The apartment wasn't big. It never had been.
But it looked smaller than Kaito had expected.
They lived on the sixth floor of an old gray block in Minamidai—bare cement balconies, rusted green railings, and a single elevator that took too long and made too much noise. The hallway smelled like oil and old tatami mats, and someone's radio was playing an old pop song two doors down.
Aiko walked ahead, keys in hand, speaking without turning around.
"Careful, the lights in the entry flicker sometimes. I told the landlord, but you know how it is."
She unlocked the door, pushed it open, then paused.
Her hand hovered over the light switch. She glanced back once at Kaito, and for a moment, something flickered across her face.
Like maybe she was hoping he'd say, "Yeah, same as always."
He didn't.
The lights buzzed to life.
They were weak, yellow-tinted things, one above the small kitchen and one in the hall.
Inside, the apartment was exactly what it should have been. Shoes lined up at the door. A rack of umbrellas. A cracked photo of the three of them taped to the side of the fridge. It was all familiar in shape and layout.
But not to him.
He stood just past the doorway, scanning slowly. His fingers twitched near the wall, as if waiting for a muscle memory that never came.
"Come in," Aiko said softly. "You're home."
He stepped in.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The kitchen table had three chairs. One was slightly off-color—replaced years ago after the original broke. Aiko pulled off her shoes and dropped her bag onto the counter before peeking into the rice cooker.
"Still good," she mumbled.
Kaito stood in the hallway. He didn't sit. Didn't speak.
The quiet wasn't tense. Just… out of sync.
"You can wash up if you want," she said. "Bathroom's at the end. There's towels on the rack."
He nodded. "Okay."
Aiko glanced at him again, this time for a little longer. "You remember how showers work, right?"
A pause. Then, dryly: "I think so."
That earned him a half-smile. She disappeared into the fridge.
The bathroom was narrow, clean enough, lined with soft gray tiles. The mirror was small and slightly fogged at the corners.
He stood under the light for a long moment before reaching for the faucet.
His hand stopped midway.
There was a hairbrush by the sink. Black hairs caught in the bristles. A bottle of mouthwash. A cracked ceramic cup with two toothbrushes—blue and yellow.
He touched the blue one.
It felt… off. Too soft. Too unused.
He turned the water on, splashed his face, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
The boy staring back didn't feel real.
Wet hair. Hollow eyes. Skin too pale. There was a faint shimmer in the reflection—runes glowing under the skin of his left wrist, barely noticeable unless he moved just right.
He lowered his hand quickly.
Meanwhile, Aiko filled two bowls of reheated rice and set them on the table. She didn't sit.
She paced.
Opened the fridge, stared inside, closed it.
Adjusted the chopsticks.
Finally, when the bathroom door creaked open and Kaito stepped back out, she straightened.
"Tada," she said with a small gesture to the table. "Not a feast, but Mom'll probably bring groceries later."
He sat down slowly.
Steam rose between them.
Aiko stirred her rice, not looking at him. "She wanted to come today. But… I told her to wait."
Kaito's head tilted slightly. "Why?"
Aiko didn't answer right away. She picked at her rice, then set the chopsticks down.
"She cried," she said. "I've never seen her cry like that."
Kaito stared into his bowl.
"She didn't want you to see her like that. Said you'd be scared."
He didn't say whether that was true.
The door opened a little before 7:00 PM.
A quiet knock first—more habit than necessity. Then a soft creak of hinges and the sound of shoes being carefully slipped off.
Kaito turned toward the hallway just as a short, tired woman stepped into view.
She was dressed in hospital scrubs, her hair pinned up loosely. Her hands trembled slightly around the plastic bag she carried.
Her eyes met his.
For a moment, no one said anything.
"Kaito," she whispered.
He stood.
She stepped forward.
He didn't move away, but he didn't reach for her either.
She wrapped him in a hug anyway—tight, desperate. One hand behind his head, the other across his back. His arms hovered awkwardly before settling lightly around her waist.
"You're okay," she whispered into his hair. "You're okay now."
He didn't answer.
She pulled back after a moment, brushing her hands across his cheeks as if confirming he was real.
"You lost weight," she said.
"Sorry," he said.
She gave a small, wet laugh. "Idiot."
That night, Kaito stood in the doorway of what was supposed to be his room.
It was clean, a little too clean. Bed made. Bookshelves neat. A small desk in the corner under a dusty window. Posters on the wall—most of them faded, one curling at the edge.
He walked in slowly.
His hand brushed the surface of the desk. A light film of dust clung to his fingers.
The books were unfamiliar. So were the photos in the small frames on the shelf—pictures of him and Aiko, school trips, blurry fireworks.
He stared at one: a picture of him smiling with cake on his nose. Aiko was beside him, holding bunny ears above his head.
He didn't remember that day.
Didn't remember any of it.
Outside the room, Aiko was on the phone with someone—probably a friend, maybe their aunt. Her voice was low, but not hushed. Just tired.
"No, he's quiet," she was saying. "He… listens a lot. Doesn't ask questions. Just watches."
Pause.
"Yeah, I know. But it's like he's scared to get it wrong."
In the dark, Kaito lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
The sheets smelled like fabric softener.
His hand rested on his chest, fingers twitching occasionally.
From under his skin, the runes pulsed once. Then again.
He closed his eyes.
Outside the window, in the alley behind their building, something moved.
Something small. Watching.
Not dangerous. Not yet.
But curious.