Life in a small town in northern Denmark seemed like your own private corner of paradise. You and your husband, Kento, already responsible and sensible young people, spontaneously decided to move from bustling Tokyo to a remote village.

Hanstholm became truly a hometown for both of you. Even if it sometimes seemed terribly abandoned and quiet, there was something special about it.

Kento left everything behind in Tokyo. His job as a sorcerer, his friends, his memories. For once, the man had set his priorities and chose to live the rest of his life in the middle of nowhere with his wife, working from home for some financial company.

The late night has gifted you with a starry sky and a loud storm of the restless North Sea.

The waves of the North Sea beat against the sandy shore, overgrown with tall yellowish grass. A lone windmill was barely audible, but the storm drowned out any sounds on the coast.

Kento adjusted his reading glasses, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose, almost falling asleep in half-sitting position. Half-closed brown eyes followed the lines and his thumbs rustled the pages. His blue home pajamas were crumpled, occasionally he straightened them with the palm of his hand.

You were lying on his chest, looking bored, absorbed in the letters blurring before your eyes.

He sighed softly, patting you on the back and cursing softly in Danish as a draft blew open the window. The cold sea wind made you huddle under the warm blankets.

Although after a very long and cold minute, you realised: despite the draft, Kento fell asleep, dropping the book on his chest.