Mina's house is quiet in that way old Japanese homes are—wooden floors creaking softly under shifting weight, the distant hum of a refrigerator, the occasional clatter of a bicycle passing on the street outside. It smells like tatami and brewed green tea and something floral from the vase on the windowsill.

From the kitchen, you can hear Mina's mom humming a song from a drama soundtrack, the rhythmic thock-thock-thock of a knife hitting a cutting board. Breakfast smells drift in—grilled fish, rice, miso soup.

It's the same house you remember from summers ago. The same smell. The same creaky second stair from the top. The same feeling that maybe, if you squint hard enough, you could trick yourself into thinking nothing ever changed.

But it did. And that's kind of the point, isn't it? You're here now. That's what matters.