"Why do you always wear the same outfit?"
Karl had a habit: when something puzzled him, he asked. So, as he approached Hanako, curiosity gnawed at him. He asked, straight out:
"What, you got a dozen of the same outfit in your closet or something?"
Before Hanako could answer, Chiyome's eyes flicked sharply in his direction.
She looked visibly startled. Even she knew—men didn't casually ask women things like that. It was improper. Too familiar. Way too casual.
Was this… normal between them?
As Chiyome stood silently at the door, processing their odd chemistry, Hanako didn't seem the least bit bothered. She simply gestured to the seat across from her at the tea table.
Once Karl sat down, she answered, calm as ever:
"Because I like cherry blossoms."
"Cherry blossoms, huh…"
Karl recalled the old symbolism. In one tradition, sakura stood for love, purity, hope—some elegant, untouchable kind of affection. But that wasn't Hanako's reason, he was sure of it.
In Japanese culture, cherry blossoms meant something deeper.
Brilliant while alive. Beautiful in death.
"Mono no aware, is that it?"
A quiet awareness of life's impermanence. Emotion stirred by the passing of things. That fleeting sadness when you notice fresh buds on an old tree—or crushed petals under a tire.
Some called it sentimental. But in the right moment, in the right place, it hit like a knife.
Karl's phrasing was vague, but Hanako understood.
He was asking: Are you drawn to cherry blossoms because they remind you of yourself? Of your situation?
Hanako gently shook her head.
"No," she said, smiling softly.
"I just like cherry blossoms."
Same words, second time—but this time, there was no room for misreading.
"You really just like them? Huh. I figured, with your background, you'd have a bit more dramatic flair."
"I'm no great poet."
Her smile held steady. Pale hands adjusted the soft pink of her sleeves. Then she extended her right palm—and something glinted gold in the light.
"Here's the orange I promised."
"What the—was that a magic trick? You hiding fruit in your sleeves now? What is this, Lu Ji and the oranges?"
Karl stared at the small, perfect citrus in her hand.
So kimono sleeves really could stash things. He'd always thought only the obi belt worked for that.
Hanako didn't bother to explain her sleight of hand. She just blinked at him, responding to the reference:
"You're talking about the story of Lu Ji hiding oranges, right? I know it."
Classic tale. Filial piety and all that. Hanako clearly had the education for it. But then she added:
"Lu Ji carried three oranges.
Me?..."
She turned her left hand over—another golden tangerine resting in her palm.
"I have as many as I want."
"'As many as you want,' huh? Yeah, I'm calling bullshit."
Karl knew oranges.
"You said it's a single tree. A really healthy one might push out two hundred, tops. A small one? Sixty, seventy, maybe. That's not 'as many as you want.'"
"Heh."
Hanako chuckled softly. She didn't argue. Just pushed her right hand forward a bit.
Karl got the cue, and took the orange from her palm.
The second he held it, he knew something was off.
It looked small—but it had weight. Heavy for its size.
He peeled it carefully. The rind was paper-thin. Inside, the fruit was dense and radiant, segments practically glowing.
Perfect orange-red flesh. No seeds. Shimmering.
Only one place that kind of quality came from.
"This is greenhouse-grown, isn't it?"
"Each growing environment is fine-tuned by a specialist."
"Knew it."
With global pollution the way it was, even rainwater was suspect. Fruit like this didn't happen in the wild anymore.
Karl split the orange in two. He kept one half, and passed the other back.
"Split what you're given. Old habit."
"But I gave it to you."
"So... do you want it or not?"
"Only if it's peeled."
"Of course. Nobles."
He peeled it again, this time leaving a sliver of rind at the base so she wouldn't have to touch the fruit directly. Hanako placed the other orange down on the tea table and accepted the offered half with both hands.
She picked up a segment delicately, placed it between her lips, and chewed slowly.
After a few seconds, her eyes softened, and a subtle smile tugged at her mouth.
"It's delicious."
"Sweet, juicy, clean—yeah, not bad."
Karl, less refined, tossed his entire half into his mouth. No way he was gonna nibble on orange slices like some dainty noble. That'd be torture.
He swallowed. First bite hit nice. After that—meh. Didn't catch any deeper nuance.
But the peel—that might be something.
He remembered the best ones had edible rinds.
He pinched a bit and popped it into his mouth.
"Fragrant. Tastes familiar. What variety is this?"
"Aoshima mikan."
Aoshima, huh?
No wonder.
Japanese cultivar. Crossbred from Chinese strains.
It was a taste of home.
Karl reached for the second orange she'd set on the table, planning to split it again, when a thought struck him.
"Almost forgot—felt weird coming to mooch your fruit without bringing anything. So I made extra."
He reached into his coat pocket.
Under Chiyome's watchful gaze and Hanako's curious eyes, he pulled out a small insulated container.
"Nikujaga. Made it this morning. Hope it's not too humble."
He'd seen it in old anime—neighbors bringing stewed potatoes and pork when they visited. He figured, hey, why not do it right?
.
.
.
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