The scent of simmering miso drifted through the wooden corridors of the Tachibana residence. Morning sun spilled through the shoji panels, casting pale patterns onto the polished floorboards. A row of neatly lined slippers waited by the entrance—eight pairs, all different sizes, each telling a silent story of the people who wore them.
Hikari Tachibana sat at the low table in the dining room, her little legs tucked beneath her, swinging idly. Her pink dress, ironed crisply by Sayoko-san that morning, had a small embroidered rabbit near the hem. She poked at her rice with her chopsticks, glancing at the empty seats surrounding her.
"Where's Haruto-nii?" she asked, looking up.
Sayoko-san, the housemaid with a soft voice and always-tired eyes, turned from the kitchen and smiled. "Your brother left very early this morning. He had to catch a train to Tokyo, remember?"
Hikari frowned. "But he promised to draw with me today…"
Sayoko set down a bowl of nikujaga in front of the girl. The beef was steaming, the potatoes glistening with sauce. "He left you a note in your room. Why don't you read it after breakfast?"
The girl stared at the meat for a moment. Something about it felt… unfamiliar. Not in taste—it smelled delicious. But the shape. The texture. It didn't look like the usual beef she was used to. Still, she took a bite, because Sayoko always cooked well. And she was hungry.
"Mama's gone too…" Hikari mumbled with her mouth full.
"Yes, she went on a trip with your auntie and uncle," Sayoko replied gently, brushing Hikari's hair aside with a careful hand. "Your family's been very busy lately. But they all love you very much, Hikari-chan."
The little girl chewed slowly, her eyes wandering to the long dining table. Only two bowls now sat on it—hers and Sayoko's. The table once held laughter, hands reaching across for more pickles, stories about work and gossip about neighbors. Now the house echoed differently. It wasn't loud anymore. It wasn't warm in the same way.
"But why didn't anyone say goodbye?" she whispered.
Sayoko was quiet. Then, with a slow breath, she answered, "Sometimes adults have to make sudden decisions. You'll understand when you're older."
That seemed to satisfy her—at least for now.
Later that day, Hikari walked through the silent hallways of the house, dragging her fingers across the walls. She passed her grandfather's room. Locked. Her father's office. Locked. Even the garden door wouldn't open—it had been nailed shut after someone "broke a window" months ago.
In her room, she found the note Sayoko had mentioned. It was written in her brother Haruto's handwriting. But the way his name was signed felt… off. Stiff. As if copied.
"Be a good girl, Hikari. I'll come back with a big surprise!"
She smiled. She believed him. Because Hikari was only seven years old.
And seven-year-olds believe in many things.
They believe family always comes home.
They believe adults tell the truth.
They believe the meat in their soup is just meat.