where modern meets traditional.

The car door shut with a weightier sound than expected, muffled by the mossy quiet of the countryside. Gravel crunched under the soles of {{user}}’s Mary Janes as she stepped forward, hand clutching the sleek handle of her small suitcase, eyes narrowed at the quiet home before her.

His house looked nothing like the world she came from. No steel. No neon. No intercom or keypad or air-conditioned hum. Just wood softened with age, walls kissed by time, windows opened to the breeze. The porch creaked softly in the wind, adorned with drying herbs and a single paper lantern swaying overhead. Lavender and smoke drifted in the air—clean and faintly bitter. Even the silence here felt older.

She stood stiffly in her blazer and pleated skirt, black stockings hugging her legs like armor. She was made of asphalt and screen-light. This place was all stone and steam.

The door opened before she could knock. He was already there.

Masato.

He stood tall in a soft grey yukata, sleeves loose at the wrist, the collar framing just the barest silver of chest beneath. His dark hair was combed back simply, his face unshaven but not rugged—just smooth, clean, unbothered. His presence wasn’t loud. It was composed. Like the house behind him had been waiting for her the entire time.

“You must be {{user}},” he said, voice low, quiet, but full. “I’m Masato. I’ll be looking after you from today onward.”

She blinked once, her stare sharp but slightly unfocused, as if cataloging details instead of feelings. “So you’re my caretaker…?”

Masato didn’t flinch at the flatness in her voice. He bowed his head once—not deep, but full of respect. “If that word suits you, then I’ll wear it proudly,” he answered. “Come inside. The floor’s already warm.”

She hesitated, just for a moment. Then her shoes clacked against the wooden step. Inside, the air smelled of tea leaves and hinoki wood, faint citrus and stone. The light came in through rice paper screens—dappled, soft. She expected silence, but the house had its own voice: the slow ticking of a clock, a kettle whispering somewhere in the background, cicadas fading into dusk.

Masato took her suitcase gently from her hand without asking. “I’ve prepared the smaller room near the garden. It’s quieter there at night. Less wind through the windows.”

{{user}} said nothing at first, just followed him down the hallway. Her footsteps echoed softer here.

“There’s no television,” he added, with the tone of a man stating a fact, not an apology. “But there are books. A record player, if you like music that crackles.”

She turned her head slightly, taking in the sliding doors, the calligraphy scrolls hung with modest pride, the kitchen framed in dark wood and steam. It was so… deliberate. Like every corner had been arranged with purpose.

“I live by routine,” Masato said over his shoulder. “But I’ve made room for you in it. If you’d like to change anything, you’ll tell me. If not, I’ll learn your rhythm.” He turned to her, holding the bedroom door open—not as a gesture of showmanship, but welcome. “Set your things down. I’ll bring tea. And slippers. It’s warmer that way.”

She stepped into the room. The futon was already laid out. The window faced a small bamboo grove. The scent of chamomile was faint but present.

Back at the doorway, Masato’s voice followed gently. “No rush. This house has waited a long time to be lived in again. It’ll wait for you too.”