POV: Haruka
Her room walls were too white. Too quiet.
Not the quiet of a rural inn redolent with the scent of fresh bread and cicadas in the distance, but the sterile quiet of a space too clean, too manicured. The sort of quiet that insisted on something from her—obedience, perfection, conformity.
Haruka sat in the window, watching the city hum beneath her. Somewhere, someone was free. She wasn't.
She hadn't touched her phone in days.
Her father had handed it over to her mother when she returned home on the night, telling her, "She won't need this when she's getting settled."
Getting settled.
Like she was a machine rebooting.
Like the last few weeks of comfort and healing were a glitch.
Now her days were occupied with obedient hours: morning study, lessons in the afternoon, quiet dinner, and evenings of silent reading under the gaze of a future she had not chosen.
But today the house was empty.
Her father had gone to a university board meeting. Her mother had slipped out for a luncheon. Even the housekeeper had gone early.
The silence was no longer the same. Hollow. Lighter.
A streak of rebellion stirred in her chest.
She padded barefoot down the hall, step quiet on the waxed wood, to her father's office.
The door was ajar.
Of course it was—he didn't expect her to come in.
The bookshelves were full, neatly stacked, mostly philosophy, ethics, and academic journals. His desk, tidy. His laptop, available.
She hesitated.
Then sat.
Her fingers trembled a bit as she pushed open the top. It was password protected. She typed in his go-to one—her birthday. It still worked.
The screen sprang into existence.
She accessed the browser and quickly headed to a dark corner of the internet: her former poetry website, hidden under an alias that no one had access to. Not even Kaito.
He might recognize her.
It had been years since she last posted. Years ago when she wrote in trembling truth and the pitiful wish that someone somewhere would hear her.
She stared at the blank text box.
For a moment, she couldn't write. The words were frozen. Her head too full. Her heart too hurt.
Then, slowly, she typed:
A bird with wings too still
Once drank from a lake of sky
She flew too high, too quick
Now the air is din
And the lake is lost
But she recalls still
The boy who provided her seed and quiet
The heat of a windowsill
And a name she was not ashamed to say
She hesitated, then typed out a final line.
If you see this—I'm still listening.
It was a feeble, delicate gesture.
She left off no name. No mention of town. But she hoped the signs would be sufficient.
She posted.
The screen cleared. The poem still lingered, quiet and soft in the cyber shadows.
Her chest ached with something that felt like fear. Or yearning.
She quickly cleared the browser cache, logged off, and shut down the laptop.
But when she turned back, she saw her mother standing at the door.
Not angry. Not yelling.
Just… disappointed.
Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but nothing.
Only silence.
And that was worse.
Haruka hung her head, her throat filling up with embarrassment. "I just wanted to—"
"Study," her mother answered quietly.
"I know."
Her mother looked at her for an instant longer. Then she went away.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And Haruka was left alone again.
That night she was in bed with the bedclothes tucked up to her chin, wide eyes staring at the ceiling.
She couldn't shake the sound of the click of the door.
That still censure.
She hadn't done anything wrong. Not exactly. Just a poem. Just a hope.
But the guilt clung to her skin like smoke.
And yet, down deep, something else remained.
Something warmer. Glowing.
The chance that maybe—possibly—someone had read her words.
And comprehended.