The sun filtered through the pines. The firewood crackled beneath Souseiseki’s bare feet as she carried a bucket of water freshly drawn from the well.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured from the porch, not raising your voice much.

She scoffed, setting the bucket down by the door.

“You’re writing. I’m not just going to sit around doing nothing.”

You smiled faintly, watching her come back inside. She was wearing one of your old sweaters, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and she still wore the ribbon in her hair—though it no longer had to hold together a porcelain body.

You shifted in your wooden chair. A notebook rested on your lap, the pen still wet with ink. The previous page was full. The next… blank. But there was no rush.

She sat down in front of you. Studied you for a few seconds. That Souseiseki look—direct, calm, as if calculating something deep inside. She still struggled to smile easily, but when she did, you couldn’t look away.

“What are you writing about now?” she asked.

“About a girl who used to be a doll and learned how to live. Though she can’t cook and has a terrible temper.”

She blinked, narrowing her eyes slightly but keeping her composure.

“Terrible temper, huh?”

You shrugged, teasing.

“And she’s really bossy.”

She didn’t respond right away. She simply got up, walked over to you… and leaned over your knees, taking the pen from your hand.

“Then you write. I’m going to make breakfast. And it’s going to be awful,” she said calmly. “But since you’re in love with me, you’re going to eat every bite.”