The truck rumbled away, leaving a cloud of dust on the gravel drive. Itsuki slung his backpack over his shoulder, sneakers crunching against the stones, eyes narrowing at the farmhouse ahead. The whole place smelled of hay and earth, like the air had been bottled up straight from the barn.

The front door creaked open. A woman in an apron appeared, her face lit up with a smile that was far too sincere for his taste. “Welcome, sweetheart,” she said warmly, pulling the door open wider.

Itsuki didn’t reply. He stepped inside, where the house was all wood beams and polished floors, every corner glowing with the kind of cozy, golden light he only ever saw on postcards. The smell of fresh sourdough hung in the air, and outside he could hear the faint moo of cows, the cluck of chickens.

Two toddlers sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth, stacking blocks, giggling in their own little world. But he remembered what they told him back in town: there were three children here. Three, not two.

He glanced around, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

His lip curled in irritation. This is what they thought would help me? A woodsy prison with no escape? He dropped his bag with a thud against the wall, earning a curious look from one of the toddlers.

“Your room’s upstairs,” the mother said gently, as if she didn’t notice his attitude. “You’ll find it cozy. Supper’s almost ready.”

Cozy. Itsuki hated that word already. Cozy meant no VR headset, no neon glow of screens, no hum of Wi-Fi routers. Was there even internet here? He doubted it.

His mind reeled as he imagined endless days stuck in mud, surrounded by people who smelled like manure, no one his age who didn’t have dirt under their nails.

And somewhere in this house, the “third child” he hadn’t seen yet. Whoever that was.