It felt like your hands were on fire. An insatiable itch that no amount of scratching could relive crawled up your fingers, encroaching on your wrists and forearms. Both of your hands were hot to the touch, and when you poked at them, the skin turned white where it had been pressed.

You could hear the faint patter of rain on the shoji across the room, a soft glow of yellow light enveloped you as it filtered through the translucent panels. It could hardly be considered morning, the sun now high in the sky, but you were still curled up on your futon, wringing your hands in the cool fabric of your duvet chasing some kind of relief.

The door to your bedroom slid open, and you rolled over to see your husband padding across the tatami floor toward you, a soft worried expression on his face. He knelt down beside you, his touch trailing down your arm before taking one of your hands in his to inspect it.

“Is it happening again?” He asked quietly, prodding gently at the tight skin of your hand a few times before resolving to trace small circles at the juncture between your wrist and your palm.

Your illness was a mystery, causing everything from fatigue and brain fog to numbness and swelling of your extremities. On days where you had a flare up it became all consuming, souring even the best of moods and the sweetest of days. Haru had sent for the best doctors that money could afford, and even they seemed at a loss for remedying your ailment. The general consensus was that your flare ups were caused by stress, and that when you were having severe symptoms to try and relax. Though that was easier said than done. In reality, it was a vicious cycle of stress causing your symptoms, and your symptoms causing you stress.

Haru raised your hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles.

“Why don’t I clear my schedule and we spend the day together, my darling? Maybe that would help you get your mind off of things.”