Kaito's footsteps echoed off the tile sidewalk as he walked through the upscale Setagaya ward. The houses were tall, hedges freshly trimmed, and there was a kind of hush that weighed on your shoulders. Everything sparkled. Regulated.
Too perfect to be able to breathe in.
He double-checked the crumpled paper in his hand. The address was correct.
This was it.
He waited in front of the Misaki residence—a lovely two-story house with large windows, a gravel garden, and a heavy wooden gate. No nameplates. No human activity.
But he knew she was there.
Hours earlier, luck—or fate—had finally intervened.
Kaito was helping his grandmother deliver supplies to an old friend in the city when he met someone he knew—Professor Akiyama, a retired teacher who was also familiar with Haruka's father and Kaito's mother. After some polite small talk and a bit of interrogation, the professor had reluctantly given up the address.
"She doesn't go out much, that girl," the man had answered, his tone reserved. "Smart, but not very chatty. Like she's always in a place that's really, really far away."
Kaito had bowed his thanks, hiding how his heart was pounding. This was the first real lead they'd had in weeks.
And now here he was.
Standing before Haruka behind the gate.
So close.
He began to move forward and reached for the intercom.
Before he could press the button, the wooden gate had creaked open.
A man with a sharp black uniform stepped forward. Mid-50s tall, eyes bright behind rimless glasses. He looked unflattered to have seen Kaito—simply… irritated.
"May I help you?"
Kaito bowed politely. "I'm trying to find Misaki Haruka-san."
The man's brow knitted together. "She isn't having visitors."
"I'm… a friend. I ran into her outside the city. I simply wish to see her, only briefly."
"No."
The response was flat, uncompromising.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Kaito spoke quickly, his voice even but unyielding. "I just—if she's okay, would you please tell her someone came by?"
"I told you no," the man snarled. "Get out."
"I'll only be a minute. Just one—"
"She doesn't want to see you."
Kaito flinched.
The gatekeeper's words struck like a stone, but something about the way he said them didn't feel right. Too rehearsed. Too quick.
He opened his mouth again, but the man took a firm step forward, clearly preparing to close the gate.
"Go. Now."
Kaito took a step back.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
And he meant it. Not to the guard—but to Haruka, somewhere behind those walls.
He began to walk away, but as he passed by the outside wall-mounted mailbox, he slid something inside. A small folded square of paper, held with a tiny dab of tape.
It was simple.
Just a note written in his sloppy handwriting:
If you're okay, send a sign.
I won't quit.
And then he departed.
In back of the curtain in her bedroom upstairs, Haruka froze.
She had seen it all.
The gatekeeper speaking to the individual. The distant movement of an individual beyond. The manner in which he stood there, not screaming or causing a disturbance—merely waiting.
She had not caught what was uttered.
But she had known in her bones.
It was him.
Kaito.
And then he disappeared.
She rested her forehead against the cold windowpane, her breath fogging the glass. Her heart was pounding, beating harder than it had in weeks. She hadn't dared to hope he would come all the way here. She hadn't hoped.
She waited until the guard returned inside.
Then, with the hall vacated, slipped downstairs in stockings, her quiet, practiced movement such as it had been back in her girlhood—when quietness had been her one act of rebellion.
Paused on the threshold.
Then opened wide enough to gain entry to the mailbox.
Closed her fingers on the paper inside.
Stashed it in the pocket of her sweater and drifted back to the safety of her room like a ghost.
There, Haruka folded painstakingly, trembling hands, a note on her bedside.
If you're okay, send me a signal.
I'm not quitting.
Her throat tightened.
She hadn't been able to write in days. Couldn't. Each time she tried, the page mocked her hollowness. But reading just those sentences—those honest, determined sentences—something stirred.
She picked up a pen.
No poem. No metaphor.
But one lone line bloomed in her mind like a fissure of light:
I understand you.
She wrote it on the back of the same piece of paper, then folded it in half.
And despite her body trembling with fear, she decided.
At dawn the following morning, she would slip out for a mere five minutes.
To place it in the only location Kaito would be likely to find it.
The following morning, Kaito came back.
He didn't hope for anything. He just… couldn't resist.
And as he passed by the gate, his gaze fell on the narrow crevice beneath the mailbox flap.
Something white.
Something new.
He poked his hand in and pulled it out.
One line.
Her handwriting.
I hear you.
His breath caught in his throat.
She was still there.
And now he knew.
She remembered.
She cared.
She was still fighting—quietly, like she always had.
Kaito folded the note gently, as if it were wings.
And for the first time in days, he smiled.