The night felt heavier than usual.
Yui stirred in her sleep, chest rising unevenly. Her dream was once again the same — the same shadow behind her, the same voice whispering her name, "Yui…" until it grew louder, closer, until—
Her eyes flew open.
She sat up sharply, heart hammering against her ribs. The soft snores of Mei reached her ears, grounding her back to the present. The clock on the wall blinked 2:47 AM. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She exhaled shakily.
"…Just a dream," she whispered to herself.
Her throat was dry. Careful not to wake Mei, she slipped out from under the blanket, tucking it gently around the child's small shoulders. Her bare feet brushed against the cold wooden floor as she padded toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator's faint hum filled the stillness. Yui took a glass, filled it with water, and leaned against the counter as she sipped. The coolness soothed her throat, but her mind wouldn't quiet. The dream's echo still pressed against her, the voice, the dark silhouette—
Her brows furrowed.
When she returned to the bedroom, Mei was still curled up with her plush rabbit, her soft breathing steady. Yui smiled faintly, brushed her hair aside, and lay down again. But sleep wouldn't come. The silence pressed too hard, too constant. Out of habit, she reached for her phone beside the pillow and unlocked it.
Her eyes fell on a chat — unnamed. Only one line glowed on the screen:
"Open your sling bag. The old lady wanted to give you the plum cake she had baked. Another thing—if you want it, keep it. Otherwise, throw it."
Haruto.
She hadn't saved his number, but her mind still remembered every single word he'd ever texted her. She traced the message with her thumb, heart beating faster.
The clock ticked. 2:59 AM. He was offline.
Against her better judgment, she typed.
"What do you mean by just one day?"
Her thumb hovered, hesitating, then pressed send. The message delivered — but the gray checkmarks stayed gray. No reply.
Yui sighed and placed the phone down beside her. Her heart still fluttered uneasily. "You really don't let me sleep peacefully, do you?" she muttered to herself, half annoyed, half aching.
Her gaze drifted toward the bookshelf in the corner of the room. There were so many books — thick spines, fairy tales, encyclopedias, storybooks with glittery covers. Maybe reading something light would lull her to sleep.
She rose quietly, pulling her shawl around her shoulders, and approached the shelf. Her fingers grazed the rows of titles. The last one caught her eye.
It wasn't a storybook, but a photobook. She'd seen it before when Himari asked her to dust the shelf. She thought maybe it had pictures of Mei — cute childhood moments, perhaps, that she had seen earlier. Something simple. Something warm.
She flipped it open.
The first few pages were what she expected — a tiny baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, little hands reaching toward the camera. Then, pictures of a smiling toddler with messy hair — that was definitely Mei.
But then, the next pages changed.
Her fingers stilled. The photos were older — of different people. Familiar people.
The first one was of Haruto, standing beside a young woman, Himari. They were laughing, sunlight behind them, his hand loosely on her shoulder. Then another — Riku with a bright grin, hair ruffled by someone's unseen hand. Their parents. Altogether.
Yui's pulse picked up. She turned another page.
Three siblings stood together, a little girl, a boy who must've been Riku, and another boy with sharp eyes — Haruto, unmistakably. His face was softer, but that quiet defiance was already there.
Her fingers trembled.
She turned the page again, but before she could see the next picture—
A sleepy voice interrupted, soft and cracked with yawns.
"Where did you go?"
Yui flinched, slamming the book closed out of instinct. She turned, forcing a calm smile.
"Ah, Mei-chan, did I wake you up? Sorry."
Mei was sitting on the bed, rubbing her eyes, a rabbit plushie beside her. "I didn't see you beside me," she murmured.
Yui sat down beside her, with smile softening. "I was just reading a book."
Mei rested her head on Yui's shoulder, half-asleep already. "You want the angel, too? But you live with him," she mumbled.
Yui chuckled nervously. "You were dreaming of an angel?" she muttered under her breath.
But without further answers, Mei was asleep again, her small hand clutching Yui's sleeve. Yui lay beside her, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled.
Was Mei referring to Haruto as an angel here, but she doesn't live with him — what did Mei mean earlier?
Sleep finally claimed her somewhere between confusion and exhaustion.
The next morning, Himari's voice came from the doorway. "I'm home!"
Yui blinked awake, groggy, sitting up carefully. Mei was still sleeping, curled under the blanket.
When she opened the door, Himari stood there, hair tied back neatly, holding grocery bags.
"Oh! You're up early," Himari said with a gentle smile.
Yui rubbed her eyes. "Good morning. You came back early."
"Yes. Work wrapped sooner than expected. Thank you for staying with Mei."
Yui smiled softly, bowing slightly. "She was an angel. Slept peacefully after the third bedtime story."
Himari laughed. "You must have the patience of a saint."
After exchanging polite smiles, Yui returned to her own apartment. She rang the bell, but the door was already open, stepping in — and froze.
The smell.
It wasn't the usual cereal-and-coffee kind of morning. It was something else — cooked food. Warm, savory, perfectly timed. The table was set with plates, napkins folded neatly, and bowls steaming with soup, rice, and eggs.
Her eyes widened. "Masaru?"
From the kitchen came his casual hum. "Morning."
He was wearing an apron. A proper one. Tied correctly. The spatula moved gracefully in his hand as he flipped something in the pan.
"Wait," Yui said, still staring at the breakfast table like it was a hallucination. "Did you… make this?"
Masaru didn't turn around. "Hmm, with someone."
Yui squinted, suspicious. "Someone?"
She walked closer, noticing the details — apron properly tied, ingredients neatly arranged, plates aligned symmetrically.
Her mouth fell open slightly.
This… this wasn't him.
Masaru's style was chaos. He usually tossed the apron somewhere on the floor, spilled sauce on the counter, and left the spoon in the sink. But this… this was precision. Calm. Grace.
Her gaze shifted to the table — the small flower vase, the perfectly browned toast, the drizzle of honey in the exact pattern she'd seen that day.
Her voice was slow, disbelieving.
"…You're seeing Mrs. Yamada?"
Masaru froze.
The pan sizzled loudly in the silence.
He didn't turn around.