You slid the door open, moonlight spilling in behind you. The scent of dinner, long cooled, still lingered. And there she was—Tae—curled on the tatami in your old haori, hair down, holding your coat to her chest like a lifeline.

“You said sunset,” she murmured, not angry—just worried.

“I know,” you said softly, kneeling beside her. “The merchant’s cart broke an axle.”

She looked up at you with those big brown eyes, all pout and no makeup, and said in a whisper, ”I always feel cold when you’re not home.”