Morning – The Garden Wing
Renjiro did not leave for the city that Saturday.He surprised even himself when he told the driver to take the day off.
The weather was mild, the kind of early-spring air that carried the scent of pine and earth.He spent the first hours in the back garden with a set of woodworking tools and a small cedar plank.It was a quiet hobby he had picked up years ago—shaping small boxes, sanding until the grain shone smooth under his hands.No one in the company knew; few in the family remembered.
From the veranda Aika watched for a moment, unseen. The rhythm of his movements was calm, focused; the constant restlessness that surrounded him during the week was gone.She found herself smiling.
So this is the part of him that still breathes.
Afternoon – Aika's Corner
The rest of the day passed softly.Renjiro worked in the garden until lunch, then disappeared into the tea house with a stack of papers.Aika stayed in her room by the window, stylus in hand, tablet open.
She lost herself in sketching—lines of fabric, shapes of collars and hems, the beginning of a new design that had lived in her mind for weeks.When she worked, the world thinned until only color and texture existed.By the time she looked up, the paper screens had turned golden with the setting sun.
"Already evening…" she murmured, touching the corner of the screen to save her file.
For a heartbeat she hesitated, tempted to show him, to let him see that quiet, hidden side of her.But the thought passed. Not yet.
Evening – Dinner Together
She changed into a soft indigo dress and went to the main house.Renjiro was already seated at the low table, hair still damp from washing the sawdust away.
"You've been in the garden all day," she said as she sat beside him.
"It keeps my hands busy," he replied. "Better than a boardroom."
She served him rice and poured tea. The movement was automatic, graceful.He didn't stop her.
Part of him still disliked the sight—this woman he kept at a distance acting as though she belonged here.Yet when she leaned forward slightly to set the cup before him, he felt something unguarded stir in his chest.
He told himself it was the peace of the weekend, nothing more.
Dinner was quiet, comfortable in a way that felt new.The air smelled of grilled fish and cedar smoke.Outside, the first fireflies blinked near the pond.
Night
After the dishes were cleared, they walked back through the corridor side by side.Renjiro carried a small box he had finished sanding; Aika carried nothing but the faint smile she hadn't realized she wore.
At their door he stopped, glanced at her.
"You like quiet days," he said.
"I like seeing you like this," she answered simply.
He didn't reply. But the corner of his mouth lifted—barely.
And that was enough.
After dinner the house settled into silence. A few lights glowed across the gardens, the reflection of the pond silver under the moon.
Renjiro stopped by doorway. He looked uncertain, one hand in his pocket.
"Do you… watch movies?"
She turned, a little surprised. "Sometimes. Why?"
"There's a small theatre in the south wing. It used to be my father's idea of modern luxury. I haven't used it in years."He hesitated, then added, "Come if you want. I'm starting something."
Aika's smile was gentle. "I'd like that."
The room was half the size of a living room—dark walls, low ceiling, a wide screen set into the far wall.Soft floor cushions were arranged in two rows, almost like small beds.Renjiro adjusted the projector; Aika set a small tray of tea and snacks on the side table.
The film began with a burst of static, then settled into a quiet mystery.
They sat close, not touching, the light from the screen washing their faces in pale blue.
Onscreen, a detective was pacing, piecing together clues.
"He's wrong," Renjiro said suddenly. "It's the neighbor. Watch the way the camera follows him."
Aika laughed softly. "You still do that—trying to solve things before anyone else."
"Old habit."
"You used to do it with books too," she teased. "In primary school, you'd mark the page before the reveal and tell me you'd guessed it already."
He looked at her then, faintly smiling. "You remember that?"
"Of course."
The next few minutes passed easily, their voices quiet, the movie forgotten for stretches at a time as they traded guesses, corrected each other, shared small laughter.For a while it felt simple again—two children who used to share benches, unburdened by names and legacies.
Near Midnight. The credits rolled, a slow tune filling the room.
Neither moved to turn on the lights.
Renjiro stretched, the sound of his sigh blending with the end of the music.
"It's strange," he said. "Everything feels heavier these days. But tonight didn't."
Aika tucked her knees under her. "Maybe because we stopped thinking for a while."
He nodded slowly. "Maybe."
Outside, rain began again—light and even, like a metronome.He looked at her, eyes softer than before.
"Thanks for watching with me."
"Anytime," she said.
For the first time in months, the quiet between them wasn't sharp. It was easy.
After shutting down the projector, they walked back through the long wooden corridor in near silence.The rain outside had thinned to a soft drizzle.
In their room the lamp glowed low; the faint scent of cedar hung in the air.Aika laid out the bedding while Renjiro changed behind the screen.When he joined her, they each took a side of the wide futon, the small distance between them feeling both too close and too far.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Renjiro cleared his throat.
"You and Mother seem busy these days," he said quietly. "Do you actually enjoy all those charity visits?"
Aika turned her head toward him, her hair brushing the pillow.
"I do. It's meaningful in a gentle way. Your mother listens to people; she doesn't just give money. I like being part of that."
He nodded, staring at the ceiling. "She's good at drawing people in. She says you make it easier for her."
"I only follow her lead," Aika replied.
A pause. Then she asked,
"How about your project? The one you've been talking about since before the wedding."
Renjiro exhaled.
"Still moving. We finished the prototype stage, but scaling it will take years."
"Years?"
"At least three," he said. "And most of it will happen in Singapore. That's where the logistics network is strongest."
Aika blinked. "Singapore… that's far."
"About seven hours by flight," he said matter-of-factly. "I'll be back and forth, but it'll keep me out of Tokyo for months at a time."
The room fell silent again.The sound of the rain returned, soft against the paper windows.
"You'll make it work," she said finally.
"You think so?"
"You always do," she answered, a small smile touching her voice.
He glanced sideways at her, the faintest curve of a smile appearing before he turned away again.
"Goodnight, Aika."
"Goodnight, Renjiro."
Outside, the rain stopped altogether, leaving only the quiet rhythm of their breathing—two people lying close enough to feel each other's warmth, yet still learning what it meant to share it.
The house was quiet, but sleep would not come.Renjiro lay on his back staring at the ceiling, the faint pattern of the paper lamp reflected in his eyes.Every time he closed them, the memory of their first night together flickered—half-formed, unsettling.Not the act itself, but the way she had looked at him afterward: silent, trusting, unreadable.
He turned onto his side.
Aika's back was to him, her breathing slow, her hair a dark line against the pillow.For a long time he only watched her, debating with himself.He wasn't sure what he wanted—to reach out, to apologize, to find again the quiet peace of the evening.
Finally he exhaled, a small, tired sound, and moved a little closer.His arm slipped around her waist, tentative at first.She stirred but didn't pull away.
"Can't sleep?" she asked drowsily.
"No," he murmured.
They stayed like that, the warmth of her back against his chest, his heartbeat slowly finding the rhythm of hers.The air between them was different—uncertain, but not cold.
"Renjiro…" she whispered.
"Hmm?"
"You'll miss the morning flight if you don't rest."
"I know."
He didn't move his arm.And she didn't ask him to.