Part 1 — The Morning He Was Gone
Morning light slipped through the paper screens, soft and pale, brushing across the room.
It fell on an empty futon.
Akari stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first—then she noticed the space beside her. The blanket was folded neatly. Too neatly. Cold.
She sat up.
"…Haruto?"
No answer.
The house was still. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the sound of cooking downstairs. Akari stood, her movements careful, and slid the door open.
Nothing.
Ayame was awake in the next room, already sitting up, confusion written across her face. Kaito stepped out moments later, drawn by the same uneasy silence.
"He's not here," Akari said after checking downstairs.
The words settled heavier than they should have.
Haruto didn't leave early. He didn't go out without saying something. Not like this.
Ayame's hands tightened at her sides. "Did he say anything last night?"
Akari shook her head.
Before the worry could grow sharper—
The front door slid open.
Haruto stepped inside, morning air still clinging to him. His hair was damp with sweat, his breathing steady but deep. His shoes were dusty, his expression calm—almost refreshed.
They all turned at once.
Ayame stared. "Haruto…?"
He blinked, surprised by the tension in the room. "Oh. You're up."
Akari crossed her arms, eyes sharp but relieved. "Where were you?"
Haruto paused, then answered simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I was running."
Silence followed.
"Running?" Kaito echoed.
Haruto nodded, reaching for a towel. "Yeah. I wanted to see how much I could run without getting tired."
There was no hesitation in his voice. No trace of doubt.
Akari exhaled slowly, the tightness in her shoulders easing. "Next time," she said, "tell us."
"I will," Haruto replied.
As he turned toward the bathroom, Ayame watched him closely.
Something had changed.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But the absence that morning hadn't been fear.
It had been resolve in motion.
The smell of food slowly filled the house.
Akari stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, moving with quiet efficiency. A pan hissed softly. Rice steamed. The rhythm was familiar—comforting in a way that steadied the air after the morning's tension.
Ayame and Kaito got ready in silence.
Drawers slid open. Footsteps crossed the hallway. No one spoke about what had happened, but it lingered between them like a thin, invisible thread.
The bathroom door closed.
Water began to run.
Haruto stood beneath the shower, eyes closed, letting the heat wash over him. His muscles ached—not badly, just enough to remind him he'd pushed himself. He breathed evenly, grounded, as if each drop was setting something into place rather than washing it away.