and the faint echo of our footsteps. His head turns slightly, and though his face is a blur, I can tell he's smiling, his voice faint and unintelligible. Then, out of nowhere, a brilliant light rushes toward us, blinding and overwhelming—

"Brrrrr… brrrrr…"

The shrill vibration jolts me awake.

"Hello?" I mumble, disoriented, the dream still clinging to me.

"Iori? Where are you? Are you still sleeping?"

The voice on the other end is sharp but familiar. Manami.

"Huh? What time is it?" I ask groggily.

"It's 8:43 a.m., my dear Iori," she says in mock sweetness. "And you're late. We have to be at the art exhibition ceremony!"

"Oh no!" I sit up abruptly. "I'll call you back. I need to get ready!"

Scrambling out of bed, my thoughts are still clouded by the dream. Who is that man? And why do I keep seeing him?

My name is Iori Nanase, a nationally acclaimed artist. Recently, I was honored with the prestigious Japan Golden Art Award, a recognition I'd worked toward my entire career. Yet, despite the accolades, my mind is consumed by the recurring dream of a man I've never met. His presence lingers in my thoughts, leaving me restless and distracted.

Manami, my manager and college friend, pulls me back to reality. She's my grounding force, sharp-tongued but fiercely loyal.

"I'm sorry I'm late!" I gasp as I rush into the gallery.

She sighs but waves it off. "It's fine. Just get out there and greet everyone. I'll handle the logistics."

Two hours later, exhaustion creeps in.

"Ugh, this is so boring," I groan, slumping into a chair.

Manami's sharp eyes dart toward me. "Watch what you say. If someone hears that, the media will have a field day. Want a drink?"

"Grape juice," I reply without hesitation.

She smirks. "Seriously? No wine? You do know you're allowed to celebrate, right?"

"I'd rather not push my luck. You know how terrible my alcohol tolerance is."

She chuckles, walking off to fetch my drink. Left alone, I let my gaze wander through the crowd. That's when I see it—a familiar silhouette in the distance.

It's him.

The man from my dreams.

I spring to my feet, weaving through the crowd in pursuit, but he vanishes as suddenly as he appeared. I stand frozen, my heart racing, unsure if what I saw was real or another figment of my imagination.

By the time I return to my seat, Manami is back, holding a glass of grape juice.

"What's up with you?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "Spacing out like that. Something's clearly on your mind."

I shake my head. "It's nothing."

Manami isn't convinced. "Really? Because your recent paintings seem to suggest otherwise. Every single one of them is of a man, always from behind. And with the National Bulzer Award registration coming up, I'd suggest you get your focus back."

Her words hit harder than I expect. I stare into my juice, hesitating before I finally speak. "Manami… what if you kept dreaming about a man you've never met? You can't see his face, but you feel like he's incredibly kind. And then, everywhere you go, it's like he's there. What would you do?"

Manami reaches out, placing a hand on my forehead.

"What are you doing?" I ask, exasperated.

"Checking for a fever."

"Come on. I'm being serious."

She bursts into laughter. "I get it now. Twenty-eight years of being single have finally taken their toll. Your brain is literally crying for help!"

"Manami!" I glare at her, but her teasing smile doesn't falter.

"Relax. You're overthinking. It's probably stress."

But is it? The dreams feel so vivid, so real, as though they're more than just figments of my imagination. Something about this man feels… destined. But how could that be possible?

As Manami prattles on, her words fade into the background, replaced by one persistent thought: Who is he, and why do I feel like I already know him?