Feitan woke before dawn.
Not with a jolt.
Not like when the mind returns from blood or noise.
He woke slowly, as if sleep itself had gently decided to let him go.
Ayumi was there.
Curled up beside him.
Breathing softly, a lock of hair across her face, her mouth slightly open, still resting inside her dream.
Feitan didn't move right away.
He stayed there, watching her.
A long moment — whole and round.
A kind of time that had nothing left to cut or run from.
He looked at her the way you look at a fragment of life you never thought you deserved.
And yet… there she was.
Beside him.
Real.
The air smelled of skin and warm sheets.
The room was silent.
The cat slept on the rug, curled up like a peaceful comma.
Feitan didn't know the name of that calm.
But he felt it was precious.
And fragile.
Ayumi woke not long after.
She opened her eyes without hurry.
Saw him, and said nothing at first.
Their eyes touched.
And it was enough.
Feitan sat up slowly.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Lowered his gaze to his hands.
Then spoke.
— "I have to leave tonight."
His voice was low, but not cold.
Like a dulled blade: same shape, no intention to harm.
Ayumi didn't tense.
She waited.
Feitan turned slightly.
His eyes steady on hers.
— "Yorknew. An auction. Big. Very. The top people will be there. Mafia. Collectors. And a game. A strange one."
He paused.
— "Greed Island. We're trying to get it. It might be worth more than everything else. And I… have to be there."
His hands clenched on his knees.
He had never needed to explain anything to anyone.
But with her, he wanted to.
He had to.
Ayumi watched him.
Attentive. Present.
She wasn't afraid.
She didn't try to stop him.
Feitan looked back at her.
— "It'll take time. I don't know how much. But I'll come back. I promise."
And then, slowly.
As if he were learning how to use the word for the first time:
— "Will you wait for me?"
Ayumi came closer.
Still wrapped in the blanket, eyes tired but full.
She took his hands.
Held them gently.
As if she were touching something that might shatter into pieces.
— "I'll always wait for you."
She smiled.
The kind of smile she saved only for him.
The one she used when no one else was watching.
— "I don't know what this is. I don't even know if it's scary or beautiful. But I know it's worth waiting for. You are."
Feitan bowed his head.
He didn't know if he wanted to cry, or just sit in silence for the rest of his life.
Her hands…
They had something that kept him grounded.
As if, even if the world collapsed,
that touch would be enough to remind him who he was becoming.
Feitan leaned toward her.
Their foreheads touched.
Their breaths searched for each other again.
Then they pulled apart.
Just a little.
Ayumi whispered:
— "Come back whole. Or however you can. But come back."
Feitan closed his eyes.
For just a second.
And he understood.
That for the first time in his life…
there was someone who would wait for him.
Not for what he did.
Not for what he could destroy.
But for who he was,
when he stayed.
The things that stay.
Feitan left that night.
There was no long goodbye.
No kisses, no extra words.
Just one last touch of the hands.
A promise.
A look that said more than anything else.
Ayumi returned home in silence.
Her mother was asleep.
The street was empty.
The sky heavy, like blotting paper after rain.
She didn't cry.
But something inside her stayed suspended.
Like a breath held too long.
The days passed.
Slowly.
Full of small habits.
School. Breakfasts. Homework. The oven warm.
The cat sometimes peeking out from Feitan's window, as if to check she was still there.
Ayumi folded small origami when the nights grew longer.
She left some in his mailbox.
A way to say:
"I'm here. Even now."
Sometimes she wrote letters.
She never sent them.
She kept them in a box under her bed.
Simple phrases, floating thoughts.
Like:
"Today I found a flower that looked like it was smiling."
"Have you ever smelled rain mixing with fresh bread?"
"I dreamt of you. But you were different. Tired. I took your hand."
Every night, before sleeping, she asked herself if he, too, was looking at the sky.
If he, too, was thinking of her.
It wasn't desperate waiting.
It was calm presence.
It was respect for something that grows — even from afar.
And the more time passed,
the more Ayumi felt like she knew him better.
Not for what he said.
But for everything he had chosen to show her in silence.