Himari tapped her finger lightly against her cheek, the familiar chat window still open on her phone. Two blue ticks glowed beneath the last message she had sent. She stared at them for a long moment, unmoving, as though the answer might surface if she waited long enough.
Her other hand drifted to the dining table, fingers tapping softly, rhythmically.
“Is something wrong?” Midori asked gently, placing a plate of freshly cut fruit on the table as she studied her daughter’s distant expression.
The rich, aromatic scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the café, warm and familiar, clinging to the air as though it had seeped into the walls themselves. Dressed entirely in black—a black jacket layered over a black shirt, a black cap pulled low, black trousers, and polished black shoes—the man chose a seat in the far corner, one carefully positioned to give him a clear view of the counter, the kitchen entrance, and the bakery shelf. There were only a few customers scattered about, perhaps because it was still early, just past ten in the morning. This café was usually crowded during lunchtime and remained lively well into the night, its drinks and cakes selling out almost as soon as they appeared, coveted like rare treats.
The incident left Yuma with a reminder he could no longer ignore.
He needed to remember his place.
From then on, he began preparing himself long before he left his room, and long before he returned home after work — rehearsing restraint, steadying his breathing, reminding himself to keep his expression neutral, his reactions minimal. If the ache in his chest was inevitable, then he would at least control what showed.
There was a subtle change in Yuma, one that had begun quietly, almost imperceptibly, and yet its presence grew heavier with each passing day. That change was Himari. With her, Yuma had felt a warmth he had long forgotten existed, something gentle and unfamiliar, something that reminded him of how it felt to be seen, even briefly.
For that reason alone, being with his family had begun to hurt more than before.
It was not that they were cruel. It was not that they rejected him outright. It was the absence — the way attention never lingered on him, not even for a moment, the way concern always flowed past him as though he were standing slightly out of frame. His chest would tighten without warning, a suffocating pressure he had learned to endure in silence.
Yuma did not change overnight.
He still left for work at the same time each morning, boarded the same train, sat at the same desk. His days remained filled with numbers, projections, patterns that made sense precisely because they asked nothing of him in return.
Yet something had shifted.
The corridor outside the room was unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence padded by thick carpets and closed doors, where even footsteps seemed to lose their purpose before reaching the end of the hall. Behind the glass wall of the private room, a nine-year-old boy lay propped against pale pillows, dressed in a soft blue patient’s outfit that hung loosely on his slight frame, as though it did not quite belong to him.
It was already eleven.
Kitahara Himari was often misunderstood at first glance.
Quiet. Calm. Forgettable.
That was the impression she gave — and the one most people accepted without question.
But Himari was observant.
She always had been.
