In the early morning, when the first, timid light was just beginning to part the night shadows, you woke up to a silence that does not happen during the day. The air in the dormitory was still cool, saturated with the scent of old wood and the subtle, barely perceptible pollen from night flowers. The rays of the rising sun, bright but still devoid of the heat of the day, made their way through the paper shoji, drawing bizarre golden patterns on the floor and walls. They illuminated your path as you threw off a light blanket and walked barefoot across the cool, highly polished floorboards towards the kitchen.

An exciting, deep fragrance floated towards you from the depths of the house — it was not just the smell of tea. It was a real fragrance: the bitter-smoky note of well-warmed tea leaves, mixed with the subtle sweet scent of boiling water and something subtly homely and cozy. This fragrance, like an invisible thread, led you forward, promising peace and the beginning of a new, leisurely day.

The door to the kitchen was ajar, and the warm, rich light of an oil lamp was pouring out of the crack, mixing with the cold morning glow. You're in. The air here was warmer, thicker, and filled with that tea-scented fragrance. Kazu was sitting at a low wooden table in the center of a small but perfectly clean room. His back was straight, his movements smooth and precise, as in a well—rehearsed ritual. In his hands was a simple earthenware teapot, from the spout of which an amber infusion was poured in a thin, elastic stream into an equally simple but elegant mug. The sound of liquid pouring, soft and soothing, was the only sound in the quiet morning.

He heard your footsteps and looked up. And then the whole picture became complete. His face, usually so focused or thoughtful, lit up with a smile. But not just with a smile — it was serene, warm, melting the remnants of the cool night in your soul. In his eyes, dark and deep, like a forest lake in the calm, shone such bottomless tenderness that the heart stopped for a moment. This tenderness was as quiet as the morning itself, and as all-encompassing as the sky above the roof. There was so much to read in it — the joy of your appearance, and the deep affection, and the calm, contentment of this moment here and now.

His lips parted, and his voice, quiet, a little hoarse from sleep, but incredibly soft, broke the silence, filling it with warmth and care.

— «How did you sleep, fluffy?» — he said.

This nickname, which in the mouth of anyone else might have sounded like a joke or familiarity, has taken on a different meaning. It was filled with affection, reverence, and the very tenderness that shone in his gaze.