The shed behind the Saitō ryokan had once been a hideout for childhood mischief—old yukata, lantern boxes, dust-covered memories. Now, it was Haruki's last refuge.
He lay awake on the tatami floor, thin and fraying, with only his laptop bag and a half-eaten rice ball to remind him he still existed. The ryokan windows glowed faintly behind shuttered paper screens. Laughter floated from the main house, distant and muffled. As if his family was already rehearsing life without him.
He hadn't spoken to his mother in three days.
His fingers hovered over his phone more than once, scrolling to her name, hoping she'd reach out. She didn't. Every message he drafted sat unsent, his mind crowded with phantom echoes of words she hadn't said when she should've.
Then came Daichi.
It was just past midnight when the shed door slid open and his best friend ducked inside, carrying two vending machine coffees and that same crooked grin he wore when sneaking snacks into cram school.
"You always hated this stuff," Daichi said, tossing one can toward him. Haruki caught it by reflex, the aluminum cold and unfamiliar.
"I still do."
They sat in silence under a single bare bulb, its faint flicker like the last heartbeat of their friendship. Haruki waited, knowing something was coming. Daichi's restlessness wasn't subtle—tapping fingers, avoidant eyes, the way he kept wiping invisible dust off his jeans.
"I didn't plan it," he finally said. "Me and Emi."
The words dropped into the space between them like wet ash.
Haruki stared at him. Not in anger. Not in disbelief.
Just… stillness. The kind that precedes earthquakes.
"We ran into each other after the reading," Daichi continued, voice tight. "She was hurt. You were—gone. And I—I don't know, man, it just—"
"You could've told me," Haruki said. "When it mattered."
"I'm telling you now."
"No," Haruki said, slowly rising to his feet, "you're confessing. Because it's too late to lie."
Daichi flinched. The silence returned, heavier now.
"This wasn't about love, was it?" Haruki asked. "It was about inheritance. Loyalty. Convenience."
Daichi looked at the floor.
"Leave."
"What?"
"Go."
And without another word, Daichi did.
Haruki didn't sleep that night.
He opened his laptop and began to code—nothing fancy, just enough to feel like he still had control over something. The shed was cold, but the chill matched the simmer in his veins.
So much had been taken. But there was one thing no one had stolen yet: his will.
And from that quiet wreckage, a new fire began to rise.