Before dawn, the Shimoka mansion lay in absolute silence. Yukari kept her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Her deep green hair spread across the white sheets. The jade earring in her left ear caught faint light in the darkness. The clock had just passed four in the morning. It wasn't that she couldn't sleep — it was more that her body was refusing to sleep. It had been like this since last night. That scene from the study wouldn't leave her mind. The man's profile as he gripped the whiskey glass in both hands. That frightened color deep in his ash-blue eyes. He was a completely different man from the perfectly composed Ichijo Toma she knew during the day. (I should have just told myself it didn't matter.) On the bed, Yukari slowly closed her eyes. That way, she could pretend she hadn't seen it. But her body wouldn't cooperate. Someone was afraid of something alone at night — and Tanaka Yukari's body didn't know how to process that as "not my concern." It had always been this way, since childhood. She got up. In the hallway, winter's darkness still wrapped around the entire house. The cold floor pressed against her bare feet. As she headed toward the kitchen, even Yukari herself didn't understand for a moment why she was going there. She'd meant to get some water. But before she knew it, she was opening the refrigerator. Eggs. Leftover rice from yesterday's dinner. Frozen edamame. A small bottle of soy sauce at the edge of the shelf. — Her hands were moving. She reheated the rice in a small pot. Cracked an egg, made a thin omelet in a lightly oiled pan. Added just a touch of soy sauce to keep it subtle and not too sweet. While the edamame thawed in the microwave, Yukari watched her own hands move as if they belonged to someone else. (This isn't part of the contract.) She knew that. The contract said "secretarial duties and appropriate conduct as a fiancée in public." There was nothing about making lunch boxes. Murase handled meal preparation. That was how this household worked. There was no reason for Yukari to be standing in this kitchen. And yet her hands wouldn't stop. As she cut the omelet into pieces, Yukari suddenly remembered something from long ago. Third grade winter, maybe. Her father worked late at city hall, and her mother, a elementary school teacher, was always exhausted during the end of term. Yukari had stood alone in the kitchen and arranged whatever was left in the refrigerator. She wasn't particularly good at cooking. She just wanted to give someone something. Something warm. That was all. — It was the same now. That realization fell quietly into her chest. (I find meaning in making something for someone.) Love, or liking someone — Yukari didn't have words like that yet. In twenty-eight years, she'd never liked anyone. So she didn't have a name for what was in her chest right now. But in this dark kitchen, her body felt that continuing to move her hands was "the right thing." That much was certain. She pulled out a lunch box from the drawer. The kitchen drawers in the Shimoka mansion were meticulously organized, and there was only one lunch box, tucked away in the back. A simple two-tier box with a black lid. It showed no signs of ever being used. She filled it with rice, arranged the omelet, added the edamame. Placed a single pickled plum in the center. Closed the lid. Wrapped it in cloth. Set it on the kitchen counter and stepped back. In the dark kitchen, the lunch box sat quietly alone. (What am I doing?) A wry smile escaped her lips. But there was no regret. ―――― She placed the lunch box on the dining table just after six-thirty in the morning. Winter's thin morning light was beginning to filter through the eastern window. In the Shimoka mansion's garden, the weeping cherry tree spread its bare branches against the winter sky, its silhouette floating like a shadow beyond the glass. Yukari stood at the edge of the table, staring intently at the lunch box she'd placed. Footsteps sounded. Approaching from the hallway at a steady rhythm. The sound of leather shoes on the floor. Yukari felt her body tense unconsciously. The door opened. Ichijo Toma entered. White shirt again today, dark navy tie. His silver-white hair, almost platinum, gleamed faintly in the morning light. His ash-blue eyes — paused for just a moment when they met Yukari's. One second. Yukari felt herself speaking faster, but she got the words out first. "I know it's not part of the contract. I just woke up early and my hands started moving. You can throw it away." Even she thought it was strange how she was rushing through her words like that. But she couldn't stop. If she didn't lay out her excuses first, something felt like it would break. Toma didn't answer. His gaze fell to the lunch box on the table. Two seconds. Three seconds. That silence felt like an eternity to Yukari. Then Toma picked up the lunch box. "It's not excessive." That was all. Four characters. Words with no emotional decoration, purely factual. But — something was definitely contained in them. Yukari understood that. Toma left the dining room with the lunch box in hand, saying nothing more. Left alone in the space, Yukari couldn't move for a while. Something deep in her chest suddenly began moving faster. Not so much a pulse — more like a tremor. The words "It's not excessive" were just four characters, yet they spread slowly through her insides. Her cheeks were hot. Her gaze didn't know where to go, so she stared blankly at the wood grain of the table. (Why?) Why was her chest so unsettled? Outside the window, bare branches swayed in the winter wind. ―――― While the black car traveled from Shirokane-dai to Marunouchi, Yukari kept her eyes on the scenery outside the entire time. Two people sat side by side in the back seat. Toma quietly turned the pages of documents on his lap. Yukari rested her hands on her own lap, watching the ginkgo trees flow past. Miage-zaka Street had its fallen leaves swept into small piles along the edges of the sidewalk as always. (It's not excessive.) She repeated it in her head again. How many times now? The words had caught like a snag in the corner of her mind, staying there in the train, in the elevator. Toma's tone of voice hadn't changed. It was his usual factual delivery, revealing no emotion. But — the action of taking it in his hands was undeniable. She glanced sideways. Toma's profile. The clean line of his jaw. The end of his silver-white hair swayed slightly near his neck. A small mole on his right ring finger. The movement of his fingers turning pages was precise and economical. (I'm looking again.) She turned her gaze back outside. Her cheeks grew warm again. She was surprised at herself. Why was her chest so unsettled over just one lunch box? Yukari bit her lip softly and gazed at Tokyo's winter sky. The grayish-white expanse stretched endlessly. ―――― The thirty-sixth floor of the Ichijo Center Building changed how light entered it in the afternoon. Yukari, organizing documents at her desk in the Corporate Planning Department, received an internal call. She was asked to deliver documents to the thirty-eighth floor, the Chairman's office. Something Murase was supposed to deliver needed to go through the secretarial office for procedural reasons. She took the elevator up to the thirty-eighth floor and handed the documents to the person in charge. On the way back, she decided to use the stairs. The elevator wait had been a bit crowded — or rather, she just wanted to be alone for a while. The four characters had been sitting in her chest all afternoon. Maybe a little solitary walk would help settle her mind, she thought vaguely. When she passed the landing between the thirty-eighth and thirty-seventh floors, she saw a figure at the end of the hallway. Her feet stopped. About ten meters away, at the end of the hallway, Ichijo Toma was talking to someone. The other person was a middle-aged man. Fifties, maybe, with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes. Yukari could tell he was probably department head level. The man's hands were trembling slightly. She couldn't hear his voice, but from the movement of his lips, she could see he was desperately trying to say something. Toma was completely still. His arms hung at his sides, quietly listening to the man's words. His face bore the "Ichijo Toma face" that Yukari knew — perfectly composed, expressionless — stone-like. Eyes that revealed no emotion. But. Yukari almost made a sound and quickly covered her mouth. When the man finished speaking, Toma reached into his jacket's inner pocket. Then — he pulled out an envelope and handed it to the man. The man looked at the envelope and raised his face. He looked at Toma's face, then looked down again. His shoulders trembled slightly. He bowed. A deep, very deep bow. Toma responded with only the slightest nod. The man walked away down the hallway. When his figure disappeared around the corner, only Ichijo Toma remained in the hallway. Alone. Toma slowly returned his right hand, the one that had given the envelope, to his jacket pocket. And then — he closed his eyes. It was just that one action. Simply closing his eyes. But in that single moment, Yukari felt her entire body freeze. He was tired. Not just ordinary tiredness. It was the weight of someone who had been carrying something precious alone for a long time. Beyond the stone-like expressionless face, there was definitely human warmth. In that single moment with his eyes closed, it seeped out through his entire being. Yukari stood there unable to call out to him. She didn't know if she should. Or rather — it felt like she shouldn't. It felt like she was seeing something she wasn't meant to see. But she couldn't look away. (This person is not cold.) The words that formed in her head weren't born as language. They came from somewhere deeper. From the core of her body, from around the center of her chest. There was a sensation of something settling there, seeping in. Her throat felt full of something. When she tried to swallow, it didn't work. The back of her eyes was faintly warm. Not enough to cry, and yet her body was moving in that direction. (This person has been protecting something alone.) Yukari had no way of knowing what was in the envelope. She didn't know what burden that man was carrying. But — she wanted to know. For the first time in this moment, she thought it clearly. She wanted to know about this person. The moment that emotion took shape, something in her chest pulsed intensely. The strongest beat of the day. Toma opened his eyes. Yukari quickly pressed herself into the shadow of the corner. She didn't think he'd seen her. But heat spread through her entire body. She couldn't breathe properly. She pressed her back against the wall of the landing and looked up at the ceiling. (Just breathe properly.) Telling herself that, Yukari slowly began descending the stairs. ―――― The Shimoka mansion in the deep night was quieter than in the morning. Yukari stepped out of her room into the hallway. She hadn't meant to go to the bathroom. It was just that being in her room, the things she'd seen today kept flooding her mind, and she couldn't lie still. As she walked down the hallway, something brushed against her foot. It was a glass whiskey glass. It was placed at the edge of the hallway in front of the study door. The light inside was off. No light leaked from the gap in the door. Yukari crouched down and picked up the glass. It was cold. The chill of the glass transmitted through her fingertips. A faint whiskey scent lingered at the rim. The glass was empty, drained completely. (The same hands.) Last night, those hands had gripped this glass. Today in the hallway, those same hands had quietly handed over an envelope. Every morning, dressed perfectly in white shirts, moving through the day with no room for emotion — those same hands, wh