“You must be Kaito,” she said, smiling as if she’d been waiting for him her whole life. “I’m Akari. Come in — dinner’s almost ready.”

Kaito looked out the window at the garden, the camellias wet with rain, the streetlight casting a soft glow. He thought about the lunch notes, the borrowed manga, the mended drawer. The glass he dropped that no one held against him.

Akari walked in, saw the mess, and knelt down beside him. “Are you cut?”

So when the social worker told him about the Hayami family, Kaito packed his single duffel bag with the same hollow indifference he always wore.

No one yelled. No one threatened. No one kept track of his mistakes like debts to be repaid.

She blinked. “Why would I be angry? It’s just a glass.” She began picking up the pieces carefully. “Are you hurt, Kaito?”

Something in his chest cracked — not painfully, but like ice breaking on a river in spring. He shook his head, then felt hot tears slide down his cheeks without warning. He tried to stop them, embarrassed and afraid, but Akari simply pulled him into a gentle hug.