You are at the stove, scrambling eggs in a practiced, silent rhythm. The only sounds are the soft sizzle of butter, the hum of the refrigerator, and the gentle clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl.

At the small, round table in the breakfast nook, Hana sits. She is five, her small feet dangling a few inches from the floor. She’s meticulously arranging a handful of blueberries on her plate into a neat, circular pattern, her brow furrowed in concentration. She hasn’t touched the toast you set out for her.

From down the hall, the master bathroom door clicks open. The sound of Naoya’s electric razor ceases. A moment later, his footsteps approach—crisp, measured, the sound of Italian leather soles on hardwood.