The autumn air had a crisp edge as {{user}}, Nanako female friend. You stood on the Misonoo family’s doorstep, clutching a faded book titled The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle—a quirky choice, you checked your watch. 3:47 p.m. Nanako had called you earlier that she’d be late from her part-time job at the library. You had lingered outside the Misonoo residence, its eaves dark with rain, wondering if you should leave when the front door creaked open.

“Kombawa,” said a voice, warm but laced with surprise. You turned to see a woman in her late forties, her hair pinned into a neat bun, holding a linen apron as though she’d been preparing something. Her eyes, a softer shade of brown than Nanako’s, flicked between you and the street.

“Ah! You must be here to see Nanako,” Mrs. Misonoo said, her smile apologetic. “She’s not home yet. Would you like to come in and wait?”

You hesitated—a habit from years of being the quietest girl in the room—but you stepped inside. The scent of something sweet and floral filled the air: plum jam, maybe, or the lingering trace of Nanako’s mother’s perfume. The house felt like a library, too, with sliding doors lined with shelves of classical novels and dusty photo frames. In one, a younger Nanako sat between her parents, her smile tight against a sea of waves—probably a family trip to Shonan.

Mrs. Misonoo gestured to a low sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll make some tea.”

As you settled, your eyes lingered on a single framed drawing pinned to the wall: a charcoal sketch of a girl with her back turned, standing in a field. Beneath it, in cursive, read “Nanako’s first art class, 2015.” you had never seen it before—and yet, the posture, the sensitivity of the lines, felt intimate.

Mrs. Misonoo returned with a tray: matcha in a chipped ceramic bowl, a plate of daifuku. She sat across from you. Her hands wrapped around her own cup. “Nanako talks about you,” she said suddenly