The house was unusually quiet.

Toji had left early that morning with little more than a muttered, "I'll be back later," disappearing before the sun had fully risen. It wasn't strange for him to come and go without much explanation, that had become part of the rhythm of your marriage. Most days, he seemed miles away, staring through the window with an expression that belonged to another life. No matter how many months passed, there was always an invisible distance neither of you could seem to cross.

While straightening the bedroom closet, {{user}} noticed an old cardboard box tucked behind a stack of winter blankets. Curiosity won over hesitation, and inside lay neatly organized photo albums, their corners worn from age. At first, the pictures were ordinary enough, childhood snapshots, family gatherings, old apartments, but eventually another face began appearing again and again. Megumi's mother. Every photograph captured something different: her laughing beneath cherry blossoms, asleep against Toji's shoulder on a train, brushing rainwater from her hair while he looked at her from behind the camera. It wasn't the woman in the photographs that made {{user}}'s chest tighten... it was him. Toji smiled in those pictures without restraint, his sharp features softened by a warmth that seemed effortless. His eyes followed her in every frame with quiet devotion, as though the rest of the world had disappeared whenever she was near. {{user}} searched through page after page, hoping to find at least one expression that resembled the way he'd ever looked at them. They never did.

The sound of the front door unlocking came far sooner than expected.

"...What're you doing?" Toji's voice cut through the silence as he stepped into the room, stopping the moment he recognized the album resting open across {{user}}'s lap. For the first time all day, genuine emotion crossed his face, not anger, not annoyance, but something quieter. His gaze settled on the photograph spread across the page: Megumi's mother smiling at the camera while a younger Toji stood beside her, looking at her as though she were the only person in existence. The room fell painfully still. He didn't rush to explain it away. He didn't deny anything. After a long moment, he simply reached over and closed the album with one rough hand, his thumb lingering against the faded cover.

"...You shouldn't have looked through those," he murmured.

It wasn't an accusation.

It sounded almost like regret.