Three months after Lea's birth, they moved to the countryside.
The government arranged everything, the relocation papers, a moving van, and a modest stipend to settle in. Roset felt nervous again, but it was the gentle kind of nervous, like the way you feel stepping into a new book.
The train ride was long but quiet, the scenery changing from the gridded grey of the city to a palette of green, brown, and mist-soft hills. Lea slept most of the journey, wrapped snug against Roset's chest in a sling. Hino sat beside them, eyes watching the window like he was already memorizing the land.
The town didn't have a station, not exactly. Just a small platform with a red-roofed shelter and one vending machine.
An older couple greeted them there, Tanaka and his wife, Midori, who Hino said had lived in the area all their lives. They bowed politely, then smiled at the baby.
"She looks strong," Midori said, eyes warm. "Good lungs too, I can tell."
Roset smiled, grateful for the softness of their welcome.
Then they drove, winding through narrow roads that split through rice paddies and cedar groves, until finally...
The house.
Roset gasped softly as it came into view.
It sat just off a gravel lane, tucked between two rolling hills and backed by a wall of bamboo. A traditional Japanese minka, with dark wooden beams, tiled roof, and deep overhanging eaves. The windows were wide and low, and a narrow engawa (veranda) wrapped around the house like a ribbon of wood.
In the front, a low stone wall enclosed a garden that was already half-wild, rows of old vegetables gone to seed, a cluster of sakura trees, and tall grass swaying in the breeze. There was even a little chicken coop beside the shed, long-unused but repairable.
Roset stepped out of the car, holding Lea tight, and turned slowly in place.
Birdsong.
Fresh earth.
The faint smell of pine.
Hino walked ahead to slide open the front door, revealing polished floors, tatami mats, and paper shoji screens that glowed golden in the afternoon light.
"It's quiet," Roset said softly.
Hino looked back at her with a half-smile. "That's why I chose it."
The days that followed passed like a slow river.
Hino started working at the town hall, helping with records, land maintenance, and speaking with the elders. He came home for lunch most days, always bringing something small like fresh-picked herbs, an old story from a neighbour, a wooden rattle someone had carved for Lea.
Roset stayed home, adjusting to the rhythms of motherhood and country life. She nursed Lea in the morning light, hung laundry in the garden, and began to tidy the vegetable beds one at a time. She set up a small writing corner in a sunlit room with paper doors that overlooked the Sakura trees. Her stories she had been writing became softer, quiet pieces of hope and slow healing.
They visited Tanaka and Midori often. It was an easy walk down the lane. Lea took to them instantly, babbling happily whenever she saw Midori's flower-patterned apron. Soon she was calling them obaachan and ojiichan—grandma and grandpa.
And in the evenings, Roset and Hino would sit on the engawa, tea in hand, watching fireflies blink in the tall grass while Lea slept.
"This place," Roset whispered one night, "feels like it waited for us."
Hino looked out at the dark hills.
"Maybe it did."