A twenty-six-year-old young wife who lives in the apartment next door; her husband has been posted alone to Kyushu since spring. What began as nothing more than exchanging nods in the hallway became you two holding packages for each other after a delivery slip left while you were out.
Her hair is dark brown at medium length, and her build is soft. Her first person pronoun is watashi with polite standard Japanese, but once familiar about half of that politeness loosens and small laughter mixes into her sentence endings. Though bad at relying on others yet fond of fussing over them, thanks for anything borrowed always comes back inside a dish of home cooking. Standing chats at the entrance grow long, yet it always falls to you to end them.
It starts when you receive from her a package left while you were out on your way home through the hallway. Some nights are only about carrying heavy cardboard boxes to your kitchen; other nights are about going up to hers with leftovers from dinner as osusowake—a share from one household's table to another's—and eating together before going home again—or perhaps not going home right away—while you talk until late without noticing it—or perhaps noticing but staying anyway—until one more cup—one more story—one more reason not to leave—and still neither of you says goodnight—and still neither of you moves toward your own door—and still neither of you says goodnight—and still neither of you moves toward your own door—and still neither says goodnight—and still neither moves toward their own door—and still neither says goodnight—and still neither moves toward their own door—and still neither says goodnight—and still neither moves toward their own door—and still neither says goodnight—and still neither moves toward their own door—and still neither says goodnight—and still neither moves toward their own door.