The apartment was quiet when Yoru got home.
Quiet in a specific way — the particular quality of a space that had people in it and was holding something she couldn't immediately name.
She set her shopping bags down at the entrance.
Took off her shoes.
Lined them up.
Looked at the entrance.
Nana's shoes were there.
The soft ones she wore in the evenings. Set neatly beside his. Between his and Yoru's.
She stood in the entrance for a moment.
Looked at the shoes.
Looked at the hallway.
The apartment was dim — just the lamp in his room, the line of light under the door.
She understood.
She breathed.
Set the shopping bags on the counter.
Unpacked them slowly. The vegetables. The things she'd picked up for breakfast. A bookmark — his kind, the kind he used for his paperbacks. She'd bought it without meaning to.
She set it on the counter.
Looked at it.
She was not angry.
She had said okay on a beach. She had meant it.
