February 22, 2026. Sunday.
The alarm never had the chance to sound. Tanaka Yuta had woken naturally at 6:12 a.m., eyes opening to the familiar gray ceiling of his bedroom, the thin winter light already seeping around the edges of the curtains like pale fingers prying at the darkness. He lay still for several long minutes, listening to the quiet of the apartment: the faint drip of the kitchen faucet that Tanaka Akari had been meaning to tighten for weeks, the distant rumble of the first commuter train passing through the nearby station, the soft creak of the building settling in the cold morning air. His body felt heavy, restless, caught between the warmth of the futon and the insistent pull of the day ahead.
He rose without hurry, movements deliberate and slow, as though rushing might shatter something fragile inside him. The hoodie from yesterday still carried the faint scent of last night's miso and the lingering trace of Akari's floral shampoo that had somehow transferred itself to the fabric when she brushed past him in the narrow hallway. He pulled it on anyway, unwilling to shed that small, intimate reminder.
In the kitchen, Akari had already left for her overtime shift. She must have slipped out before dawn, as she often did on Sundays when the office demanded extra hours for end-of-month paperwork. On the table waited a neatly wrapped bento, two onigiri shaped with careful hands, a small container of tamagoyaki sliced into perfect golden wedges, pickled vegetables arranged in a neat row, and a thermos of green tea still warm to the touch. Beside it lay a folded note in her familiar, slightly slanted handwriting:
Yuta,
Be careful on the train. Grandpa's house is cold this time of year, wear the thicker scarf I left on the coat rack. Eat everything; don't skip meals just because you're alone. Call me when you arrive and when you're heading back.
Love,
Mom
He stared at the note longer than necessary, thumb tracing the curve of the final character in her name. The paper felt warm from her touch, or perhaps he only imagined it. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket, right next to his phone, where it pressed against his thigh like a secret.
The apartment felt emptier without her presence, even though she had only been gone a few hours. Yuta moved through the morning routine on autopilot: brushing his teeth while staring at his reflection in the small bathroom mirror, noting the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his black hair refused to lie flat no matter how many times he ran a hand through it. He changed into jeans and a thicker sweater, layered a coat over top, and wound the wool scarf, soft gray, one she had knitted herself two winters ago, around his neck. It still smelled faintly of her laundry detergent and something warmer, more personal.
By 7:40 he was at the station, breath fogging in the sharp February air. The platform was sparsely populated: a few salarymen in dark suits checking their phones, an elderly woman pulling a shopping cart, a high-school girl in uniform scrolling through music with one earbud dangling loose. Yuta found a spot near the end of the platform, away from the crowd, and leaned against a pillar as the inbound train approached with its familiar metallic whine.
He boarded the local line toward Yokohama Station, found a window seat in an empty car, and settled in as the doors hissed shut. The train lurched forward, and the familiar rhythm of tracks beneath steel wheels began to fill the silence.
Outside the window, the suburbs of Yokohama unfolded in slow, gray procession: low-rise apartment blocks with laundry strung across balconies, convenience stores with glowing signs still lit against the pale morning, narrow streets lined with bare cherry trees waiting for spring. The scenery blurred into a monotonous rhythm as the train gathered speed, and Yuta let his forehead rest against the cool glass, eyes half-lidded, thoughts drifting where they always drifted these days, back to her.
Tanaka Akari.
He pictured her now, seated at her desk in the quiet real-estate office, long blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail to keep it out of the way while she typed reports or answered calls from clients who never quite appreciated how hard she worked. She would be wearing one of her professional outfits: a fitted white blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt, the fabric hugging the dramatic flare of her hips, the hem riding just high enough to reveal the gentle curve of her calves when she crossed her legs under the desk. Her breasts would press softly against the buttons of the blouse, straining them slightly whenever she leaned forward to read a document, and if the office air-conditioning was too strong, as it often was in winter, she might drape her cardigan over her shoulders, the soft wool framing the deep valley of cleavage visible at the blouse's open collar.
Yuta shifted in his seat, thighs pressing together against the growing ache between them. He hated how easily the images came, how vivid they were, how they refused to stay buried beneath layers of guilt and routine. He closed his eyes and let the train's gentle rocking carry him deeper into the fantasy.
He imagined her pausing in the middle of a phone call, blue eyes flicking toward the window as though sensing his gaze from miles away. Perhaps she would uncross her legs slowly, the skirt riding up another inch to expose the smooth expanse of thigh, the faint sheen of nylon stockings catching the fluorescent light. Her free hand might drift absently to the pearl necklace at her throat, the one she wore on days when she felt particularly tired but still wanted to look put-together, fingers tracing the smooth beads in the same absent rhythm she sometimes used when brushing his hair as a child.
The train slowed for a station stop. Doors opened, cold air rushed in, a handful of passengers boarded and dispersed. Yuta kept his eyes closed, unwilling to break the spell. In his mind, Akari stood now, stretching after hours at her desk, arms lifted high so that the blouse pulled tight across her chest, outlining every lush curve, every soft swell. She would arch her back slightly, a small sigh escaping her lips as the tension in her shoulders eased, and the motion would make her breasts rise and settle again with that liquid, hypnotic weight that had haunted him for longer than he cared to admit.
He swallowed hard, throat dry despite the thermos of tea still clutched in his hands. The fantasy shifted, as it always did eventually, to the apartment at night. Akari stepping out of the bathroom after her shower, towel wrapped loosely around her torso, droplets of water tracing slow paths down the deep cleavage between her breasts, over the gentle curve of her belly, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel where it clung precariously to her wide hips. She would pad barefoot across the living room, hair damp and loose, strands clinging to her neck and shoulders, and pause at the doorway to his room.
"Yuta?" she would call softly, voice husky from steam and fatigue. "Are you still awake?"
He would pretend to be asleep, heart pounding, watching through slitted eyelids as she crossed the threshold, towel slipping just enough to reveal the upper swell of one breast, the faint pink of areola peeking above the fabric. She would lean over his futon to adjust his blanket, and the motion would bring her close, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, smell the clean floral scent of her body wash mixed with the intimate musk beneath it.
In the fantasy he never stayed still. His hand would rise, trembling, to brush against the soft skin of her thigh just above the towel's hem. She would freeze, breath catching, but she would not pull away. Instead, she would look down at him with those wide eyes, confusion melting slowly into something warmer, something yielding, something that whispered yes even before the words formed.
The train jolted over a switch, snapping him back to reality. His eyes flew open. The car was still mostly empty; an older man sat several rows ahead, reading a newspaper, oblivious. Yuta's cheeks burned. He pressed his forehead harder against the cold window, willing the heat in his blood to cool.
He hated himself for these thoughts. Hated how they had grown from fleeting glances into something consuming, something that colored every interaction with her, every casual touch, every maternal smile. Yet the hatred only fed the desire, twisting it tighter until it felt like a knot he could neither untie nor ignore.
The train emerged from a tunnel, and the scenery changed: buildings gave way to patches of bare farmland, skeletal trees lining the tracks, distant hills shrouded in thin winter mist. They were leaving the dense suburbs behind, heading toward the quieter countryside where his grandfather's house waited. Yuta took a slow sip from the thermos, green tea still warm, slightly bitter, exactly the way Akari always brewed it for him. The taste grounded him, reminded him of mornings when she would stand at the stove in her robe, humming softly, hips swaying to some internal rhythm as she stirred the pot.
He wondered what she was doing right now. Perhaps she was on her lunch break, sitting alone at her desk with a convenience-store sandwich, legs crossed under the table, skirt riding up just enough to expose the soft inner curve of her thigh. Maybe she was thinking about him, worrying whether he had remembered to wear the scarf, whether he would eat the bento she packed, or whether the trip to Grandpa's would be too much for him on a cold day.
Or maybe she never thought of him that way at all. Maybe to her he was still just her son, who was quiet, average, and a little lost, also the way his gaze sometimes lingered on her body was something she either never noticed or chose politely to ignore.
The possibility stung more than it should have.
Yuta closed his eyes again, letting the train's rhythm rock him deeper into reverie. In his mind, Akari stood in the kitchen at home, wearing nothing but one of his oversized hoodies, the one he had left on the back of a chair last night. The hem would fall to mid-thigh, barely covering the generous curve of her ass, and when she reached up to put away dishes, the fabric would ride higher, exposing the smooth expanse of skin beneath, the shadowed cleft where thigh met hip.
She would turn, catch him watching from the hallway, and instead of scolding him she would smile, slow, and knowing, almost inviting. "Yuta," she would murmur, voice low and warm, "come here."
He would step forward, unable to resist, and she would pull him close, pressing the soft weight of her breasts against his chest through the thin hoodie fabric. Her hands would slide up his back, fingers threading through his hair, and she would tilt her head to whisper against his ear: "You've been looking at me like that for so long… I finally understand."
The fantasy dissolved as the train announcer's voice crackled over the speakers, announcing the next stop, the small rural station where he would transfer to the even slower local line that wound deeper into the countryside.
Yuta opened his eyes, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. He stood, shouldered his small backpack, and moved toward the doors as the train slowed. Outside, the platform waited, empty except for a single station attendant bundled against the cold, breath fogging in the sharp air.
He stepped off, the doors closing behind him with a soft chime.
One more train. One more hour.
And then the old house, the dusty boxes, and whatever waited inside them.
Yuta pulled the scarf tighter around his neck, Akari's scarf, still carrying the faint echo of her scent, and began the walk down the platform toward the connecting line, thoughts of his mother trailing behind him like shadows that refused to fade.
(End of Chapter 2)
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