Aoi’s chin lifted. “He…left long before I left. It felt like he’d run away too. I didn’t want the house to be that hollow.”
Rara smiled with a practiced lightness. “Good. I was worried I’d boiled the stew too long.”
The invitation she’d written that morning was simple and oddly brave. Rara had used Aoi’s favorite stickers on the envelope, the silly cat ones that stuck slightly crooked. The message inside read: I know you need space. Come home for one night. Mom’s making hot spring stew. I’ll be at the old inn. —Rara
“Why did you leave him?” Rara asked, naming the absent father as if the silence needed it said aloud.
Aoi’s first confession came like a small deflation: “I thought running away would be easier than talking.”
“I’ll come back,” Aoi said. “Not because you asked, but because I want to.”