The morning after the storm, the world felt like it had been rinsed clean.
Rain still clung to the tips of the grass, and water dripped gently from the leaves of the maple tree in the yard. Ren stood on the porch, holding a plastic Tupperware box wrapped in a cloth. Sayuri had already left for the grocery store, and he didn't want to wait.
He walked the narrow path to the neighboring house—a quiet place with an old persimmon tree and wind chimes that hadn't stopped singing since summer began.
He raised his hand and knocked lightly.
A moment passed.
Then the sliding door opened, revealing Aoi Tsukimori. Her long black hair was tied loosely to one side, strands falling around her tired eyes.
"Morning," she said, voice low and calm.
Ren gave a slight nod and extended the box. "Thanks for the food. Sayuri said to return this."
Aoi accepted it with both hands, bowing slightly. "I hope it wasn't too salty. I overdid the miso, didn't I?"
He shook his head. "It was fine."
A moment of silence passed between them. Then Aoi stepped aside.
"Want to come in for a bit? My brother's asleep. It's quiet."
Ren hesitated—but nodded.
The Tsukimori home was just as old as his grandfather's, but cleaner. Lived-in. Photographs lined the shelves. The scent of warm tea and fresh tatami lingered in the air.
He followed Aoi into the kitchen. She motioned for him to sit at the low table.
"Tea?" she asked.
He nodded again. "If it's no trouble."
While she prepared it, Ren let his eyes wander. He noticed textbooks stacked near the wall—medical, mostly. A notebook with her name scribbled on it. A half-filled pill tray sat on the counter near a bottle of prescription medication.
"You studied medicine?" he asked.
Aoi glanced over her shoulder as she poured the tea. "I used to. Tokyo University Hospital. Nursing department."
"You dropped out?"
She set the teacup in front of him, then sat across with her own.
"My brother got sick." Her voice was calm but distant. "Something rare. Autoimmune. Our parents are gone, so there wasn't much choice."
Ren didn't reply.
They sat quietly for a while, sipping tea as the cicadas hummed outside.
Then Aoi spoke again, quietly. "You look like someone who needs to cry but doesn't know how."
Ren froze. The warmth of the tea in his throat suddenly felt sharp.
He looked at her, but she wasn't staring at him. Her gaze rested somewhere beyond the window, out where the summer sky stretched, too wide and too quiet.
"I see that look sometimes in the hospital," she continued. "Especially in the waiting room. Kids sitting beside covered stretchers, or holding old photographs."
She finally looked at him.
"It's not weakness, you know. Letting go."
Ren lowered his eyes.
"I just… don't know if crying would change anything," he said after a long pause.
"It won't," Aoi replied gently. "But neither does bleeding silently."
He gave a dry, almost bitter laugh. "You're blunt."
She smiled faintly. "Only with people who need it."
Another pause.
"I used to cry all the time," she said softly. "When my brother first got sick. Every night. But eventually, there weren't any tears left. Just… days that needed to be survived."
Ren looked at her again.
"And now?"
She shrugged. "Now I find peace in small things. Like tea that's not too bitter. Or someone returning a box with both hands."
Something shifted in Ren's chest, subtle and quiet.
"…Thanks," he said. It wasn't clear what he was thanking her for. The tea, the talk, or the strange calmness she carried like a lantern.
They sat a little longer. Then he stood to leave.
As he stepped outside, Aoi called after him.
"You should smile more," she said with a teasing tone. "But don't force it. Let it find you."
He didn't respond, but he raised a hand as a silent goodbye.
---
Back home, the sun had finally emerged fully, drying what the rain left behind.
Ren opened the door and slipped inside. The house was quiet.
He walked toward his room, taking off his jacket. It was still damp from earlier, and he draped it over a chair by the window.
Then he turned.
Sayuri stood in the hallway, frozen.
Her eyes locked on the damp jacket. The scent of rain and tea still clung faintly to it.
She didn't say anything.
Her eyes dropped from the jacket to the faint smile still lingering on Ren's lips.
And just like that, the space between them changed.
Her expression hardened—not anger, not jealousy, not quite. Just something cold and small, like the wind that sneaks in before autumn.
"I see," she said, almost inaudibly.
Then she turned and walked away, footsteps soft but heavy.
Ren stared after her, confused, his hand still resting on the doorframe.
Outside, the wind chime in the Tsukimori yard sang again.