Morning crept in through the thin curtain, the light pale and almost hesitant, painting the tatami in uneven stripes. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of dust and old wood. Konoko stirred, eyelids heavy, her body curled tight in the futon. For a moment, she lay still, the memory of the door's whisper lingering at the edge of her thoughts. Had it truly moved? Or had her half-dreaming mind played tricks in the dark?
Her chest rose in a long breath. Better not to dwell. The room was too quiet, and Gramps' steady snoring came muffled through the wall, a soft rasping rhythm that confirmed he was still asleep.
Carefully, she pushed the blanket aside and sat up. Her hair fell forward, loose and messy, sticking a little from the sweat of the night. She brushed it back, blinking toward the half-open door. It remained as she had left it — not fully shut, not wide open. That thin crack seemed to watch her, and she felt a shiver as she reached out and slid it closed with the barest click.
The house was silent as she rose. Tatami creaked faintly under her steps, her bare toes brushing against the cool weave. She hesitated at first, glancing once more toward the wall that hid Gramps' room. His breath rose and fell in slow rhythm.
Her gaze swept across the narrow hallway, the kitchen at the far end, and she felt the urge to move, to do something.
She pressed her lips together. "I should… clean. He keeps this house all by himself…"
The thought settled in her chest like a decision. Maybe it was guilt, maybe gratitude, maybe just nerves she couldn't calm. She tied her hair loosely, rolled the sleeves of her shirt, and padded toward the kitchen.
It was cramped, every surface marked with the quiet traces of age. A pot still lingered from last night, the rim clouded with dried broth. The counters had faint stains no cloth seemed to fully erase, and dust gathered in the corners where the light didn't quite reach. She opened the small window, letting a sliver of cold morning air inside, and the house seemed to exhale with her.
She found the broom by the door, the bristles frayed, the handle worn smooth by years of use. It felt oddly heavy in her hands, as though it carried a memory of every sweep it had performed before. She began with the hall, pushing dust into neat little piles, careful not to make too much noise.
Her heart raced with each soft scrape of the broom against the tatami. What if he wakes and sees me? Will he think I'm… intruding? Or will he smile, like he always does?
Her cheeks warmed. She tried to shake the thought, focusing instead on the pattern of her movements, the quiet rhythm of tidying a space that wasn't hers, yet felt strangely welcoming.
Bit by bit, the house began to look lighter, the stale air shifting under the effort of her hands. And as she worked, she felt a small pride bloom — fragile, uncertain, but enough to carry her through the morning.
The sun climbed higher than she expected, its heat pressing through the thin walls until the little house seemed to sweat with her. Konoko's shirt clung damp to her back, her fringe stuck against her forehead as she bent low with the broom, sweeping another corner into neat order. Her breath came shallow, strands of hair plastered to her temples. She wiped at her brow with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint streak of dust across pale skin.
The tatami whispered under her shifting weight, and the open window let in a sluggish breeze that carried more warmth than relief. She worked without pause, dusting shelves, folding a stray cloth, stacking old newspapers into a tidy bundle. The smallness of the house meant there wasn't much to cover, yet every movement made her body glisten more, a sheen of sweat running down her neck to the hollow between her breasts.
A floorboard creaked from the hallway.
Konoko froze, broom still in hand, her back damp and her chest rising quick. She turned.
There stood Gramps, framed in the doorway, one hand braced on the wooden frame as though steadying himself from just waking. His hair was a tousled white mess, his robe hanging loose over his shoulders. His eyes, still puffy from sleep, widened when they landed on her — the little figure of Konoko flushed pink from heat, hair stuck to her skin, shirt plastered to her curves as she tried to catch her breath.
For a moment he said nothing. Then, his voice, low and rough with morning, broke the stillness:
"Konoko… child, what are you doing up so early? You'll melt in this heat working like that."
She tightened her grip on the broom, her cheeks already burning before he even finished speaking. Words stumbled in her mouth, fragile and small:
"I-I just thought… I should help. You always keep this place alone…"
The corners of his eyes softened, deep wrinkles folding with his smile. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like an old man easing into his day.
"You shouldn't be working yourself to sweat like this. A girl your age… should still be dreaming at this hour."
Konoko lowered her head, but she couldn't stop the pounding in her chest — not from the work, but from the way his gaze lingered, kind and steady, as though he truly was grateful to see her there.
Konoko let the broom rest against the wall, her palms still damp with sweat. Gramps gave a little nod toward the sofa, the kind that brooked no argument, and she obeyed without a word, sinking onto the worn cushions. The fabric was faded from years of use, but soft, carrying the faint smell of dust and sunlight. She pressed her knees together, her small frame tense despite the exhaustion warming her limbs.
From the kitchen came the familiar clatter of dishes and the low hum of water being poured. Gramps moved slowly but surely, the shuffle of his steps steady, deliberate, as though every gesture was a habit carved deep into his bones.
Moments later, he returned with a small tray — two cups of barley tea, still faintly steaming, and a shallow plate with pickled plums. He set it down on the table with a practiced care, then eased himself onto the sofa beside her. The cushions dipped with his weight, bringing him close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating through his robe.
"There," he said, pushing one of the cups toward her. "Drink, before the heat takes you."
Konoko lifted it with both hands, bowing her head slightly. "Th-thank you…" Her voice came out hushed, almost swallowed by the hum of cicadas outside.
They sat in silence for a moment. She sipped, the tea bitter but refreshing, cooling the dryness in her throat. Beside her, Gramps leaned back, his shoulders easing into the sofa with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.
Then, in that slow, gravelly tone that carried both weight and ease, he began to talk — nothing serious, nothing heavy. Just the small things only an old man would care to notice. About how the neighbor's dog barked all night last week because of the thunder. How the old shopkeeper down the street swore his cucumbers were sweeter than anyone else's, though Gramps had his doubts. And how the town had changed since the new market opened, the younger folks too busy with their phones to notice.
Konoko listened, nodding now and then, clutching her cup as if it anchored her. There was comfort in his voice, in the way he filled the air so she didn't need to. Yet beneath it, her thoughts tangled: how close he sat, how the sofa seemed too small, how her skin still burned faintly under her damp shirt.
Gramps took a slow sip of his tea, smacking his lips with quiet satisfaction before setting the cup back down on the tray. His eyes narrowed, a faint glimmer of mischief behind the deep wrinkles.
"You know," he began, his voice dropping as though sharing a secret, "old Mrs. Tanaka down the street… claims she saw a fox stealing her laundry last week." He chuckled, shoulders shaking. "A fox! Can you believe it? Says it ran off with her best apron, tail all puffed up like a duster."
Konoko blinked, uncertain whether to laugh. She covered her mouth, a little sound slipping out anyway, half-giggle, half-stifled breath.
Gramps leaned closer, as if the story wasn't finished. "Course, I told her it was probably just that rascal Shimizu's grandson. Boy's been causing trouble for years. But she won't hear of it. Swears the fox bowed to her before it ran." His lips pulled into a sly grin. "I told her if it bows again, she should bow back. Might get her apron returned."
The sofa trembled faintly with the rumble of his laughter, warm and rich. Konoko kept her eyes down on the cup in her lap, the corners of her lips twitching despite herself. It was strange — she hadn't laughed in weeks, maybe months. Not properly.
The cicadas outside wailed louder, as if in competition with his amusement. Gramps settled back, content, still chuckling under his breath.
For Konoko, the sound filled the small room like sunlight might, making the faded walls feel less narrow, less lonely.
Steam curled up from the bath, misting the narrow walls and blurring the small square of glass high on the window. Konoko stepped inside, the floor cool under her bare feet before the warmth of the water swallowed her legs. She eased down slowly, shivering as the heat wrapped around her skin.
Gramps's voice echoed faintly from the hallway before she'd entered: "Careful, girl. That door don't close right. Swells up with the weather. Don't worry, though—I won't peek." He'd chuckled at his own reassurance, but the words had stuck with her.
Now, alone in the rising mist, Konoko hugged her knees to her chest for a moment, staring at the uneven shadow of the doorframe. The latch hadn't caught properly. A breath could push it open.
She sank deeper, water lapping just beneath her collarbone. The heat loosened her body, coaxed her to let go of the tightness she always carried. Her hands drifted without thought—one brushing over her chest, fingertips grazing sensitive peaks that tightened instantly; the other slipping lower, the steam mixing with the pounding rush of her heartbeat.
No one's here… it's fine… I need this…
Her thighs trembled, water sloshing as she pressed her palm more firmly, her breath growing uneven, soft gasps breaking against the silence. Heat of another kind spread low in her belly, sharp, demanding, a familiar ache she had never managed to resist.
And then—three slow knocks against the wood.
"Konoko?" Gramps's voice, gentle, muffled by the door. "You doing all right in there? Water's not too hot, is it?"
She froze. Every muscle locked tight, her hand still trapped between her thighs, slick and trembling. Shame flooded her face so quickly it made her dizzy.
"I—! I-I'm fine!" Her voice cracked, too high, too sharp. She yanked her hands away, plunging both into the bathwater as if to wash away what she'd been doing. Waves slapped softly against the tub, betraying her.
There was a pause. She could picture his silhouette shifting outside the door.
"…Good, good. Just checking." His footsteps creaked faintly on the floorboards as he moved away.
Konoko let out the breath she'd been holding, her chest rising and falling hard. The urge hadn't vanished—it burned more insistently than before—but now it tangled with fear, with the reminder that this house had no closed doors, no safe shadows.
She sank lower into the water, until only her eyes and nose broke the surface, hiding from even the thought of being seen.
The bathwater clung to her skin as she stepped out, steam drifting past her shoulders in ghostly ribbons. She wrapped the towel tight around herself, heart still unsettled from the interruption. The wooden floor outside creaked under her careful steps, every sound sharper in her ears.
Gramps was there in the narrow corridor, leaning casually against the wall just a few steps from her door. His own room was right beside hers; the closeness felt suffocating now. He looked up at her with a slow, easy smile, not seeming to notice the heat in her cheeks.
"Feel better, girl? A hot soak does wonders for tired bones. Even for young ones like you," he said, chuckling softly. His eyes crinkled, the kind warmth of a man who thought of himself as harmless.
Konoko nodded quickly, clutching the towel tighter, praying he couldn't see how tense her shoulders were. "Y-yes… it was… good."
He reached out, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Come on, then. I made some barley tea. Old habit—I can't have a meal or bath without a cup after. You should join me."
Her throat bobbed. She wanted to retreat into the small room, close a door that didn't quite close, and bury herself in the futon until morning. But his voice carried that simple, homely authority that made refusing feel impossible.
So she followed, damp footprints marking the wood behind her, every step weighed down by the thought of how close he'd been while she was at her most vulnerable—how near his knock had come to catching her in the act.