Another quiet morning begins, as if life itself is conspiring with fate to toy with Hiroki once more.
A pale, cold light filters through the wooden blinds, casting soft ribbons across the white bed sheets. The small room is so still, one can hear the wind brushing against the balcony railings.
Hiroki frowns slightly in his restless sleep. His eyes flutters open, blinking against the dim light. And then, like a man rising from a dream he does not want to remember, he turns, and finds a naked body lying beside him.
A woman.
"Hiroki, you're up already?"
Her lazy, purring voice slithers through the silence. She clings to his firm arm, sits up, and smiles teasingly.
"You were really intense last night~"
"You said I was the first one you've ever brought home. Was that true?"
Hiroki does not answer. His face, carved in stone, betrays no emotion. He pulls his arm away, unbothered, and calmly picks up his clothes scattered on the floor.
The woman crawls toward the edge of the bed, her eyes gleaming like a child who has just discovered a new toy.
From under the bed, she pulls out a small, old wooden box. Click. It opens. A neat stack of handwritten letters spills out—delicate, heartfelt words preserved with care. They are all written in the same woman's handwriting.
"I found these while we were... getting close last night," she says, her voice sing-song with curiosity.
"Love letters? You've been hiding sweet things like these all along?"
"You're not just handsome, Hiroki—you're adorably sentimental too."
Silence returns. Only the sound of fabric rustling as Hiroki zips his pants. No reply. No reaction. As if her presence is nothing more than air.
"Hiroki..." she murmurs now, her voice tinged with hesitation and mild reproach.
"Did you forget everything you said to me last night?"
"Don't tell me you were drunk."
Just as he fastens the final button, she rushes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso. Her small face rests against his back, long hair cascading down his broad shoulders.
"Let me stay... just a little longer. Please?"
He does not speak.
A beat passes.
Then, without looking at her, he bends down, picks up the dress she discarded the night before, and hands it to her with an indifferent, mechanical motion. No eye contact.
And then, Hiroki walks away, opens the door, and steps out without glancing back.
She followed behind, unsure. His face remains distant, like an unscalable wall of ice.
"Call me, okay~?" she calls after him, making a playful phone gesture with her fingers.
Click.
The door shuts with a lifeless thud.
Behind it—only emptiness.
He stands frozen, staring at the door.
He has work to do.
….
It is only 6:30, but the streets of Osaka are already buzzing. Pushing past the morning crowds to reach the train has become a daily routine for Hiroki.
He boards quickly, choosing to stand as always, even with empty seats around. One hand grips the metal pole as he stares blankly out the window.
After the train, it is a walk to the office – a modern building near the heart of the city. A Tokyo branch, it specializes in human resources, known for urban agriculture initiatives and community development projects.
The lobby is sleek, with plush sofas, small coffee tables, and ornamental plants. A digital board displays company updates beside a reception desk, already surrounded by staff and cleaners.
Hiroki stands in the corner, waiting for the elevator. The surrounding chatter fades into a low hum. The numbers descends slowly—agonizingly so.
Ding.
The doors opens. He steps into the empty cab and presses the button. His dark eyes stares at the narrowing gap as the doors slid shut.
"Wait up, Hiroki!"
Someone calls his name.
That voice—
He freezes. Hand recoiling from the panel, he instinctively steps back, pressing against the cold wall.
She enters—her back to him, facing the now closed doors.
The elevator begins to move, just the two of them inside, silence broken only by shallow breaths.
"Thanks, I almost had to wait for the next one," she says. It takes Hiroki a second to register—it is Yuna, his colleague. Someone he sees nearly every day. He manages a tired smile.
They were close, at least close enough to be considered longtime acquaintances.
"You've been coming in early lately," he remarks, polite but detached.
Yuna turns to face him. He quickly looks away, keeping his usual blank composure.
"Well... I have more time now," she replies, twisting a loose strand of hair near her temple. "My husband's been too busy with work to have breakfast at home. I do worry... but it's been a few days. I guess I've gotten used to eating alone.", one hand clutches her bag to her chest. Her expression is unreadable, though still calm. Still, he catches the soft exhale that slips from her lips.
Hiroki's gaze lingers on her ring finger for a moment. The smile has vanished from his face without him realizing.
Their conversation, brief as it is, ends as the elevator arrives.
The polished steel doors slide open to reveal a bright, spacious office.
They steps out together, light from hanging fixtures reflecting off the glossy tabletops. The air conditioning hums; footsteps echos. Abstract art adorns the walls. Indoor plants dot the corridors.
At his desk, Hiroki settles in. Other staff has also arrived, seated at their designated spots separated by sleek monitors.
He powers on his computer. The routine begins – familiar keystrokes, repetitive motions. Yet his mind wanders elsewhere.
Hours passed. Reports and data are nearly done. He looks up. Most employees are now taking a short break.
His eyes land on a familiar silhouette—Yuna at the corner table, making coffee.
She turns and walks away, out of sight. He leans back in his leather chair, stretching.
"Coffee, Hiroki?"
Her hand gently touches his shoulder. He turns, nods slightly, and takes the cup from her. Their fingers brush – sparking a quiet jolt in him.
A sip of hot coffee, the warmth on his face wakes him, shaking off the chill and the daze.
She lingers, waiting for him to finish a sip before walking away.
He does not watch her leave. His eyes are glued to the cup.
Sometimes, she will make him coffee without saying much. She does not mingle with others either. Yuna keeps to herself, speaks only when needed, smiled politely, nods when appropriate.
He knows she only seems close to one other colleague – Takano, their Head of Department.
Yuna works hard, always among the top performers. Once, she has even been praised as an exemplary employee.
Perhaps, in his memory, she has never changed.
….
At the end of the day, Hiroki shuts his laptop.
Around him, others are wrapping up—some in a rush, others lingering to finish their tasks.
He looks around, instinctively searching for Yuna. She usually leaves by now, but today she stays longer.
Her computer is off, coffee cup half-full, tissues strewn across the desk. She gathers her things and quietly makes her way out, only managing a soft goodbye as she passes him.
He hears the faintest sigh leave her lips.
Back at his apartment complex, silence reigns. His footsteps echos through the dim hallway as he fumbles with the keys.
The door creaks open. Darkness swallows him as he stumbles inside, reaching for the lights.
His body wavers deeper into the space, until he leans against the wall, breath heavy.
Finally, he is home.
Not warm, not cozy – but safe.
At least here, he can hide.
He reaches into his pocket, searching. Cold sweat trickles down his temple, stinging his eyes.
His hands trembles. His breath quickens.
And then—he finds it.
Pulling it out, he presses the object against his face with both hands. A crumpled tissue, soaked with the scent of tears. The salt stings his nose, awakes every sense in him. Memories return—bit by bit, each shard darker than the last.
All he can see was her. Near, yet painfully distant.
He kisses the closed lids of imagined eyes—wet, and tasting of salt.
So this...This was Yuna's scent.
Comforting. Familiar.
Then— Faint music buzzes from the bedroom. A CD player?
"Fly away, don't look behind you now
Though we'll never walk the same road somehow
I'll be the breeze that touches your hair
A gentle wind, still always there…"
Hiroki shoves the tissue back into his pocket and drags himself down the hall. Someone broke into his home. Again.
Honestly? He does not care anymore.
Whoever it is, as always, does not steal anything—only ransacks his things. Under the bed, old CDs lay scatters. The CD player is near the window, still playing faintly—a warm, male voice.
"…When night falls, I'll hide behind the hill
As moonlight soft, so calm and still
I don't need more, just wish you peace
Though life may hurt and never cease
If I could see your smile again one day
That alone would light my way
The road is long, but here I'll stay
With silent flowers in my hands each day
Forever your sun, shining quietly
Following you where you may be
Though I may never be
A part of your story…"
The music stops. No one pressed anything. Hiroki staggers forward, picks up the CD player, taps, tries pressing play again.
Nothing.
Frustrated, he drops it.
Miraculously, it starts up – but only in faint static bursts.
Pale bluish-white neon light spills in from the window. The shutters are ajar, but no wind comes through. Only a crescent moon hangs on a black canvas sky.
He wonders—What did the moon see? Other than the songs he wrote for her…and the cigarette burning between the lips of a lonely man.
….
She steps out of the office building and checks her watch: twelve minutes to six. Urging herself to get home early, Yuna hurries toward a nearby streetlamp to hail a taxi.
Standing by the curb, she lightly tugs at her bag, her gaze following each passing car. The yellow streetlights cast a pensive glow across her face, highlighting her deep, tired eyes.
When the headlights of an approaching cab sweeps over her, she raises her arm – only for it to pass by in the chilly wind. She lowers it slowly, exhaling softly, and stands still, like a solitary figure in the bustling stream of commuters.
Suddenly, she realizes she forgot one thing – something she should've done before leaving the office.
Her desk was not cleared: the coffee cup remains unwashed, papers still scatters. A tidy person by nature, she cannot bear to leave them that way. Without a second thought, she dashes back inside, mentally chastising her oversight.
Lately she has been forgetful—leaving lights on at home, forgetting her water bottle, missing last week's routine check-up. Quiet creaks sound as she reenters; the office is deserted. She walks silently to her workspace, relief flooding in as she flicks the light on.
But, surprisingly, her desk is empty.
The coffee cup is already resting quietly on the shelf, the tissues vanish. The cleaning staff must have come earlier—and tidied it all away. A wave of unease washes over Yuna. They saw her mess. She pauses for a moment, then quietly turns and exits the office for real.
The taxi rolls slowly into her residential area – houses lined up closely. It stops in front of a three-story modern home, modest in size and looking brand-new. A warm wall lamp highlights the wooden front door, above which a small nameplate reads: Takahashi. She steps out and rummages in her bag for her wallet. As she hands over the fare:
"No need, miss," he replies, his smile easy and kind, especially toward Yuna. She blinks, stunned.
"…Excuse me?" she manages.
He shrugs from his seat. "How about treating me to dinner with this 500 yen?"
She pauses.
"What? Not interested?"
"Sorry, I'm busy," she says quickly.
After paying the fare, she rushes up to the gate. At the front door, her hand trembles as she inserts the key. That is when she notices the potted ivy beside the entrance has toppled—clay pot cracks, soil and stones scatters across the steps, leaves no longer green and upright. Yuna gasps, crouches to survey the mess.
Why does this happen?
Suddenly, a soft rustling breaks the silence nearby.
Darkness looms all around. The porch light is still on, but its reach stops short, swallowed by the thick veil of night.
Yuna freezes, heart tightening, and glances around in alarm.
A shadow.
Someone has just passed by. The driver from earlier? Or… someone else?
Without giving herself time to think, Yuna slips back inside, the door shutting behind her in a hurried instinct.
Her heartbeat thunders in her chest, loud and erratic like war drums.
As she steps into the house, the lights flick on automatically. Her breaths come fast and shallow. She presses a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself.
It was nothing. Just her imagination…
It had to be… just her mind playing tricks again.
Gradually, her breathing slows. The panic ebbs.
She places her bag on the wooden shelf near the door, slips off her uniform blazer, and hangs it neatly.
As if nothing has ever happened.
Ahead lies the spacious living room, adjacent to the kitchen. The walls are painted in cozy tones – simple, warm, familiar. Everything was chosen by her and Ryusei. They both prefers minimalism, typical of many Japanese homes. Purchased just two years ago, the house feels new yet full of memories.
After a shower, Yuna emerges into the neat, compact kitchen. She begins chopping vegetables, lips pressed into a gentle line, as the rhythm of knife against cutting board filled the room. She lights a small pot on the stove; steamy, sweet miso aroma fills the air. On the grill, she pan-fries a mackerel until its skin crisps golden. She moves with practiced care, meal-making becomes an act of affection.
She sets the table: miso soup, grilled mackerel, steamed rice, and a plate of tsukemono. It was ten o'clock. Exhausted, she slumps forward, resting her head on folded arms.
Wasn't my beloved husband due home soon? Shouldn't I be excited?
She gently pinches her cheek and tíe her hair up. Her fingers brush the slender hand where her wedding ring sits on her ring finger – a simple silver band they picked together. A flutter of anticipation passes through her as she fondles its cool, smooth surface.
A "click" at the door makes her heart skip a beat – Ryusei finally returned from his long business trip.
"Ryusei…" she whispers, her words hanging in the silent air.
His silhouette stands at the door – distant, unmoving. He does not immediately store his shoes nor respond. Yuna approaches quietly, helping him offload his blazer and hang it alongside hers – similar dark styles, differing only slightly in size and cut.
"The water's hot, go shower and then come have dinner…" she says, offering words he has heard countless times.
As she turns, a sudden force pins her body against the wooden door. She gasps, her eyes wide, two solid arms hemming her in. In that moment between familiarity and alarm:
"Ryusei…" she whispers.
The figure before her feels utterly foreign. He leans in close—so unsettlingly close. His breath is ragged, strained. Though still her husband, Yuna steadies herself, her voice barely a breath:
"Are you… alright?"
"…."
"Is something wrong?" she persists, concern trembling in her voice.
"No."
"…"
"It's just… I had a really long day," he rasps, his strong hand slipping from the door to rest on her shoulder, sliding gently down her arm.
His voice is coarse, each word heavy with effort. Yuna straightens, summoning courage to meet his dark, penetrating eyes. In their depths, he holds a look of judgement, expectation, forcing her into a quiet, suspended panic.
"Did you… miss me?" he asks.
Yuna's shoulders tremble beneath his palm. His voice cuts through the stillness like a paralyzing blade. The intensity in his eyes, so deep it consumed her thoughts, leaves her speechless. Her chest tightens; she swallows thickly, searching within for the answer. She cannot tell if she truly misses him or if she is drowning in confusion.
"I… want…" he starts, but she cuts him off smoothly:
"Go shower and then come have dinner, okay?" She presses her hand onto his arm, leaning against him as reassurance for herself.
Waiting for a response, she hears only his heavy breathing and a quiet sniffle.
Then, the weight lifts. His presence receds. She looks up and sees his sharp eyes watching her from the corner.
"Okay," he finally murmurs.
….
Night falls. The room sinks into quiet—clock ticks and the gentle warmth beside her. Yuna lies awake, light spilling through the blankets, lighting Ryusei's peaceful face. His breathing is soft, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, a gesture of intimate comfort.
Yuna turns toward him. It has been too long since she saw a face so familiar. She notices subtle changes – the faint lines at his nose, the hair now brushing his ears, slightly longer than before.
She reaches out, stroking the contours of his cheek, smoothing a crease near his nose and a slight bag beneath his eye. She does so tenderly, not wanting to disturb his sleep. She longs for him to fall into a deep slumber so her hand can silently explore and memorize every detail it finds.
He looks different, she is not sure how much his personality has changed, and she does not dare probe that.
But she cannot shake the memory of his exhaustion when he first returned. He tried to lean into her, to be close, to hold her—perhaps seeking solace. And she turned him away.
Yuna felt a pang of guilt. She sensed his weariness, and perhaps she failed him.
She wondered: had she expected too much? Did she desire closeness in a space meant to bury exhaustion and share warmth, but maybe she pushed him further away? Will Ryusei no longer long for her?
His hand, still on her shoulder, gives a slight tremble—then he tightens his grip around her wrist. Yuna flinches.
"Sleep," he whispers, slicing through the silent night.
"I can't sleep…" she confesses.
He raises the blanket higher, then strokes her hair. Meeting her gaze, his voice softens, coaxing:
"Sleep now. We both have work tomorrow."
"Do you have to go again?" she asks.
"…I'm not leaving again, but the next few nights I'll be home late."
He gently massages her knuckles. Yuna exhales wearily, looking at half of his face draped in shadow. She turns into him and wraps her arm across his chest, nestling against his warmth.
Ryusei's breaths in her ear are heavy, each exhalation pressing hot against her skin. She aches for him—wants to hear about Tokyo, how tough it was for him, whether people treated him well, how the work was progressing. But she senses he is spent. She bites her lip in respectful silence, then whispers:
"It's okay. I'll wait."
╰⊰✧∘❉∘✧⊱╯