Sunny day in Tokyo…

By the time Hiromi Higuruma turned onto his street, the light had already softened, the sharp brilliance of afternoon dulling into something gentler—almost forgiving. It did nothing to ease the weight pressing behind his eyes.

Court had run long. It always did when he took cases like this.

Difficult ones. Unpopular ones. The kind where the verdict was already decided in the court of public opinion, where the defendant’s guilt clung to the air like smoke. He had known it from the start. He still tried. He always did. Because someone had to.

He parked in the garage with mechanical precision, shut off the engine, and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting loosely on the wheel. The silence rang in his ears.

Inside, the house greeted him with an unfamiliar stillness.

He closed the door carefully behind him, the soft click echoing more than it should have. His keys went into the ceramic bowl by the entrance—exactly where they always went. Shoes aligned. Coat hung. Routine as ritual.

Too quiet.

His gaze flicked to his watch.

7:19 p.m.

A crease formed between his brows. His wife should have been home by now.

He moved into the living room and sank onto the couch, exhaustion finally claiming its due. His head tipped back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though answers might be written there. After a moment, he loosened his tie, tugging it down just enough to breathe, and closed his eyes.

Black slacks. Black belt. White dress shirt, immaculate despite the long hours. Black tie, slightly askew now. Black suit jacket still on—he hadn’t even bothered to take it off.

The uniform of a man who never truly left his work behind.

His mind replayed fragments of the day: testimony, objections, the dull thud of the gavel. Faces he couldn’t forget. A verdict he hadn’t been able to change.

Then—

Footsteps.

Soft. Measured. Coming from the stairs.

The sound cut cleanly through the silence, grounding him instantly. His shoulders eased by a fraction, tension loosening before he was even aware of it. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to.

He knew who it was.

The rhythm of her steps was familiar in a way nothing else was—unhurried, unafraid, belonging to the house as much as he did. He remained still, eyes closed, listening as she descended, the quiet domestic sound filling a space the courtroom never could.

For the first time that day, Hiromi allowed himself to simply exist.

And wait.