Datsuzoku

[Eidolon]

[[continued from Failed Duties. Datsuzoku means a deviation from routine.]]


When she told him what she had agreed to, at first Kōta had blinked at her in surprise. But he found equilibrium quickly enough, processing quietly for several moments in which Eido sipped her tea and watched him across the table. After a moment he used his hashi to rudely point between mouthfuls. “Not what I meant by “living”, little sister.” But he grinned and shrugged after, and barraged her with his questions. Eido was circumspect with connecting the bridge between Zephyr and Kōta; at least until they could be sure that the trust was rightly placed. But otherwise she answered truthfully, and he accepted her judgement and the risk it posed, as she had been sure he would. Afterwards she asked some questions of her own, about the Syndicate and the man who had travelled from Singapore to lay claim to it here. Kōta answered readily enough with what he knew, and cautioned neutrality whilst the waves were churning up Moscow’s underworld. He gave her a look. But neither mentioned Kiyohito or his quest.

“I remember when you were a child, Hiro-chan. Small and delicate as a button, and too fearless for your own good. You followed wherever I went, whenever you could.” When he’d finished eating he moved away his bowl and leaned across the small space. Beneath the darkness of his close-cut beard a smile tweaked his lips. “But if I blinked and miraculously discovered you missing, it was always with the animals I knew to find you. Especially when there were babies.” He laughed a little and pushed himself to his feet, pausing to tousle her hair with his palm until it wisped like gossamer across her face. Eido gave him a withering look beneath it, but afterwards looked away and smiled quietly to herself at the annoying affection as she pushed the strands from her eyes.

“My name is Eidolon,” she corrected evenly, beginning to clear the table of their breakfast. “You picked it for me. You should use it.”

He only rumbled laughter. It was a well-worn argument between them, for he never used it when they were alone, and Eido never failed to insist. In her peripheral she heard him head towards the bathroom, stifling a yawn and rolling the shoulder joint of his injured arm. “I always wondered if you made your oaths because it was what you wanted, or if you were too busy setting your footsteps in mine you never even considered a different path. Just promise me you are looking where you are going now, Chihiro.”

---

Mornings were habitually spent alone. While Kōta slept, Eido roamed. Often it was work she searched for, but sometimes she only explored the city’s vast history. Many galleries and museums were free, and there was always something new to see, something new to feel. But today it was a library she visited, ensconced at a private desk with a table full of neatly stacked books. After consideration of what she might need she sent the list Zephyr had asked for, and agreed to share her birth name with a preference for meeting in person to do it. She could not say if it was the right decision, but the balance of scales in her soul saw no other recourse. For now she set aside exactly what she had agreed to make of herself, and the fear and disgust it tightened in her stomach. Instead she focused on why she had agreed to it. The books piled around were all from the maternity section, for what Eido chose to pledge of herself would not be by half-measures, and the life she owed to the woman who spared it when duty bade them both otherwise would be spent to the full. Eido knew plenty about whelping animals but little about assisting pregnancy or babies. She’d known since she was nineteen that she could have no children of her own, nor even nieces or nephews. The research made her melancholy, yet it set in her deep and determined roots too. It was the latter she focused upon.

Hours of quiet study followed. When one of the librarians passed by Eido naturally skirted her eyes from contact, but acknowledged the silent addition made to her book pile with a nod. When she later opened the offered volume, tucked discreetly into the cover was a pamphlet on a women’s refuge. For the graze on her cheek, or the startled wince when she’d reached for the shelves perhaps; neither of which Eido had considered might be observed. The concern made her uncomfortable. She was used to being invisible.

She tidied up soon after.

By now her brother would probably be awake. She could go back to the bar, wait for Zephyr to reply. But she found herself sitting on a park bench instead, collar pulled up against the changing weather, watching the lives stream obliviously around her.

In some ways it felt like waiting for the gallows.

Kōta’s words resonated, but only because there was no other path but their current purgatory. She did not know what shape her life might now take, or if she would feel safe enough to allow herself the freedoms she currently used to soothe her purposeless life. Perhaps duty would erode what little was left. It was a fair trade if some good came of it, she reasoned. Though as she watched the scenery around her, it wasn’t what she was thinking about now.

If Kōta had known anything he would have told her, and he had only shrugged when she’d asked if he believed Zixin Kao was a man of honour. Even the Yakuza are different here, Hiro, he’d warned her, and Eido had asked no more questions on the topic. It was where their lives diverged, and she did not wish to know about the criminal line her brother strode and where he drew his own moral lines. It was possible that Kiyohito and Haruto were both halfway back to Tokyo by now, and she considered whether she could just force herself to believe it. Kiyohito politely declined any further help. It was none of her business. But reason didn’t abate the pit in her stomach.

She distracted herself collecting groceries and perusing the open-air markets. As well as food, she replenished their low medical supplies, desiring to be prepared. Zephyr would probably have access to other resources, but Eido was accustomed to looking after both herself and her brother, and she enjoyed the mindless rhythm of the routine; to feel a part of the world’s flow, even if only for a moment. Amidst her wandering she was surprised to find a well-used, translated copy of Ningen Shikkaku on one of the stalls, and stared at it in her hands a long while before relenting to handing over the coins. It had been a long time since she had read it, a post-war classic back home. It would resonate differently now.

Eventually all her purchases were packed away neatly into cloth bags, both hanging over the hook of an arm. She was not overladen but felt the drag against her healing wound nonetheless when she adjusted to retrieve her phone and tap a message of her whereabouts to Kōta. She rarely took the metro, and wouldn’t today either. It wasn’t a short walk back, but it was not like Eido lacked time at her disposal. But it wasn’t the bar her feet took her first. Promise me you’re looking where you are going, Kōta had said to her. Yet sometimes it was easier to put one foot ahead of the other with eyes closed. And this was only a detour. A necessary closure.

The apartment block was dilapidated from outside, its walls flecked with rust and peeling flyers. The Korii-Kai owned Tokyo. They would not send one of their sons to Moscow so poorly furnished unless it was a task of disgrace, yet Kiyohito himself had seemed the furthest thing from the kind of dishonour she imagined the Yakuza might mete punishment for. Eido did not pull the card from her pocket as she climbed the five flights up. Her brother had already been gently snoring when she examined it at the kitchen counter this morning. The debt was insignificant, undeserved. Yet she did not like the feeling of scales left unbalanced.

If the stars aligned, he would not be here. He would have taken his brother home, whatever sins had first led them both to Moscow atoned for. Or the beginning step made at least. She knocked, and waited.

[Kiyohito]

Kiyohito was at the sink, replacing recently cleaned dishes into the cabinet overhead. Behind him the television was on scenes of baseball, but the sound was directed into a bud propped in his ear. He almost didn’t hear the knock but that he kept one ear free for that very purpose. Now that he was a Edenokōji-gumi man, he half-expected it to be a messenger, or worse.

Since meeting Yuta Hayashi and making his deal with the Edenokōji-gumi oyabun, Kiyohito spent the whole night preparing for his first task. It wasn’t so different than what he did for Korii-kai except that he felt dirty. Like his loyalty was washed away. He was here to find Haruto and take him back to Tokyo for justice. This was the exact opposite charge, and yet, he wondered if his father meant for all this to happen. By all accounts, he should have paid in blood already. Was it all a ruse to let the two sons escape? Reform their lives far away from the dishonor strewn through their family? Kiyohito almost hoped it wasn’t true for how easily they were set adrift. He’d rather die cast by the chains of loyalty than live in dismissal. Yet neither was he hurrying home to make good on his oath.

He flung the towel he'd been using on the dishes over his shoulder. His shirt sleeves were rolled past the elbow for the work, and while the collar at the neck was open, no water drops darkened the flat front of the button-down.

He left the ear bud on the counter and cautiously opened the door. As soon as he realized who was on the threshold, he pulled it wide.

“Eidolon,” his gaze roamed her face unsure if he was pleased to see her or not. “Are you okay?” he glanced at the stairwell behind her, but finding nothing but shadows and muffled apartment sounds, he stepped aside to invite her in, curious over the goods that laden her.

“Please?” he said and offered to unburden their weight.

[Eidolon]

The door began to open, and Eido felt her stomach sink into a trap of her own making. If Kiyohito was still in Moscow it could be no good thing. She considered her words to him carefully, only for shock to flare her expression and knock them clean from her head the moment she looked up. Bruises shadowed a riot of disturbing colour across his face. When he glanced at the hall behind her she took a moment to gather composure. Then he offered to take her bags. Tattoos wrapped to his wrist on one arm, but it was his hands she looked at. His knuckles were not split or bruised, which meant he had not been fighting. A knot clenched in her gut. She knew it for anger, but was not sure to whom it was angled; herself, for her blindness; Kiyohito, for his; or Zixin Kao for his cruelty in guise of honour.

“Thank you,” was all she said, allowing him to relieve her of the burden of shopping bags. It was probably the vestiges of surprise that made her unresistant to the gesture, for it pressed him into the kind of polite service she was uncomfortable to receive.

Bad men were not the same as monsters. This was a world in which she had no right to interfere, and clearly Kiyohito had submitted himself to this beating for a reason. He was unlikely to tell her why even if she asked. Eido distracted herself by removing her shoes. Western dwellings were not designed for such rituals so she only left them inside the door as she entered. Her gaze took in the tiny apartment, but she waited for the direction of her host before venturing further.

It was difficult not to look at him though. Her promises to Zephyr weakened a threshold, and despite far better judgement she searched inside herself for an echo of the power that might have been able to help. But there was nothing to find. The relief she felt was no longer as pure as it should have been.

“Arnica is good for bruising, Korii-san. Though it may be too late to help much if you are not using it already.” Perhaps it was rude to comment, but she decided it was worth the risk of his chide. With his open collar, sleeves to the elbow, and a dishcloth balanced on his shoulder, he was far removed from the severe figure she had met in the shadows of the bar. Regrettably it also gave her too much insight into how badly he had been hurt. She couldn’t ignore it.

[Kiyohito]

((An embarrassing amount of time has passed since posting here. *cough, cough. Sorry about that))

“Arnica. Thank you for the suggestion.” The response was automatic. Either he was already using it, or he would take nothing to alleviate the pain on principle.

After setting her bags aside, he set about the task of preparing tea. His movements were methodical and simple. He had done this a million times before, though as he poured the water and presented the dishes, it was with as much care as she had taken when their roles were reversed.

The furnishings were western in style. The sofa was unchanged from the last time a visitor rested upon it. Even the same baseball team was playing on the screen. Kiyohito took the effort to turn it off so they could sit without distraction.

He allowed Eidolon to take the sofa unaccompanied, and he dragged a stool from the kitchen to place it across from her. The tea was soothing. This cold, arid air had been irritating his throat lately.

The silence was someplace between awkward and reverent. He had no urge to fill it with mindless chatter, and found himself looking out the window as he rolled his sleeves back to the wrist. Unlike these Moscovites, she would be all too aware of the significance of the pattern stretching down his skin. Reminding her of it was something he preferred to avoid. Finally, he spoke.

“I owe you a debt. What can I do to honor it? I assume that is why you are here.”

[Eidolon]

[[no problem]]

His response confirmed the suspicion about his bruising, and while she knew it was not her business, Eido had trouble turning her mind away from it. Instead she looked away. She would not have minded to stand, but refusing the hospitality would be both rude and churlish, which he had done nothing to warrant. She sat gingerly, her straight-backed posture most likely to be taken as a mark of her formality and any stiffness in the way she settled herself negligible. The wound along her ribs was not a constant pain; rather it was one she kept forgetting was there, to be taken in surprise every time it twinged anew with her movement. The years had made her soft; something she presumed Zephyr would remedy with brutality, given the ferocity she had witnessed in her dervish against the vetala. Neither did Eido wince when she reached for the prepared tea, but did keep the cup in her hands afterwards, rather than setting it back after the polite sip.

She was grateful for the silence and the space it gave her to gather all the thoughts that had dispersed the moment he’d answered the door. But more than that she found peace in the banality. Kota was a tempest, filled with a voracity for life that Eido refused for herself. They shared meals when they could, and Eido cherished such anchors to her day, but they never sat like this, and were simply quiet. If her silence made her for awkward company she did not seem to notice. But she was aware she was taking up his time, too.

“To discharge you of it, yes.”

The balance of debt was a difficult thing, at least when setting the scale to right in a way that left no remaining imbalance. She had done little to warrant any favour in the first place, and she presumed the weight Kiyohito gave it was out of love for his brother more than it was a reflection of the help he actually received. It was for that reason alone she was wary of attempting to refuse it. But neither did she wish to dance around her own uncertainty. Instead she would just be honest.

“My brother and I have only been in Moscow a matter of months, but it has been six years since I last saw my home. I miss it greatly, but the exile was my fault. By right it should have been death by my own hand. It still should. When I heard you in the compound behind the bar, I thought it was why you were there. It is why I told you I had no honour to defend. Do you still feel you owe me a debt, Korii-san?”

[Kiyohito]

Her answer to his question was straight-forward, which was a relief. Yet it was not relief that perfused his body. A swallow belied his feelings, though he doubted she would be so intrusive as to guess them. It was a reminder that Eidolon was the outline of a perfect woman, every motion was precise, every expression exact, but he knew as well as anyone that the exterior was a shield, to protect the one within as well as those around them. To that, a deep frown lined the space between his eyes. Suicide came from as tragic a place in Japan as it did the rest of the world, for all the west glamorizes ritual death in the movies. Whatever could she have done to warrant banishment and self-death?

His teeth loosened their grip on one another the longer he looked at her. It was a practiced mask, the indifference and distance from the dark aura of death. Kiyohito did not welcome it, and for his place in the Korii-Kai, he did what he could to make sure others avoided it. Violence he could abide, but he had never once pulled the trigger.

He was suddenly grateful that Eidolon’s brother stayed near to her. For whatever chased them in their past was obviously still expected to arrive. “Is it one of the yakuza? If a debt is to be paid, I can help balance it. They are not unreasonable.. not usually.” It was odd defending the honor of criminals, but in his experience, money and blood could smooth the most jagged of wrongs.

“I am not afraid of them, Eidolon. I will eagerly accept this cause.” He was on the edge of the stool, poised to cross to her the moment she gave the approval, but something held him back; his intuition said something was not quite right about all this.

[Eidolon]

She had already written a script in her head for how Kiyohito might respond, and how she might navigate it in response. Should he still believe there was a debt to be settled, she decided she would consent to something small, but there would be relief and not any offence if he agreed nothing more was owed. Eido studied the teacup in her hand, watching the unblemished surface of the liquid. There was a stillness inside. For all her discomfort at having to resolve the fragile account between them, there were parts she also wished to remember.

But then he actually spoke, and all her careful considerations swept away, leaving the isolation of a here-and-now moment she really didn’t want to step into. Nonetheless, her gaze drew up, and met his squarely for the first time. Surprise had widened the liquid dark of her eyes, the emotion both genuine and complex for a pledge she did not ask him to make, and could not accept. He had perhaps not been quite real to her before then; a face caught in her periphery, a severe voice, the shield of a suit.

“Peace, Kiyohito-san.” The words came soft, her calmness resolute and imploring. She had been using the formality of his name with respectful purpose, choosing to identify him by his people as he had chosen to identify himself to her in the first place. The formality remained. She did not intend to blur the lines of familiarity in using his given name for the first time, but rather, it was to acknowledge that the face he showed now was not the carefully weighted judgement of a Yakuza driving hard business – the what he was. It was whoever dwelt within. The face of the man he had not wished to share.

He seemed ready to move, but she was glad that he had not. The I am not afraid of them settled somewhere inside her that was dangerous to acknowledge, invoking questions about his past she could not ask and that he could not answer even if she did. Her gaze moved slightly to the side, away from sight of his injuries and what they might inspire like kindling inside, though her straight-backed poise did not diminish. She did not owe him anything further, and she did not think he would press, but it was no longer the balance of debt that she considered. He had misunderstood, and she did not deserve the kindness. Eidolon was not something to be protected – she was something to protect others from.

By now she already knew she must confess. It was the only reasonable way to deny him without also offending or embarrassing his honour, and she had no wish to do either of those things. Her bargain with Zephyr cleared her name from the Atharim databases, minimising the immediate danger, but lacking that protection she still would not have lied now. Even knowing, as he had told her clearly at the bar, that any information she gave him was leverage he could use against her. In truth she did not expect it of him, but what would be would be. She accepted the hand of fate, even as she proved too cowardice for that hand to be her own.

“I do not wish to be free of my obligation. The sentence is not unreasonable. But it is what I am,” she told him. She was not being oblique with the purpose of being evasive. Rather, it was difficult to speak of without also freeing the deep weight of shame she carried, and it pulled at the words. Her fingers itched to touch the kaiken; to remind herself of its weight, but the teacup did not move in her delicate grip. “It is too much power to be enshrined in a single person. That cannot be atoned. I only live the best way I can.”

Part of her wanted to perceive his reaction, but she was more sensible than to risk it. Not because she anticipated any horror from him, but because she could not bear to witness any pity for the beliefs she had been raised with. One not raised amongst the Atharim was unlikely to truly understand the conflicted duty hung around her neck, and Kiyohito’s description of his brother suggested his own loved one shared the power of which she spoke. Which at least meant he would understand there was real danger involved in her acquaintance.

“It has been a very long time since I have allowed myself to enjoy another’s hospitality.” Her gaze returned to the tea. Her appreciation for that was thoughtful and true, and she did value the quiet simplicity of it. “This is enough, and I ask for no more, you have my word.”

[Kiyohito]

Kiyohito let her words settle, feeling the echo of them in the quiet space between them. I only live the best way I can. It was a simple statement, but one he could feel the weight of, like stones piled deliberately over an open wound. He knew that kind of acceptance—knew what it meant to bear something quietly, not because you believed you deserved it, but because it was required to keep moving forward. And he could see that same resolve in her, in the straightness of her spine, in the careful, controlled rhythm of her breathing.

What struck him most, though, was the loneliness of it. She carried herself like a soldier on a battlefield she had chosen, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be there alone. She had a brother, yes, but from the guarded way she spoke, it seemed even he could not reach into this quiet darkness she’d wrapped around herself.

Kiyohito felt the faintest ache in his chest, a strange, unwelcome softness that he wasn’t sure he knew how to give voice to. It was as though he were standing at the edge of something vast and unspoken, and he understood, with a quiet certainty, that to step forward would be to cross a line that neither of them had acknowledged yet.

But he wanted to.

“You carry it well, Eidolon,” he said softly, his voice low, just enough to bridge the space between them without intruding. “And if you say it is a burden you must bear, then I will respect that.” He paused, weighing his words carefully, unwilling to offer platitudes she would see right through. He did not think she was not a woman who would welcome pity, nor would she accept comfort that felt hollow.

But he could offer her something real, something quiet, something that cost him nothing but that it cost everything.

“Even so,” he continued, his gaze steady as his voice, “if ever there comes a time when it is too heavy, you do not have to carry it alone. I may not be able to ease your obligation”—the word came out heavier than he’d intended, as if it were a physical weight between them—“but I can be here while you bear this weight, if only for a time.”

There was a long silence, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her response, uncertain if he’d gone too far. Her stillness was a warning in itself—she was considering his words, perhaps surprised that he’d even offered them. It was not in his nature to reach out like this, to let anyone close enough to see beyond the shield of his Yakuza stoicism. But he wanted her to know, in his own way, that she was not as isolated as she believed.

Kiyohito shifted, feeling the need to fill the silence before it grew too fragile. “I don’t pretend to understand the path you’ve chosen, or the burden of this… vow you keep. But I do know that sometimes the simplest things can be a comfort. A moment of quiet, a place where no judgment reaches.” He gestured subtly to the small space around them, the dim warmth of this room where even the hum of the city felt distant, muted. “If you find yourself in need of that, you are always welcome here. No questions, no debts, no convincing—only what you wish to share.”

The warmth of the tea between his hands grounded him, keeping him steady even as his pulse thrummed with the risk he was taking. He was, in essence, inviting her into his life in a way he had never invited anyone before. But Kiyohito understood the value of gestures unspoken; a hand offered without expectation. It was a lesson his oyabun had taught him, one of the few memories he held onto with something close to fondness.

His gaze softened, though he fought to keep it controlled, respectful. He would not insult her by laying his heart bare—it was too soon, and besides, he wasn’t sure she could accept it. But he could give her this much, the silent assurance that he would be here, should she ever need it, but it was a boon to them both, for he was just as alone.

[Eidolon]

With his response came a disarming sense of acknowledgement, and along with it peace. Though she would have accepted whatever he had said, she realised she’d cared about his reaction. Kōta tried and failed on many occasions to understand the half-life she had chosen, and it always involved a lot of questions. After they left Kyoto and their people, Kōta had shed that life like old skin. He still did not see why she could not do the same. In Moscow, more than anywhere else they had ever been, there was an opportunity for true freedom, even for someone like her. She suspected it was why he had taken to calling her Chihiro again when they were alone, as though the reminder of her past might chip away at her resolution.

She did not expect Kiyohito to say more, and neither did she need him to; her reaction was minimal, though when her eyes rose up to meet his they did not move away while she listened. The words permeated deeply, but as he continued to speak she couldn't fathom what to do with them. The soft patter of her heart was not unlike her anticipation of an assassin’s blade, but it was a different fear entirely that held her motionless. Denying herself was easy. She did not ever consider her own wants, let alone acknowledge them, but it meant there was no acceptable answer to find within. The sense of soft erosion inside was something she wished to both shelter and reject in fear of what it might mean. But it was not a case of what she wanted. It was a case of what was right.

Silence fell, and Eido did not know how to navigate through it. She sat like marble, graceful and still, her expression softened in surprise. More than anything she did not want to spurn what was offered, recognising that it was something sensitive and of value to him. His privacy. The walls built around his life. The who he was that he felt a need to protect. She’d shared too much of herself already, and she knew it was because of what he had said in the alley. Kiyohito was shrouded in mystery to her, and like the clouded fog of a mirror, she'd peered to glimpse the reflection of something she felt she recognised beyond – only to realise now a startling cognition, as she felt him peering back through that same fog.

He spoke again before she could truly process, and she realised she had been quiet for too long. When he gestured she did not look at the space around them, for though she understood he meant to offer a sanctuary, what she felt most keenly then was the apartment's emptiness. Such a declaration meant he did not intend to go back to Japan at all, or perhaps that he simply could not. She might suppose on why but didn't choose to do so. Wherever his brother was, there had been no reconciliation, just consequence. Kiyohito was alone here. Reduced to the tattoos he so dutifully pulled his sleeves down to hide from her. He saw her in a way she wished he didn’t, but she saw him too, and it stirred both longing and conflict. The desire to ease another’s burden. To reach for a connection she did not deserve and could not sustain.

Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Instead she nodded to show she understood, and let her eyes drift lower. Her gaze dipped to the teacup cradled in her palms. Her heart beat so loudly she wondered if he might be able to hear it.

“Thank you for your time, Kiyohito-san,” she said quietly, leaning carefully to replace the cup. Her gaze was respectful, and did not avoid his, but was nonetheless uncertain of his reception. She was not concerned for his reaction, which she knew would be cushioned in stoicism, but for the quieter feelings inside; the things she could not see, but feared to unintentionally injure. Her movements were not hurried as she stood, hands laced, yet her gaze finally moved away. Hair ghosted across her cheeks, and she fought not to narrow her brow, beset by shame that she could not offer more. That she could not accept more.

She retrieved her shopping, but paused upon the package balanced at the top; the translation of Ningen Shikkaku she had purchased from the market, in English titled No Longer Human. The story as she remembered it was not a happy one, but it was poignant – of a man incapable of sharing his true self with others, and whose life ended in the tragedy of isolation and deteriorating mental health. She lingered on it now, her thumb tracing the cover as she pulled it free, and her resolution crumbled into something easier to communicate. Less fraught with risk.

“It is a tragic story. Poorly suited for a gift. But every home should have a book, Kiyohito-san. Preferably more than one. Perhaps you could borrow it.” She did not ask him if he had read it. It was a post-war classic back home, and there was nothing in his apartment to indicate whether he had any interest in literature. Eido did not hold it out to him, but placed it gently on the kitchen counter. She could not rely on him for sanctuary – to admit how much the kindness moved her would be to admit the true despair in her situation. But she could return for a book.

[Kiyohito]

Kiyohito did not move as she placed the book on the counter. The quiet gesture held more gravity than any confession, and for a moment, he found himself unable to speak. His gaze lowered to the faded cover of the novel—No Longer Human—as though it might yield some hidden meaning by being left behind in such a way. He knew the story, of course. Everyone did. But in this moment, it wasn't the contents that arrested him—it was what the book represented. A reason to see her again. An opening where all others had closed.

He should have thanked her. He should have bowed his head and let her go.

Instead, his fingers slowly reached toward the book but stopped short of touching it. His hand hovered above the counter before falling away, fingers curling in on themselves, as though even that small intimacy might be too forward.

Still, something in him needed to offer her something back, something real—not his silence, not his restraint.

“It’s not a gift poorly suited,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, colored by a note he did not intend to reveal. “A tragic story may be all the more fitting. Tragedy… has a way of telling the truth.”

There was a pause, drawn out like a held breath. He stood very still, but his eyes followed her—not to trap her, never to pressure—but as if memorizing her shape against the grayness of the apartment. His voice, when it came again, was softer.

“I will read it.”

He looked away then, embarrassed by the rawness of an admission he barely bit back. It felt like too much. Too bare. The overhead light flickered faintly in the silence, and he moved past it like it had not happened, as though the air itself might allow him to step around the moment.

When he spoke again, his tone had returned to something steadier, though not unfeeling. “You are welcome to return for it whenever you like. The book,” he added, after a beat. “Or the tea.”

He did not look at her when he said it—honor demanded he not—but the offer lingered nonetheless. There was no promise in his words, but there was something gentler still: the permission to come and go, unburdened by debt or expectation. The door was open. It would remain open.

Whether she stepped through again was not his to control.