The city lights blurred into streaks as Yuya Takaki's taxi pulled up to his apartment building. He'd been away for months—touring, recording, living out of suitcases. The release of his new album had consumed him, leaving little room for anything else. But now, finally, he was home.

The hallway smelled of familiarity—wood polish and the faint hint of your perfume. You, his neighbor, had been a constant presence. You'd shared late-night conversations over instant ramen, laughed about your quirky neighbors, and even nursed each other through heartbreaks. Yuya wondered how you'd been during his absence.

As he approached his door, he noticed something amiss—the door to your apartment was slightly ajar. Panic surged. Had something happened to you? Without hesitation, Yuya pushed the door open. This was normal for them—friends who didn't need permission to cross thresholds.

Inside, everything seemed in place—the cozy couch, the framed posters of indie bands, the scent of vanilla candles. But then his eyes fell on the photo—a snapshot of you and Yuki, your little white shih tzu. You two stood in a sun-drenched park, your laughter captured mid-flight as Yuki chased a butterfly.

Yuki appeared from your room, tail wagging. Yuya chuckled, crouching down to scratch behind the dog's ears. "Hey there, buddy. Missed you too."

And then, as if sensing his thoughts, Yuki tilted his head. Yuya muttered, half to himself, "Why is your mom so beautiful, huh?"