The ceremony proceeded along the ordinary course of a ceremony.
After the kiss of the vows, the doors to the reception hall opened.
At the very far end of the head table, a single empty chair had been set. On its seat sat the cylindrical device. A blue light glowed at its ordinary strength.
At the very end, the breath that came one beat late repeated once more.
The reception courses were carried out and cleared away, down to the very last plate.
The emcee's voice rose.
"Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we have a video message from the bride's father, the late Mr. Kenichiro Sakura, which he himself recorded in advance, while he was still with us."
In the one breath of "Mr. Kenichiro Sakura," the air in the hall grew more humid.
The lights went down over the hall's screen, and a whiteness came on. Within it, the upper body of a man rose into view.
It was her father from when he was healthy, before the white had mixed into his hair. His cheeks still kept their ordinary fullness.
Her father cleared his throat and smiled faintly. Then he read aloud the script he had prepared.
His voice as he read leaned, by one breath's worth, further toward written language than the way he ordinarily spoke.
"To my daughter.
I was not able to see you, Mitsuki, as you are on this day.
I won't hide that somewhere in me there is a feeling of regret at not having been able to see it.
Without hiding it, I am recording this.
In my head now, as I record, stands your profile at seventeen, Mitsuki.
Beyond that profile, faintly, so faintly, stands the profile of someone who is meant to stand there someday.
That someone, I cannot see.
Her father raised his eyes from the very top of the script there and faintly cleared his throat once more. With the tip of a pen, he lightly tapped a single word on the page.
...What I cannot see can stay unseen.
Not seeing it, I think this.
If you have chosen someone, Mitsuki, and been chosen, then it turned out well, I think.
Thinking that, there is just one thing I want to say to you.
Be happy.
—Dad"
Inside the screen, her father set the script on the table and smiled faintly.
He turned his eyes toward the camera. Deep in his eyes stood a kind of dampness not usually seen in him.
Her father went on.
"A word to whoever is beside Mitsuki.
My daughter is a girl who chooses with her own hands and carries with her own hands.
Please don't take anything from those hands.
What I have to say ends here.
—That is all."
With the one breath of "That is all," the screen faded to black.
Toru placed his left hand over Mitsuki's right palm.
The emcee raised the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for those words from the bride's father. Next—"
Over the single word "Next," noise came from the hall's speakers. The emcee's voice stopped.
The blue light of the device on the empty seat at the very far end of the head table glowed two breaths' worth stronger than its ordinary strength.
Mixed with noise, another voice of her father rose up.
...Dad's speech ends here.
From here on, please listen to what I have to say.
On the single word "please," the air in the hall stopped.
The emcee's microphone came down. Aoi lifted both hands from her laptop, and Riko faintly loosened the two hands she had kept pressed down.
Only Toru did not move. The warmth of Toru's left hand stayed, deep, on Mitsuki's right palm.
Mitsuki turned her eyes to the blue light at the very far end of the head table.