Coming home felt strange.
Not bad—just strange. Like slipping on a hoodie from two years ago and realizing it still fits, but differently. A little tighter in the arms. A little looser at the collar. The fabric remembered him, but his body had changed.
Haru stood at the threshold of the entryway, his shoes still damp from the rain outside. The familiar scent of sandalwood and miso clung to the air, pulling at his memory like a thread unraveling from the inside. He stepped forward cautiously, the slight squeak of his sneakers on the polished wood echoing in the quiet house.
The lights were warm, yellow, slightly dimmer than he remembered. There was something comforting in the way shadows curved around the corners, soft and familiar, like the house had exhaled the moment he entered.
"Haruuu~!" his mother's voice called out from the kitchen, sweet and sing-song, instantly recognizable. It hit him with a strange ache—comfort and guilt, homesickness and relief, all tangled together.
Before he could answer, there was a low screech behind him. A wooden chair shifted two inches to the right.
Minju hovered beside it, floating like a bubble that had forgotten how to burst.
"I swear I didn't mean to move it," she whispered urgently. "It just… slipped."
"Uh-huh," Haru muttered.
"Honey, are you talking to someone?" his mom called again.
"Nope! Just, uh… practicing my lines!" Haru yelled back, a little too loud. Minju grinned guiltily.
In the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the sharp hiss of soup boiling greeted him like a lullaby. His mother turned from the stove, her apron smudged with red pepper paste, and smiled the way only a mother could—like she was scanning his soul for cracks.
"You've gotten skinnier," she said immediately, even though Haru knew he hadn't. "Are you eating properly? You look like a chopstick."
Minju peeked over his shoulder and whispered, "And more sparkly. Don't forget sparkly."
Haru suppressed a grin. His mom stirred the pot, watching him from the corner of her eye.
"You seem... different," she said after a beat.
"Different good?" he asked cautiously.
She leaned in and studied him, then hummed. "Different tired."
Before Haru could come up with a response, the chair Minju had nudged earlier scraped again. His mom turned sharply.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
Minju froze mid-hover, then ducked behind Haru like a guilty cat.
Another slow screech. This time more deliberate.
Minju mouthed: Three inches. Precision work.
Haru groaned. His mom's brow furrowed as she walked over to the chair and placed a hand on it. For a moment, she was silent.
"I think I feel it," she whispered.
Haru stared at her, wide-eyed. "Wait. Seriously?"
She nodded slowly. "Like static in the air. Like something waiting."
Before they could process further, Haru's dad shuffled in, wearing chili pepper socks and holding a bowl of dried squid like it was gold.
He squinted at the scene—Haru, the chair, his wife touching it like a relic.
"Nope," he said flatly. "Not today. I'm not dealing with ghosts unless she can help with taxes."
Minju beamed. "Tell him I accept payment in mint chocolate chip ice cream."
"I'm not translating that," Haru muttered, running a hand down his face.
They all sat down anyway. Even Minju, who hovered behind Haru's chair, legs crisscrossed in the air like a kid pretending to be part of the scene. They ate quietly at first—miso soup, grilled mackerel, pickled radish. Familiar tastes, simple comfort.
Mid-bite, a memory crept in. Haru set down his chopsticks, staring down at the rice bowl as if it held a secret.
Two months ago.
That day in the living room.
He was holding his sleeves, tugging at the ends nervously, his voice caught between his teeth.
"I want to audition," he had whispered.
His parents had paused the TV. Both turned to look at him, eyes unreadable. He remembered the air stilling, the weight of their silence pressing on his shoulders.
"For what?" his dad asked finally.
"For… becoming an idol."
A full pause. His stomach had twisted so violently he thought he might throw up.
Then his mother turned to his dad, face solemn.
"It's time," she said. "We must prepare the funeral."
Haru's jaw had dropped.
"What?!"
His dad nodded. "Yes. We've lost him. Our only son, stolen by choreography and Auto-Tune."
They circled him dramatically, mimicking mourners at a wake. His mom even dabbed at fake tears.
"So young," she sniffled. "So tone-deaf."
Only after Haru shrieked in panic did they break into laughter. It had been their way of saying they were proud. They just didn't know how to say it the regular way.
Back in the present, Haru chuckled to himself.
His mom noticed. "What's funny?"
"Just remembered something," he said. Then, more quietly: "Thanks. For letting me try."
His mother softened. "Of course. You're our Haru."
"And anyway," his dad added, crunching squid, "you're already more famous than my high school band."
Minju made a sound that was half laugh, half snort. "What were they called?"
Haru sighed. "The Spicy Dumplings."
"Legendary," Minju whispered reverently.
That night, after the dishes were washed and his dad inspected the corners for ghosts (carrying a flyswatter for reasons unknown), Haru slipped onto the veranda with a blanket over his shoulders. The stars blinked faintly above. The wind was cool and clean.
Minju hovered beside him, quieter now.
"They're… nice," she said after a while. "Warm. And weird."
"They're mine," Haru replied.
She floated down beside him, letting her toes skim the floor. "Think they'd adopt me?"
Haru smiled. "Only if you stop moving furniture in the middle of the night."
"No promises."
They sat there in silence for a while, stargazing.
And for the first time in a long while, Haru felt fully… home.