The morning light came through the small, cracked window of the upstairs bedroom, but the sky remained stubbornly cloudy and gray. The storm had passed, leaving behind a heavy, damp silence that pressed down on the old wooden house like a living thing. Sunlight barely reached the floor — only faint, watery beams that cut through the dust motes and painted long, pale stripes across the tatami mats. Rainwater still dripped from the eaves outside in soft, rhythmic patters, and the air smelled of wet wood, faint cigarette smoke, and the lingering musk of sex that refused to leave the room.
Haruto opened his eyes slowly.
