The alarm clock announced 6:30 AM. Sayai opened her eyes. The room was dim. A small stain on the ceiling came into view. The same sight, every morning. Thirty-four years old. Single mother. This reality hadn't changed in five years. She pushed herself up from the futon, and a dull ache shot through her lower back. Probably from yesterday's bent-over work at the daycare. Sayai exhaled quietly and left the bedroom. Kasumigaoka Housing Complex, Building C, Unit 305. A cramped 2DK apartment. Through the window, the pale violet sky of early dawn was visible. Beyond it, the Nishina River's floodplain lay hazy in the distance. The landscape wrapped in morning mist held a certain melancholy. At the sink, Sayai looked at her own face. Reflected in the mirror was a woman with short black hair, natural straight strands falling to her shoulders. Her deep brown eyes carried the weight of exhaustion. Thin purple shadows hung beneath them. (Every day, I stand in front of my child looking like this.) Sayai gave a small, involuntary smile. She washed her face with cold water. The chill helped pull her toward wakefulness. She dried her face with a towel and applied minimal makeup. BB cream. Eyebrows. Lipstick. Nothing more. No flash. Just the appearance of cleanliness. Next, she pulled on a navy cardigan. Beneath it, a plain white shirt—the kind you'd see anywhere. Black slacks to match. A practical outfit suited for work at the daycare. In the kitchen, she checked the refrigerator. Bread. Ham. Cheese. Two eggs for a fried egg. This morning, too, she could give Rihito a balanced breakfast. She oiled the frying pan and cracked an egg. The white and yolk sizzled as they hit the heat. Listening to that sound, Sayai thought: (Today will be the same as always.) Make breakfast. Wake Rihito. Send him to school. Head to the daycare. Care for the children. Come home. Check homework. Make dinner. Put him to bed. Sleep. That cycle had continued for five years. Ever since the divorce. The egg finished cooking. She sandwiched ham and cheese between bread slices. Placed the fried egg on top. A simple, nutritious sandwich. Rihito's favorite breakfast. She went to the bedroom and gently tapped her seven-year-old son's shoulder. "Rihito. It's morning." "...Mm..." A small voice came back. Rihito's sleepy face remained buried in the futon. "It's already 6:45. You'll be late for school." At those words, Rihito's eyes fluttered open and he sat up. His black hair stood on end from sleep. Watching him, a small warmth spread through Sayai's chest. As Rihito ate breakfast, Sayai stood in the corner of the room. On her left wrist was a small, faint bruise—barely visible if you weren't looking closely. It was a scar from long ago. "Mama, are you going to the daycare today?" "That's right. Morning at the daycare, afternoon at the daycare too." "Have a good day, Mama." Rihito said it brightly, chewing his sandwich. His smile was pure. Without doubt. Still too young to notice his mother's exhaustion. Sayai gently stroked her son's head. Children's hair was always soft in the morning. And that warmth—it soothed her weary heart, just a little. "Thank you. I'll do my best." After seeing Rihito off to school, Sayai returned to the kitchen. It was 7:10 AM. She was scheduled to arrive at the daycare by 7:45. Eight minutes' walk from Yanagi Station. Down a side street off Shiina Avenue sat Komorebi Daycare. Sayai had cycled this route countless times. Every day, the same road. Every day, the same colleagues. Every day, the same work. (Is this really okay?) The question surfaced unbidden. Sunlight began filtering through the window. The Nishina River's floodplain shifted from pale violet to soft pink. Watching that transformation, a small doubt took root in Sayai's heart. Was her life really meant to be like this? She'd justified five years with a single phrase: to protect Rihito. Five years of raising her child alone, without relying on anyone. Financially, it was a struggle. But Rihito was growing up healthy. She'd convinced herself that was enough. But was it, really? "..." Without thinking, Sayai touched the bruise on her left wrist. Her fingers moved slowly, quietly. (Don't look back. Face forward for this child's sake.) She'd sworn that to herself. Words she'd repeated countless times. Every night before sleep. But this morning, those words carried a different sensation. (Could I open my heart to someone again?) The question rose from depths of her own being—surprising even Sayai herself. --- When Sayai arrived at the daycare, the large zelkova tree in the garden swayed gently with new green leaves. The location—eight minutes' walk from Yanagi Station—sat between commercial and residential districts. Down a side street from the old-fashioned Shiina Avenue, Komorebi Daycare stood quietly. A wooden two-story building. Not new, but well-maintained. Director Horikawa Setsuko was already preparing for morning assembly. The sixty-two-year-old Horikawa almost always arrived before Sayai. "Good morning, Sayai." "Good morning." Sayai bowed to her supervisor. A relationship of hierarchy and difference in salary and treatment. Yet Horikawa always greeted her with a smile. 8:30 AM. The children began arriving. Held by their parents' hands, they passed through the gate one after another. Sayai's work began. Morning preparations for the children. Helping them remove their shoes and change into indoor slippers. Watching them put their bags in lockers. Checking belongings. Then morning assembly. Then breakfast preparation. 1,100 yen per hour. 8:30 AM to 2:30 PM, six hours a day. Five days a week. Her monthly take-home was roughly 140,000 yen. With that salary, she bought Rihito's school supplies, paid his lunch fees, and rented the 38,000-yen room in Kasumigaoka Housing Complex. Child support allowance came to about 40,000 yen. When combined with other living expenses, almost nothing remained at month's end. But Sayai didn't complain. Rather, she was grateful for this job. Because Horikawa had hired her, she could raise Rihito. After breakfast came activity time. Sayai helped the children with crafts. How to use scissors. How to apply glue. Small hands moved with determination. Watching them, Sayai's heart was filled, just slightly. Midday brought meal assistance for the children. Help with changing clothes. Bathroom care. Cleaning. All of it physical labor. The full-time childcare workers did more complex tasks. Record-keeping. Parent communication. Their salaries were more than double hers. But Sayai didn't resent the difference. She simply did her work in silence. Lunch break. Sayai sat in the shade of the zelkova tree in the garden. This was her time alone. She opened her bento. White rice. Small side dishes. The same contents, every day. Prepared this morning with nutritional balance in mind. Sitting at the tree's roots, Sayai ate her lunch. (Is my life really meant to be like this?) The question from this morning hadn't faded. It lingered. (To protect Rihito. That's what matters most.) She repeated it to herself. Those words sustained her every day. When her relationship with him ended. When she decided to raise her child alone. Those words had been her only support. But somewhere along the way, they'd become a place to hide. (Five years already.) Five years since the divorce. The child had grown. From first grade to third grade. His body had gotten bigger. He'd adjusted to school. What had Sayai done in those five years? She'd raised Rihito. That was true. But beyond that—had she felt anything? Experienced anything? (Nothing.) A small regret seeped into Sayai's heart. Lunch break ended, and Sayai returned to caring for the children. --- 6:00 PM. Sayai cycled toward Kasumigaoka Housing Complex. Rihito was waiting at after-school care. She had to pick him up. Spring wind touched her cheek. The Nishina River's floodplain came into view. The cherry blossoms along the floodplain had already fallen. White petals lay scattered on the ground. Watching that scene pass by, Sayai pedaled on. After picking up Rihito from after-school care, they headed straight home. "I'm home." "Welcome back. Tired?" "A little." Rihito removed his backpack and pulled out his homework sheet. In that moment, a small anxiety ran through Sayai's heart. Rihito sat at his desk. He spread out the homework sheet. A math problem. Minutes passed. "Mama... I don't get this." His voice was small. Confused. And slightly panicked. Sayai sat beside him. "What part don't you understand?" "...All of it." Sayai took a deep breath. Then she began explaining gently. "This problem, you think about it like this. First, there are five apples, right..." But Rihito didn't seem to understand. Even as he listened, his eyes wandered. Sayai tried explaining differently. She drew pictures. She helped him count on his fingers. But Rihito still didn't grasp it. "I don't get it!" His voice grew louder. Frustration was beginning to take hold of the child's mind. Sayai lost her words for a moment. (Maybe my teaching is bad.) That thought sank into her heart. "Okay. Let's stop here for today." "...Okay." Rihito's shoulders sagged. Sayai gently stroked his head. But her hand trembled slightly. As she prepared dinner, Sayai was thinking. (I want to give him a better educational environment.) That wish and the gap between it and reality. A life of economic hardship. She wanted Rihito to have better education. But she had no means to provide it. The sound of vegetables sizzling in the frying pan. Otherwise, the kitchen was silent. Rihito stared at the rest of his homework at his desk. But his pen wasn't moving. "Dinner's ready." The two sat at the table. They ate in silence. Few words. The cheerful "Mama, I'm home" from earlier had vanished. Rihito's mood was dampened by his homework failure. And Sayai felt responsible for it. "Tomorrow, let's do it together. You're just tired today." "...Okay." 9:00 PM. After putting Rihito to bed, Sayai stood by the window. Dark night. The Nishina River's floodplain was completely dark. From a distance, the sound of the river's flow could be heard. Sayai stepped onto the balcony. Spring night wind caressed her cheek. Memories from five years ago surfaced. The divorce. Her last words with her ex-husband. The life alone that followed. It all felt like a distant past. Yet at the same time, she realized that wound hadn't healed. (Don't look back.) She told herself that. (Face forward for this child's sake.) But she was beginning to notice another emotion hiding beneath those words. (Could I open my heart to someone again?) That question was dangerous. It was hope, and at the same time, anxiety. She was a single mother. Financially and emotionally, she had no margin. In such circumstances, did she have the right to open her heart to someone? And would that person be good for Rihito too? Anxiety occupied Sayai's heart. The spring night wind felt cold. Back inside, Sayai got into bed. She gazed at Rihito's sleeping face. A child in deep sleep was innocent. No anxiety. No worries. "It's okay. We're going to be okay." She whispered the words softly. Whether those words were a prayer to herself or a promise to Rihito, even Sayai didn't know. In the quiet night of Yanagi City. In a small room in Kasumigaoka Housing Complex. There, a single mother lay down with tomorrow's anxiety and anticipation in her chest. Sensing that new days were about to begin. Until sunlight filtered through the window again—in just a few hours—a small bud of change was quietly growing in Sayai's heart.