Morning came slowly.
The light was soft and liquid, sliding across the lake like a sigh. Birds started first—small, hesitant chirps that built into a quiet chorus. The house, still heavy with dreams, seemed to stretch with the warmth creeping in through the curtains.
Inside, it smelled faintly of coffee, toast, and something sweet.
Aoi was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, a notebook balanced on her knee. She wore a loose white sweater, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair pulled into a low bun. The world around her was still, except for the sound of her pen scratching softly against paper.
Her thoughts wandered in calm spirals: lists, reminders, gentle what-ifs about the next four days. This—this quiet—was the kind of peace she hadn't realized she'd been craving.
The door behind her slid open.
Haruto stepped out, barefoot, mug in hand, steam curling lazily into the morning air. His hair was still damp, his expression the kind of half-awake that somehow made him look younger. He didn't speak, just glanced at her notebook and then at the lake.
"Morning," Aoi said quietly.
"Morning," he replied.
They sat in silence for a while. The water caught the sun like glass; each ripple shimmered gold. Haruto leaned against the railing, taking slow sips of coffee. Aoi could see the faint reflection of the sky in his mug.
"You're up early," she said eventually.
"So are you," he countered.
"I had things to write."
He tilted his head slightly. "About?"
She smiled, closing the notebook. "Everything and nothing."
"That sounds familiar."
"Because it's you," she teased lightly.
He almost smiled. "I'll take that."
The door opened again—loudly, dramatically—and Suki stumbled out in a swirl of blanket and chaos. "Good morning to the world, and to all who tolerate me!"
Ryuzí followed, a step behind, hair perfectly in place despite the hour. "You're intolerable before caffeine."
"I'm intolerable after caffeine too," Suki said proudly. "It's called consistency."
He yawned so wide Aoi thought his jaw might crack, then spotted Haruto and Aoi at the railing. "You two look like an aesthetic poster."
"Go make yourself useful," Aoi said dryly.
"I am the useful one," he said, stretching. "Kenji still asleep?"
"Snoring," Ryuzí said. "Miyako too."
Aoi nodded toward the kitchen. "Breakfast duty, then. You volunteered yesterday."
Suki gasped. "That was a metaphorical volunteering!"
"Not anymore," Aoi said, flipping her notebook open again.
Ryuzí smirked. "You heard the boss."
Suki groaned but trudged toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath about being underappreciated culinary talent. The door swung behind him; clattering sounds began almost immediately.
Haruto sipped his coffee again, faint amusement tugging at his mouth. "We should prepare the fire extinguisher."
"Don't worry," Aoi said, smiling. "Ryuzí's in there. He won't let Suki burn the place down."
"Fair," Haruto said. "Still—maybe we should pray."
The smell of something edible—or almost edible—began to drift through the air. It mixed with the scent of cedar, of clean wind, of the faint sweetness of pine. Aoi watched the horizon soften. It felt good, this morning. Easy.
Then the kitchen door slid open again, and Kenji's voice broke the calm.
"Who gave Suki access to oil?"
A crash.
A yelp.
"I'm fine!" Suki shouted. "Mostly!"
Miyako appeared behind Kenji, still rubbing her eyes, her hair mussed from sleep. "What happened?"
"Breakfast disaster," Kenji said, gesturing dramatically. "A tragedy unfolding in real time."
Miyako smiled faintly. "It's too early for your metaphors."
"It's never too early for drama," Kenji said, eyes sparkling. "Want to help rescue the toast?"
She hesitated, but his grin made it impossible to refuse. "Fine," she said, stepping past him into the kitchen. "But I'm in charge."
"Deal," he said, following.
Inside, Suki was waging war with a frying pan, spatula in one hand, determination in the other. "I have everything under control!"
"Then why is there smoke?" Ryuzí asked, calmly flipping an omelet with professional grace.
"It's called flavor," Suki said indignantly. "Michelin-starred chefs do this."
"Michelin-starred chefs don't use that much butter," Miyako said, stepping in and turning down the heat. "Move."
Suki made an exaggerated gasp. "You're staging a coup!"
"Consider it a mercy," Kenji said, leaning on the counter. "What are we even eating?"
"Chaos," Ryuzí said.
"Scrambled eggs," Suki corrected.
Miyako sighed, but her smile softened as she took over the pan. "Okay, everyone step back. Let me salvage breakfast before Aoi bans us from the kitchen forever."
Kenji grabbed the bowl of eggs, handing it to her with mock solemnity. "Chef Miyako to the rescue."
She arched an eyebrow. "You're surprisingly cooperative this morning."
"Fear of starvation is a powerful motivator."
The group fell into a rhythm—Miyako cooking, Ryuzí helping quietly, Suki supervising dramatically, Kenji making bad jokes and stealing grapes from the counter. By the time Aoi and Haruto came in, the table was full: scrambled eggs, rice, miso soup, and a few slightly singed slices of toast that Suki insisted were "artisanal."
They all sat down together, the kind of breakfast that tasted better for being shared.
"This is good," Aoi said, surprised.
"Thank Miyako," Ryuzí said. "She prevented a kitchen fire."
"I contributed creative energy," Suki added proudly.
"You contributed smoke," Kenji muttered.
Haruto chuckled quietly. "It adds atmosphere."
Suki pointed a chopstick at him. "Thank you, art boy!"
They ate, laughed, argued over toast, and made plans for the day. The itinerary was simple: explore the nearby market, rent canoes, maybe stargaze at night. Aoi wrote everything down neatly. Kenji made side commentary for every bullet point.
After breakfast, the group scattered—Suki and Ryuzí headed for the dock, Aoi and Haruto for a walk, Kenji and Miyako lingering to clean up.
Kenji washed dishes while Miyako dried them, their movements naturally in sync. The window above the sink framed the lake, sunlight spilling across the water.
"So," he said casually, handing her a plate. "Last night wasn't a dream, right? We did have the most profound midnight conversation of our lives?"
Miyako smirked slightly. "You mean the one where you compared emotional vulnerability to a cat video?"
"It was a powerful metaphor," he defended.
"It was ridiculous."
"You laughed."
"I was being polite."
He grinned. "You were charmed."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. The air between them carried that same quiet tension from the night before—not heavy, just charged, alive. Every time their hands brushed while passing a dish, something flickered in the air.
"So," he said again, softer now. "You sleep okay after that?"
Miyako hesitated, setting the plate down. "Better than usual."
He looked at her, curious. "You really don't sleep well, huh?"
"Sometimes I do," she said. "Just… not often."
He nodded, deciding not to push further. "Well, if you ever need company for late-night meme therapy, I'm your guy."
Miyako laughed quietly. "I'll keep that in mind."
When they finished, she leaned against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. The lake light caught in her hair, making it glow faintly. Kenji stood across from her, arms folded, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You always look like you're thinking about something big," he said.
"I am," she replied, honest and simple.
"Want to tell me?"
"Not yet."
He nodded again. "Then I'll wait."
That made her look at him properly, and for a moment, her expression softened—something unreadable passing through her eyes. "You're a good listener," she said.
He laughed, surprised. "That's new."
"I mean it."
Her tone was so sincere that he didn't have a joke ready. So he just said, quietly, "Thanks."
They lingered there, the air between them threaded with the kind of tension that didn't ask for anything—just was. Kenji glanced down at her hands resting on the counter, then quickly looked away before his brain did something stupid like reach for them.
Outside, Aoi's voice called from the porch. "We're heading to the market soon! Ten minutes!"
"Copy that!" Kenji called back.
Miyako smiled faintly, pushing off the counter. "We should go."
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let's."
They grabbed their bags and joined the others. The group set out down the dirt road, laughter echoing through the trees, the scent of the lake trailing after them.
The market was a patchwork of color and noise—stalls selling fresh fruit, handmade crafts, grilled corn, and souvenirs that all smelled faintly of cedar. Kenji bought a keychain shaped like a fish and insisted it was for "luck." Suki tried on straw hats until Ryuzí confiscated them. Aoi found an old book about local legends, and Haruto quietly bought her a bookmark shaped like a moon.
Miyako walked with them, smiling, helping Suki pick out snacks, laughing softly when Kenji tried to haggle for ice cream and lost.
For a few hours, the world was light again.
It wasn't until late afternoon, when they returned to the lake house and the others drifted upstairs for naps or showers, that the quiet crept back in.
Miyako sat alone on the couch, scrolling through her phone, the soft hum of cicadas outside. Her reflection stared back at her in the darkened screen—calm, composed, exactly as everyone saw her.
The phone buzzed once.
A new message.
Unknown Number:Do you miss me?
Her breath caught.
For a second, she thought she'd imagined it. Then the screen buzzed again, the words still there, simple and sharp as a knife.No emoji. No name. Just that question.Do you miss me?
Her fingers trembled slightly as she locked the phone. The glow vanished, but the chill stayed. Outside, the lake still gleamed like glass, pretending nothing had changed.
Miyako sat very still, listening to the quiet house, her heart beating louder than it should.
Upstairs, someone laughed—Suki, probably. Kenji's voice followed, carefree and warm. The sound didn't reach her the same way now.
The phone buzzed again, once, insistently.
She didn't look at it this time.
Instead, she whispered, almost to herself, "Not now."
But the question lingered in the air like smoke.
Do you miss me?
The house creaked softly. The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, thunder murmured—a promise that the perfect calm of the lake couldn't last forever.