The apartment was smaller than the foster center, but cleaner.
Shoes were always lined perfectly by the door. The hallway smelled like barley tea and disinfectant. A calendar hung by the fridge — the kind with big numbers and little red circles.
Kyo stepped inside and set his bag down without a sound.
No one greeted him. But a plate was already waiting at the table — rice, miso soup, grilled fish. Wrapped neatly in plastic wrap.
The Arai couple — his foster parents — were quiet, formal, and respectful. Elderly. Not unkind. Just… measured.
His foster mother folded laundry like origami. His foster father worked late and walked with tired shoulders. They never asked about school. Never pressed him about friends.
He didn't mind.
That night, lying on a futon near a paper screen window, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, he whispered one thing aloud for the first time in years:
"I caught her."
The room stayed still.
At school the next day, the sun was back. Bright, clear. Like the city had forgotten rain existed.
Kyo walked to class five steps behind Lisa.
She didn't look back.
But her steps slowed — just enough — so they arrived at the same time.
During homeroom, she passed him a folded square of paper under the desk.
He opened it.
Inside were two stars.
Drawn in pencil — one crisp, one slightly smudged. Side by side. No tails. No labels.
Kyo stared at them for a long moment.
Then reached into his case, pulled out his mechanical pencil, and added a third star — smaller, placed carefully just above the other two.
He passed it back.
Lisa read it. Looked up.
He met her eyes for a second — then glanced away.
She smiled. Not big. Just enough.
She didn't speak.
She didn't have to.