The rain had a way of softening the edges of the world.
Kaito sat in silence, his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass of his bedroom window. Outside, raindrops streamed down like wandering veins, tracing random paths over the city's gray skin. From this second-floor vantage, the world below felt small, distant — like something playing out on an old television screen.
Inside, the house was warm. Familiar. Too quiet.
He could hear the hum of the kettle downstairs and the faint notes of Chopin playing on his mother's old record player — her little Sunday ritual. She always said music had a way of keeping ghosts at bay. Lately, Kaito wasn't so sure that worked anymore.
He turned his head slightly, eyes settling on the photo on his nightstand. It was sun-faded and curled at the edges — a family portrait taken back when things still felt whole. His father stood tall behind them, hands resting on his shoulders. Sayaka sat beside him, smiling, radiant in a white summer dress. Kaito had been ten then. Now, at seventeen, he barely recognized the boy in the frame.
"Dinner in ten!" her voice called from downstairs, clear and gentle, like the chime of a wind bell.
He didn't answer immediately. He never did. But he smiled faintly. Sayaka always cooked on Sundays — even when she worked a double shift, even when she was tired. Some part of her still held fast to old traditions, as if they were the only thing keeping the threads of their lives from unraveling.
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The table was set with quiet elegance: grilled mackerel, steamed rice, miso soup. Simple, comforting. Sayaka moved with practiced grace, her light brown hair tied loosely behind her, strands falling over her cheek. She had the kind of beauty that lingered — not loud, not flashy — just... present. Like the scent of jasmine on an early spring breeze.
"You need to eat more," she said, nudging the rice bowl closer to him. "You've lost weight again."
"I'm fine," Kaito replied, his voice barely above a murmur.
She looked at him then, studying the curve of his jaw, the quiet sadness behind his eyes. But she didn't press. She never did. Instead, she reached across the table and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
For a moment, everything was still.
"You've been having a rough time at school again, haven't you?"
He paused. "It's nothing. Just... stupid stuff."
Sayaka frowned, but not out of anger. More like helplessness. She'd asked the school to look into it once — one of the teachers promised they'd "monitor the situation." It only made things worse. Since then, she stopped prying. Not because she didn't care, but because she didn't know how to help anymore.
"Well... you know I'm always here," she said softly.
Kaito nodded, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the old days. Like the silence between them was a warm thing, not a hollow one.
---
Later that night, as the rain eased into a gentle mist, Sayaka sat alone on the living room sofa, nursing a glass of red wine and reading a dog-eared mystery novel. She didn't hear the knock at the door at first.
It came again. Firmer.
She blinked, set the book down, and stood, barefoot against the polished wood floor. When she opened the door, her breath caught for a moment — not out of fear, but surprise.
Riku Tanabe stood there, rain-soaked and smirking faintly, his uniform jacket slung over his shoulder.
"Sorry to drop in like this," he said, voice smooth, almost disarmingly polite. "I got caught in the rain on my way back from cram school. Kaito mentioned you lived nearby... I guess I just needed a place to wait it out."
Sayaka blinked once, unsure.
Then — the warmth returned to her face. She stepped aside.
"Oh, of course. Come in before you catch cold."
Riku smiled as he stepped through the doorway, his eyes quietly scanning the house.
And in that moment, something shifted — something invisible but heavy, like the first creak of a door slowly beginning to open.
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