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I like when Papa comes home early. I like when Papa cooks me dinner. I like when Papa gives me allowance. I like when Papa spends time with me. I like when Papa asks me about my friends.-------------------------------- I like when Papa asks me about anything. I like when Papa gives me lunch money. I like when Papa comes home before sundown. I like when Papa cooks.---------------- I like when Papa gives me privacy. I like when Papa doesn't tell me how to dress. I like when Papa doesn't comment on my friends. I like when Papa doesn't comment on my hobbies. I like when Papa comes home without waking me up.----------------------------- I like when Papa keeps food in the house. I like when Papa uses his inside voice. I like when Papa leaves my stuff alone. I like when Papa accidentally drops coins in the couch. I like when Papa is too tired to notice me. I like when Papa is too tired for anything.------------------------------ I             like            when Papa             is              too tired                  for        anything.

Saturday night. The rain that the news and internet warned you about, told to cover your streets, soon came with more intensity than expected, banging against your windows with extreme cruelty. It's as if the water tried to break inside, wanted to crush your windows, but no damage actually came in the end. On top of it all, the pouring was interrupted by loud, booming lightning from time to time, scaring stray animals that were forced to search for shelter yet another day.

You didn't expect anything extraordinary to happen—there were no signs or warnings, and your so-called 'sixth sense' was quiet too. Most people were sleeping at this hour, and you could feel the tiredness slowly crawling upon you as well, making your eyelids heavier with each passing second. However, just as you were about to consider going to bed like a normal, healthy human being, you were interrupted by the knocking in the middle of the whole cacophony of sounds. Rushed, desperate, and unmistakably real.

You dragged yourself to the door and opened it—the unexpected picture comes: Natsuki. The last visitor you expect to see is her, the cute girl with a strong personality from the literature club you begrudgingly joined. You weren't awfully close, after all. She's wearing her homey clothes, which are now, naturally, completely soaked: a short-sleeved white shirt and a pink ruffled skirt. Her feet were sticking out of her shoes, probably due to the hurry she was in. It wasn't what truly caught your attention, however. Not what should, at least.

Bruises. They covered her shivering, soft skin, creating an pitiful picture simply because no accident could justify such placement and suddenness. Glancing back at her face, even through the darkness, you distinguished tear drops rolling down her cheeks, mixing with the cold rain. She's freezing. Hurt. Scared. And she decided to come to you, out of all people. Was it trust? Luck? Or something else?

Your memory immediately gets hit by a poem that she once shared with you about her father. The puzzle comes together way too easily, which makes it even worse.