Have you ever felt the cosmos was actively plotting a malicious downfall, like a predator cornering its prey in a dark alley? Right now, misfortune wasn't just lurking—it was perched comfortably on my shoulder, breathing down my neck.
My move into this house wasn't a choice, but a consequence of the metallic crunch and the shriek of failing brakes on one damned night. People said Dad's car took off like a bullet. Me? I was curled up behind the cover of a novel, lost in a naive, teenage imagination, preferring fictional dialogue over small talk in the living room. Turns out, the beautiful words in a book can't drown out the sound of reality shattering.
This afternoon, the air in my new room was thick with dust and the heavy scent of aged wood. I was forcibly packing the remnants of my life into boxes, but behind the thin wooden door, a storm was raging.
"I won't accept this, Okāsan! This isn't an orphanage!"
The voice shrieked, carving the silence like a scalpel. That was Naomi.
"Naomi! Watch your mouth!" Her father's voice cut in, low but vibrating with restrained fury.
"Why?! You're always looking for trouble! He's just going to be a burden on this family!"
I sighed, my hand shaking as I tucked a t-shirt into the dreary, old brown dresser. I sat on the edge of the bed, allowing my eyes to catalogue the room that was now forcefully designated as 'home.'
The evening light snuck in through the curtainless window, sweeping across the pine floor and casting a cold, golden reflection. The sky outside was beginning to bruise; a heavy, purplish hue slowly devoured by gray. In the middle of the room, a gray woven rug lay like a lonely island in a silent ocean. Maybe blue would have been slightly warmer, I thought, trying to distract myself from the sharp ache in my chest.
I stood up, approaching the long, frameless mirror leaning listlessly against the wall. The reflection staring back looked like a stranger.
The black turtleneck I wore seemed to be trying to conceal my clenched jaw. My dark hair was a mess, falling across my forehead in a chaotic middle part. But my eyes... they were the traitors. Heavy-lidded and weary, half-closed like stage curtains refusing to open for another act, with dark pupils sunken beneath the weight of my eyelids.
"At least I don't look like a corpse yet," I muttered to the reflection.
Knock, knock.
The door creaked slightly. "Shineru? How... is the room satisfactory?"
The woman—my mother's old friend—stood in the doorway. Her smile looked fragile, strained with transparent anxiety.
"Very comfortable, Tanaka-san. Thank you," I replied flatly. My voice sounded foreign even to my own ears, dry and devoid of emotion.
"Thank goodness. I'll prepare dinner. Come down when you're ready."
"Alright."
Seven o'clock. The savory aroma of grilled fish snaked through the door crack, piercing my senses which had only registered dust all morning. I stepped out, navigating the open-concept house. The pale Japanese oak floor was cold beneath my feet. The sandy shikkui plaster walls cast dramatic shadows under the dim lights, creating an impression that was both elegant and alienating.
"Tch..."
My steps halted. There, leaning against the cold marble kitchen counter, stood Naomi with her arms crossed. The kitchen light reflected off her straight, glossy black hair. A small mole at the corner of her lip seemed to accentuate the sharp, sour lines of her face.
"Is 'tch' the standard opening greeting in this family?" I asked, keeping my voice as calm as the surface of water in a glass.
"You know what? You're a burden," she hissed. Her eyes watched me as if I were a stain on their expensive rug.
I stared back without blinking. "Good grief, Naomi-san... you seem desperately in need of a mirror."
Her brows furrowed sharply. "What is that supposed to mean, you bastard?"
"Here's the logic," I stepped closer, "If I'm a burden because they're funding me, aren't you the same? Unless you pay the electricity bill with your own pocket money."
Naomi's face flushed crimson. "Shut up! I'm their biological daughter! It's expected! You... you orphan!"
Those words hit me harder than the accident itself. Cold. They pierced the skin and lodged deep in my gut.
"Naomi!"
Heavy footsteps shook the floor. Her father appeared, his face rigid, the veins on his temples bulging. "Take that back. Now!"
"Otōsan? Why are you defending him?!" Naomi's voice began to crack.
"Because he is grieving! Where is the civility we taught you?!" The man gripped his daughter's shoulder, instantly making the atmosphere in the room as heavy as lead. The air seemed to have been sucked out by sheer rage.
"Otōsan... do you love him more?" Tears began to well up in Naomi's eyes, threatening to spill.
"Enough, enough... let's just sit down," the mother tried to mediate, her face ashen.
"No, no. This child just insulted someone who has lost his entire world! Is this the result of my parenting?!" the Father roared.
I felt nauseated. This drama was more bitter than the grief itself.
"Sorry to interrupt," my voice sliced through the tension like a razor blade. "I know this is a mess. But can we stop? The grilled fish will taste much better served hot than seasoned with anger."
The man went silent. He slowly released his grip, his shoulders slumping as if all his energy had just been drained. "I'm sorry, Shineru. I am truly sorry."
Without another word, Naomi turned and ran. The sound of a door slamming upstairs echoed like a small explosion, followed by the harsh grind of a key turning in the lock.
"That kid… always behaves like a little kid."
Dinner passed in a suffocating silence beneath the bell-shaped pendant lamp. After silently helping to clear the dishes, I went back upstairs. My room was right next to Naomi's.
I stopped in front of her tightly closed door. The stillness behind it felt agonizing.
Wasn't she hungry?
A strange sense of guilt—or perhaps the last remnants of empathy that hadn't died yet—guided me back to the kitchen. I arranged a plate of rice and a steaming piece of grilled fish, then returned to stand before her cold door.
Knock, knock.
"Excuse me, your package has arrived."
Silence.
"Excuse me?"
"Will you shut up, you idiot?!" she screamed from inside, her voice hoarse from crying.
"A package from the 'Good Samaritan Neighbor' service has arrived, Ma'am. Please open the door before your courier turns mossy."
I stood there, knocking gently with a consistent rhythm. Finally, the sound of the lock turning could be heard. The door opened just a few centimeters, revealing bloodshot eyes and Naomi's disheveled face.
"Do you honestly not understand the word 'leave'?"
I curved the corner of my mouth slightly. "I do. But I also understand that a hungry stomach makes people crankier. Here, eat."
She looked at the plate in my hand doubtfully. "Is this... for me?"
"Who else?"
She paused, staring at me for a long time before finally taking the plate. "Thank you," she mumbled, almost swallowed by the air.
"You're welcome. So... may I come in?"
Naomi's eyes narrowed, wary. "Are you a pervert?"
"I'm just bored of staring at white walls and need someone to talk to who isn't currently screaming at me. Deal?"
Naomi let out a long breath, as if lowering her defensive shield. She moved aside, giving me just enough space to enter. "Come in. But if you try anything, I will scream as loud as I can."
"Thank's."
I stepped into the "enemy's territory" with the first genuinely soft smile I'd worn since the night of the accident.