POV: Haruka
The silence of the house felt overwhelming at night.
Haruka leaned against her bed, shoes already tied up, coat zipped tight around her. The clock on the wall ticked beyond midnight, each second like a countdown. She clutched the tiny note in her hand, folded, slightly moist from sweat.
On it: Kaito's old cell phone number. The one she had memorized before she even knew she was supposed to know it.
She didn't have a phone anymore. All of her messages were intercepted. All the calls were being recorded. Her father's dictatorship was more sinister now, not screaming, no threats—only systems. Discreet expectations, alarms dressed up with sweetness.
But she remembered something.
On the opposite side of the street, past the shuttered bakery that was there for decades and the row of vending machines, there was still a telephone booth. A small glass booth with a cracked light sitting on top of it and a label that read "Emergency Use Only"—abandoned by time.
She snuck out of her room, avoiding the creaky floorboard, the perpetually blinking hallway camera. Her mom's room was ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling out. Haruka paused.
And in that pause, she saw her mother sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her hands.
Eyes met for a moment. No words.
Just the tiniest nod.
Haruka moved on.
The coldness of the air hit her cheeks as soon as she was out. She walked quickly, pockets in her hands, feet making no sound on the sidewalk. The city wasn't the same at this time—less populated, less raucous, but not asleep. A stray cat darted across the street. A cab passed by without halting.
She reached the booth.
It sat like a glass coffin, scarred and left behind. But inside, the phone worked. She had already tested it with a silent call to the weather report.
Now, she slipped in the coins with trembling fingers.
One ring.
Two.
Three—
"Hello?"
His voice. Raw. Taken aback. Awake.
Haruka's air caught. Her legs nearly failed her.
"Kaito…"
Silence on the other end. Then: "Haruka?"
She laid her forehead on the glass, already tears pouring into her eyes. "It's me," she whispered. "I don't have a lot of time."
"I I waited," Kaito's voice shook with something unbrutal. "I didn't know if you were okay? Are you safe?"
Haruka checked back, the road still empty. "I'm okay. Temporarily. I looked up your number. I remembered."
"I'm glad," he panted. "You have no idea how—God, Haruka, I thought I'd lost you all over again."
"I wanted to call sooner," she said, her voice trembling, "but everything is under surveillance. Even breathing too hard is suspect in this house."
"I know," he said. "I saw. I left messages. I didn't know if they ever—"
"I got one," she interrupted, low tone. "In the mailbox. I read it… and I wanted to scream. But I couldn't. I couldn't even cry right."
Kaito sat in silence for a second, and she heard some rustling—he was up now, probably fully alert.
"There's a plan," he told her. "Only if you want it. No pressure. No hurry."
She shut her eyes. "Tell me."
"There's a park," he began, "behind that red-awning café near the station. The one with the melon bread. Remember?"
She nodded, now quietly weeping tears. "The one with the rusty swing set."
"That one. I thought of it yesterday. It was our secret place… before we even knew it."
The irony was not lost on either of them. How the universe had brought them back to a forgotten corner of childhood.
"If you can do it," Kaito continued, voice as urgent as it was level, "go there. I'll wait. Every day. Same time. Sunset."
Haruka hesitated. Her fingers wrapped around the rim of the phone.
"What if I don't reach you?"
"Then I'll wait again the next day. And the next. As long as it takes."
A sound behind her made her jump—just a rolling trash can, but her heart raced.
"I have to go," she breathed. "Before someone catches sight."
Kaito's voice became a whisper, as if he stood beside her. "Be careful, Haruka. You don't have to do this alone."
She had so much more. To tell him everything—how alone she'd been, how empty the house was despite its chandeliers and polished walls. How even her mother's silence hurt more than any scream.
But the coins were running low, and her time was thinner than ever.
"Kaito?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For not losing faith in me."
The line clicked.
Silence returned, more heavily now.
Haruka exited the booth. The wind turned cold. The lights in the distance sparkled like stars carved into concrete.
She trudged home, the image of the little park burned into her brain.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Perhaps someday.
Perhaps someday.