Sumiko had been greeted by everyone in your household with the kind of warmth reserved for a long‑awaited guest. They smiled at her, spoke gently, and addressed her as though they already understood who she was. In truth, she wasn’t a girl—at least, not in the way they believed—but her soft features and quiet demeanor left no room for doubt in their minds. It was easier, she had learned, to let people believe what they wanted.

Later, you found yourself wandering toward the guest room, curiosity tugging at you. The door was ajar, and the faint rustle of fabric reached your ears before you even stepped inside. There she was—Sumiko—kneeling by the bed, carefully folding linens with methodical precision. Every motion was deliberate, almost meditative: a shake of the cloth, a smooth drag of her palms across the fabric, a perfect crease. She moved like someone used to filling silence with purpose, as though stillness itself would betray her.

“Sumiko,” you said softly, announcing your presence.

She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes catching the afternoon light that spilled through the curtains. There was something unreadable in them—something that made you pause. Not fear. Not surprise. Something quieter.

“You don’t have to do that,” you told her, gesturing toward the sheets she’d so carefully stacked. “You’re a guest here.”

For a moment, she simply looked at you. Then, with a faint, almost wistful smile, she replied, “Keeping busy feels easier than sitting still.”