The doorbell rang, its chime breaking the silence of unpacking. Eadlyn moved quickly, curious about who might stand on the other side.
When he opened the door, he froze. A young woman stood there, perhaps seventeen, her dark hair framing a face that balanced striking beauty with a quiet restraint. Her eyes were cool, steady, as though she carried the weight of unspoken thoughts. In her hand was a folded notice, the paper crisp against the fading light.
"Hello," she said, her voice polite but firm. "I'm Sayaka Eiko, your neighbor. This is a community notice for the Ichijo family—about the meeting."
Eadlyn reached for the paper, and their fingers brushed. The contact was brief, but it unsettled him. He had never felt this way with his friends back in the US—never felt smaller, never felt as though someone's presence could quietly measure him and find him lacking. It wasn't arrogance on her part; it was something instinctive, a man's awareness that here stood someone whose composure made his own aloofness look fragile.
Why do I feel like a loser in front of her? he wondered. I never felt this with Taro or Lily. Maybe it's instinct… or maybe it's the way she carries herself, assured and unshaken.
"Thanks," he said, steadying his voice. "I'm Eadlyn Greyson, their grandson."
Her lips curved into a small smile, the coolness in her eyes softening. "Call me Saya if you want. Miss Eiko feels too formal."
The sound of her chuckle pierced through her composed exterior, disarming him. He had read about such moments in novels—chance encounters that sparked epics—but reality had taught him caution. Still, he wanted to grow, to support real bonds. "Then call me Eadlyn, Saya. Hope we get along well."
"Sure," she replied, warmth flickering beneath her shyness. "See you around."
As she walked away, Eadlyn lingered at the doorway, the paper forgotten in his hand. She's intriguing, he thought. But I've seen how quickly sparks fade. If I connect, it must be with empathy, not illusion.
Back inside, he handed the notice to his grandmother. "Sayaka dropped this off."
Sakura's smile widened knowingly. "Saya? Such a helpful girl. She often checks on us, especially when your grandfather's health wavers. During festivals, her family visits too—they bring food, help with decorations. Always thoughtful."
Eadlyn's brows lifted. "She carries herself so assuredly… almost like she belongs here more than I do."
Reno chuckled, exchanging a glance with Sakura. "She's grown up around us. You'll see—she has a way of making people feel both challenged and cared for."
Dinner was laid out—sushi rolls, miso soup, grilled fish—and as they ate, Eadlyn's mind drifted back to Saya's presence. He had never felt overshadowed by his US friends, but with her, the instinct was undeniable. It wasn't humiliation—it was recognition. She had already carved a place in his grandparents' lives, woven into their routines, trusted in ways he had yet to earn.
If I want to understand love, he thought, I must first understand people like her—those who give without asking, who endure quietly. Maybe that's what old‑school love is: not sparks, but steady presence.
The conversation at dinner turned light, filled with laughter and stories of past festivals. Yet beneath the warmth, Eadlyn felt a shift. His aloofness softened, empathy stirred. Japan was already teaching him something profound: humanity begins with opening up, one small interaction at a time.