Forty-seven nights had passed.
Himari didn't know whether to be amazed or exhausted.
Nearly two months of evenings spent listening through a door, her body curled up in the same spot on the tatami mat, her ears attuned to the rhythmic cadence of Kaito Matsumoto's voice.
He never faltered. Never missed a single night.
Some evenings, his words were light and aimless—stories of his high school years, strange customers at his part-time job, the dream he had about a flying vending machine. Other times, his voice carried a softer edge, drifting toward memories he hadn't spoken aloud before. His late grandmother. A trip he never took. A friend who stopped calling.
Through it all, he was steady. Sometimes absurd, often annoying, but always there.
She had no idea why.
And yet, the silence between them had shifted. It wasn't cold anymore. It was waiting. Suspended.
Tonight, the forty-seventh night, Himari lay on her stomach with her face resting against her arms, listening as he arrived with the soft jingle of cat tags and the sound of Momo's paws clicking on the wood.
"Evening, Princess of the Locked Tower," he called, his voice too bright for the time of night. "Momo's upset with me. She tried to steal my chicken skewers, and when I said no, she bit me and then gave me this look. You know the look. The 'you've betrayed me for the last time' stare."
Himari stifled a breath of laughter. She hadn't meant to. But there it was, like a hiccup in the quiet.
"I brought you something," he said, and she heard the sound of paper sliding gently across the floor. "A riddle. Solve it and I'll bring your reward tomorrow. Don't solve it, and I'll double the prize out of pity. You win either way. It's very unfair."
He fell quiet for a moment after that, and Himari's ears strained for any shift in his posture, any whisper of movement.
"You ever think," he said softly, "that people don't really want to be saved? They just want someone to wait with them until they're ready?"
The words struck a little too close. Himari clenched her fingers.
She didn't want to be saved. She wasn't some tragic story in need of fixing. But… someone waiting? Someone showing up again and again without asking her to be anything other than what she was?
That… felt different.
"I'll keep coming," Kaito said. "Even if you never open the door. I'll be here. I'll keep talking."
The sound of Momo purring filled the air again, and then his footsteps faded slowly down the hall.
Himari sat in the quiet that followed, her hand trembling as she reached for the small paper he'd left.
Just a riddle.
But it felt like a key.
The door stayed closed.
But tonight—on the forty-eighth night—Himari sat closer.
No longer curled in the corner like a ghost pressed to the edge of her own story. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, right beside the sliding door, her ear near the wooden frame. The paper charm he gave her dangled from her fingers, turning slowly with the movement of her breath.
Outside, just beyond the thin barrier of shoji paper and wood, Kaito's silhouette appeared.
He didn't speak right away.
Maybe he sensed something had changed. The way the quiet breathed back, expectant. The way her shadow fell softly across his own.
When he did begin, his voice was slower. Gentler. Like he wasn't performing anymore.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I got stuck inside a mascot costume for six hours?" he asked, amusement threading through his tone. "Middle school festival. I volunteered to be the school owl. Thought it'd be cool. Wise. Mysterious. The zipper broke halfway through. I was sweating like a broken sauna and couldn't scratch my nose."
Himari's lips curved faintly. No sound escaped, but her smile pressed quietly into the air.
Kaito went on.
He told her about the stupid bets he lost with his best friend. About how he once tried to impress a girl by learning guitar and gave up halfway through "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." About a teacher who saw through his deflections and made him write poetry, even though he hated it—until he didn't.
Outside the door, his figure shifted now and then, knees drawn up, one hand occasionally dropping to scratch behind Momo's ears.
Inside, Himari didn't move. She just watched.
Watched his shadow lean forward when his voice dropped low. Watched the tilt of his head as he considered his next words. Watched the way his presence filled the hallway—not loudly, but completely.
And as she watched, her heart beat a little steadier.
Kaito wasn't asking her to respond. He wasn't waiting for her to change, or speak, or break open.
He was just there.
Like the moon—bright, a little ridiculous, but reliable.
Outside, his voice softened again.
"I used to think… if I talked enough, I could fix things. Fill the empty spaces. But maybe the talking's not the point." He paused. "Maybe it's the being here."
Himari's fingers curled gently into the sleeve of her kimono. Her eyes hadn't left the shadow on the door.
Kaito sighed, a warm, tired sound. "Anyway. I'll let you sleep, dream girl. You'll let me know when you want the next riddle."
He rose, the silhouette lengthening. Momo's tags jingled faintly. Just before his shadow slipped from view, he paused.
Then slowly—deliberately—he leaned forward.
And pressed his forehead to the door.
Just for a second.
Himari's breath caught. Her fingers brushed the same spot from the other side, not touching him, but feeling it all the same.
Then he was gone.
But the door, the air, the night—it all felt different now.
Himari stayed there long after he'd left, the lantern charm warm in her hand, her cheek resting against the doorframe.
Not speaking.
Just being.
And for once… that was enough.
And so himari knew this was a subtle change she might have a chance to get married and make her parents proud Masumoto kun seemed so kind to her even behind the sliding doors she began to like him thinking "If it's with him i think it's alright".