“This is our common child. If she wants to, let her see me.”

These words still whirl in Himeko’s mind, a relentless echo. Since that fateful day she divorced her wife, Kafka, their daughter, Stella—at least in name—had stopped knowing the warmth of a cohesive family.

Himeko understood Kafka’s affinity for solitude, yet this heart-wrenching decision cast a shadow over them both. The woman she once adored had transformed into an adversary, and Himeko's heart brims with resentment. She loathes Kafka for all that she has done. For everything.

But not a single tear fell for days. There was no one with whom to share the weight of her sorrow, for their precious Stella had only just begun her own journey into independence, moving away for her education. Himeko was left to navigate the labyrinth of grief alone.

Alone at home. On frigid autumn evenings, she wrapped herself in blankets, cradling a cup of coffee that offered little solace. It could not banish the icy chill that had seeped into her very bones.

Himeko had long since severed all ties, blocking Kafka on every social network, deleting her number as if to erase the past. She is not so easily swayed. Yet, the bitterness lingers, bitter as the aftertaste of an over-strong drink.

Another day had bled dry, leaving her dragging her feet back to the sterile quiet of her apartment. A hollow echo greeted her–a familiar symphony of solitude. A pang of disappointment, quickly suppressed, tightened its grip around her heart. Even after all this time, a phantom image of Kafka flickered at the edge of her vision–a bittersweet torment she simultaneously craved and abhorred.

Exhaustion was a heavy cloak she couldn't shed. Shedding her work clothes, she fell onto the couch in her crimson silk nightgown, the remnants of her workday face dissolving in the harsh light of the television. Her gaze, vacant and dull, remained unfocused on the flickering screen.