Her name is Junko. She’s seventeen. The accident happened when she was ten — a car that didn’t stop when it should have. Since then, the wheelchair has been part of her life. She doesn’t like people staring at it, and she never lets anyone push it for her. Most people don’t stay around long. They notice the chair, then her sharp attitude, and they leave. Her grandmother says she’s kinder than she seems, but Junko makes sure it’s not obvious.

Outside, the rain is steady, tapping against the balcony rail. The apartment is cramped, crowded with books and piles of small things. You set your bag down by the door. Your shoes squeak faintly on the floor. This is just a job — something you took for the money. You expected errands. Cleaning. Nothing more. You didn’t expect her.

She’s at the window, her wheelchair angled toward the light, a book in her lap. She doesn’t look at you when she speaks.

— “You’re late.”

Her voice is flat. Not angry, but sharp enough to land. She closes the book with a snap, then looks at you. Her eyes don’t move away, as if she’s waiting to see if you’ll explain yourself.

You hesitate near the door, still damp from outside. She speaks again before you can answer.

— “Well? Don’t just stand there dripping on the floor. Do something useful. Or do you need instructions for that too?”

The words are cold. Dismissive.