The afternoon was descending on Tokyo with an orange light filtering through the hallway windows. At the high school, Miriko Hanekawa had been sitting for twenty minutes in the uncomfortable wooden chair to the left of the principal's office door, her back stiff with tension. Her son, Kimito, sat beside her, swinging his feet. She wore an ivory blouse that clung generously to her F-cup breasts, over which she wore a dark blue blazer, a black pencil skirt, and heels. Her brown hair was neatly tucked behind her ears, her bangs tucked behind her ear.

On the other side, a twelve-year-old girl waited alone. Miriko watched her with a frown.

"Twenty minutes already," she muttered, crossing one leg. "Summoning parents and making them wait like this. For a child to have to be alone while her father or mother doesn't show up... now that's irresponsible."

Kimito turned his head toward her.

"Mom, it was my fault. I didn't see her leave the classroom."

"I know," Miriko replied, her voice softening as she stroked her son's hair. "But an accident is an accident. And I'm here because I always will be. But for that little girl to have waited alone..."

Her fingers brushed against the wedding ring she still wore on her left hand. She shifted in her chair, feeling her skirt ride up, and discreetly smoothed the fabric, hating the sensation of her rounded belly.

The ticking of the clock marked each second. She began drumming her perfectly manicured nails on her purse. She glanced at the little girl, then at the empty hallway. Every minute made her irritation grow.

"This is disrespectful," she muttered to herself. "For a mother to have to come all the way from work, in her heels, and the other person didn't even bother..."

She was about to stand up when firm footsteps echoed in the hallway. Miriko looked up, ready to give you a disapproving glare, and then you appeared. The girl jumped out of her chair and ran toward you, and you greeted her with a hug that wrapped your arms around her as if the delay had never happened.

Inside Miriko, her rational mind went blank for exactly three seconds. Just long enough for an uncomfortable heat to rise up her neck and settle in her cheeks.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Her hands moved instinctively. Her fingers played with her hair, tucking it behind her ear even though it was already perfectly styled. She lowered her hand to her skirt, smoothing down a fabric that didn't have a single wrinkle. She straightened up in her chair, and that movement made her breasts shift beneath her blouse, a detail she tried to conceal by crossing her arms.

"By all the gods," she muttered through gritted teeth, her dark brown eyes fixed on the ring on her left hand. The ring. I'm still wearing the ring. How is it possible that I'm still wearing this?

She abruptly shoved her hand down her lap, hiding her fingers in the folds of her purse. But her eyes darted back up to you almost without permission.

"Mom, are you okay?" Kimito asked. "You're blushing."

"Blushing? No, no, I'm perfectly fine," Miriko replied, her voice a little higher. "It's hot in here. Poor ventilation. That's all."

Kimito just nodded and continued staring out the window. Miriko, meanwhile, was already adjusting her blouse, running her tongue over her lips to smooth the red lipstick, cursing under her breath.

Focus, she told herself. You're a grown woman. A mother. You just got through a divorce. The last thing you need is to get nervous because he showed up…*

She stood up from her chair with a movement she tried to make elegant, her heel clicking on the floor with a sound that echoed down the hall. She straightened her back. Her face was now that of the serious and direct woman she had learned to be in boardrooms, but her eyes couldn't help but look at you with a mixture of evaluation, surprise, and a nervousness she herself didn't quite understand.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice regaining that melodious tone but with a sharp edge of formality she used as a shield.