Morning at the Morita boarding house unfolded with quiet precision.
The clatter of dishes, the low hum of the kettle, the soft shuffle of footsteps , Hina noticed it as she descended the stairs, adjusting her bag strap against her shoulder.
Mrs. Morita was in the kitchen, apron neatly tied, hair pinned back.
"Good morning, Hina," she said gently. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," Hina replied. "Very well."
It wasn't entirely true. She had slept lightly, waking more than once to unfamiliar sounds — a door closing, footsteps in the hall but it felt impolite to say otherwise.
Sachiko smiled anyway, as if she knew.
Itsuki was seated at the table, flipping through a thin paperback while sipping coffee. He didn't look up when Hina entered, but he shifted his chair slightly — not to make space, exactly, but to acknowledge that she was there.
Yuta barged in seconds later, hair messy, tie half-done.
"I'm late," he announced proudly.
"You're always late," Aya replied from her seat, eyes never leaving her phone.
Hina sat quietly, observing.
She noticed how Sachiko placed Itsuki's mug closer to him without asking. How Kenji read the newspaper in silence, occasionally glancing up as if measuring the mood of the room. How Aya watched everyone, storing things away.
This wasn't just a house.
It was a system.
School felt different on the second day.
Not easier — just less sharp around the edges.
Hina walked beside Mio through the gate, Mio chatting about teachers, clubs, rumors. Kenta Fujimori joined them midway, greeting Hina with a smile that lingered just a second too long.
"You settling in okay?" he asked.
"Yes," Hina replied politely.
Mio's eyes flicked between them, her smile never wavering.
In class, Hina caught herself glancing toward the window more than once.
Itsuki sat in his usual seat, posture unchanged, expression neutral. But she noticed the small things — the way his pen paused before he wrote, how he listened more than he spoke, how Mr. Sakamoto's eyes lingered on him during discussions.
During literature, Ms. Harada asked them to write a short reflection.
What does honesty mean to you?
Hina stared at the page.
Her pen hovered.
Honesty felt like something fragile — easily misunderstood, easily lost.
When she finished, she glanced sideways.
Itsuki was already done, gaze fixed on the sky beyond the window.
She wondered what he had written.
That evening, rain began to fall.
Soft at first. Then steady.
Hina stood in the hallway, unsure where to go, when Itsuki emerged from the living room.
"You can use the bathroom now," he said.
"Oh— thank you."
They stood there for a moment, rain tapping against the windows.
"Do you ever get used to sharing space with strangers?" Hina asked suddenly.
Itsuki considered the question.
"You stop thinking of them as strangers," he said. "Not the same as getting used to them."
She nodded slowly.
That night, as rain traced paths down the glass, Hina lay awake again — but this time, the unfamiliar didn't feel quite as heavy.
Somewhere downstairs, a chair creaked softly.
And in the quiet, the boarding house held them — strangers, for now — under the same roof.
The rain didn't stop that night.
It softened instead — thinning into something quieter, something that felt less like weather and more like breathing.
Hina realized this sometime after midnight, when she woke without knowing why.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside her window. Raindrops slid lazily down the glass, merging and separating, never quite deciding where to go.
She sat up slowly, drawing her knees to her chest.
At home, nights like this had meant silence — the kind that pressed in on her ears. Her mother would already be asleep. Her father's voice existed only in old voicemail messages she never listened to anymore.
Here, though… the silence felt different.
It wasn't empty.
She could hear distant movement — a floorboard settling, the low murmur of the house itself. Someone turned in their sleep downstairs. A door closed gently.
Hina exhaled.
So I'm not alone, she thought.
The realization surprised her.
The next morning arrived cool and washed clean.
The sky was pale gray again, but lighter — as if the rain had taken something heavy with it.
Hina reached the kitchen to find Kenji already seated at the table, newspaper folded neatly beside his tea.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning."
He watched her for a moment, then spoke.
"Change is tiring," he said simply. "Even when it's good."
Hina blinked. "Yes."
That was all he said — but it stayed with her as she poured her tea.
Itsuki entered shortly after, hair still slightly damp, as if he'd washed it hurriedly.
"You're early," he said to her.
"I woke up," she replied.
He nodded, accepting the answer without pressing further.
Sachiko bustled in, setting out breakfast with practiced ease. Yuta appeared late, as expected, complaining loudly about the weather despite the clear sky. Aya followed, quiet, observant.
As they ate, Hina noticed something new.
Itsuki always waited for everyone to sit before starting.
A small thing.
But intentional.
At school, the day unfolded with a subtle shift.
People still glanced at Hina, curiosity lingering, but the whispers were quieter now. Familiarity dulled their edge.
During lunch, Mio pulled Hina toward the courtyard bench with her usual brightness.
"So?" Mio asked, popping open her drink. "How's boarding house life?"
"It's… calmer than I expected."
"That place is famous," Kenta added, leaning back casually. "Students who live there always end up close."
Hina smiled politely.
Across the courtyard, Itsuki sat with Takumi Endo, talking in low voices. Takumi laughed softly at something Itsuki said — a rare sight.
Mio noticed her gaze.
"You know Minato, right?" Mio asked lightly.
"Yes," Hina said. "We live in the same boarding house."
Mio's smile flickered — just for a moment.
"Oh," she said. "That makes sense."
Hina didn't understand what she meant, but something about Mio's tone made her uneasy.
After school, clouds gathered again — darker this time.
The walk home was quieter. Students dispersed in clusters, laughter fading as streets narrowed.
Hina spotted Itsuki near the gate, waiting.
"For Yuta?" she asked.
He shook his head. "He said he had club."
They started walking together without discussing it.
The sky rumbled distantly.
"Do you like living at the boarding house?" Hina asked.
"Yes," Itsuki said after a pause. "It's… stable."
She nodded. "I think I like that."
Another pause.
"You don't talk much," he said, not unkindly.
"I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing."
He glanced at her. "Silence can do that too."
She considered his words, surprised by how easily he said them.
That evening, thunder rolled loudly enough to shake the windows.
The power flickered once — then went out.
Yuta groaned dramatically from the living room.
"Great. Perfect. I was winning."
Aya sighed. "You were losing."
Candles were lit. Sachiko moved calmly, as if power outages were an expected guest.
Hina sat on the floor near the low table, hugging her knees. Darkness always made her chest feel tight.
Itsuki noticed.
He slid a candle closer to her.
"Storms don't last long," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied. "Still…"
He didn't finish her sentence.
Instead, he stayed.
They sat there as rain hammered the roof, candlelight flickering between them. Shadows danced along the walls.
In that dim, shared space, Hina realized something she hadn't expected.
She felt… safe.
Not because anyone promised anything.
But because no one left.
Later that night, after the storm passed and the power returned, Hina lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Her heart felt strangely full — not with excitement, not with hope — but with something steadier.
Belonging, maybe.
Down the hall, Itsuki closed his door quietly.
He paused, resting his hand against it, thinking about the girl who spoke carefully and listened deeply.
About how her presence didn't demand anything from him.
And how, without noticing when it started, the boarding house no longer felt the same.
The sky outside cleared.
Unnoticed by either of them, something fragile had settled into place — not love, not yet — but the comfort of shared space, shared silence.
Strangers, still.
But no longer just that.