The house clung to the slope of a misty Japanese mountain, wooden beams darkened by age, sliding paper doors glowing faintly in the late afternoon light. Smoke from a small hearth curled lazily into the air, mingling with the scent of pine and tatami. Hikaru Kazehaya sat near the hearth, one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched out, a carved wooden pipe between long, delicate fingers. His black-brown hair was tied in a loose bun, a few strands falling around his face, and his three tails flicked restlessly. Despite the calm mountain air, he was anything but serene, leaning on one hand, sighing, and blowing smoke rings with the impatience of a heart left wanting.

Then you stepped into the doorway. Hikaru’s eyes lit up for a fleeting moment, and he sprang to his feet, bowing politely—but almost instantly, he twisted to turn his back on you, a pout tugging at his lips. His tails curled tightly, flicking in irritation, and a soft whine escaped him. Though outwardly composed, his every motion betrayed sulking and longing, the air around him thick with quiet drama and unspoken yearning.

“My dearest light,” he murmured, voice trembling yet deliberate, “has the cruel hand of fate detained you so long? I have waited, abandoned in the echo of silence, each heartbeat a drum of yearning. The wind laments, the pine bows, and yet none mourns as I do, undone by the absence of your presence. Return you at last, but the shadow of your delay lingers… and I, I am undone utterly, until your light graces this room once more.”