Chapter Text
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Utahime unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside. She slipped off her blazer and tossed it onto the couch without bothering to see where it landed. Crossing to the kitchen, she uncorked the bottle of wine waiting on the counter and poured herself a generous glass.
She wasn't usually like this. Normally, she'd wash off her makeup the moment she got home, go through her carefully curated skincare routine, change into pajamas and slippers, then curl up on the couch with dinner and whatever show she was currently binging until sleep claimed her.
That had been her evenings for the past two years, save for the occasional weekend spent with her friend and colleague, Kasumi—until Kasumi moved to Okinawa for a new job. There had also been a brief interruption a few months ago, when she'd fallen into an unexpected fling with an old college friend who'd reached out over a case she was handling. It ended as gently as it had begun when her transfer from Kyoto to Tokyo came through, a move she accepted believing it would bring steadiness in her life—and a promotion—she'd been working toward.
Instead, the moment she settled into this apartment, the peace she'd been chasing seemed to slip through her fingers.
And now, two months later, unopened boxes still occupied the corners of her living room and bedroom. The woman who once ironed every blouse the night before barely cared if she wore the same outfit to work twice in a row. Most nights, she simply carried her wine onto the balcony, watched the city lights blur beyond tear-stung eyes, and let the cool breeze dry her face. She'd long since lost count of how many evenings had ended with her asleep in that patio chair, an empty wineglass nearby and her phone still clutched loosely in her hand.
Her unit sat on the fourteenth floor, the last residential floor before the glass-walled penthouse above. It had remained dark for weeks after her move, until one perfectly ordinary night, someone showed up.
A tall man with white hair, always dressed in black—a jacket, tailored pants.
To her quiet dismay, her balcony sat just to the right of the penthouse, leaving its floor-to-ceiling windows squarely within her line of sight. She couldn't help but notice him, no matter how much she wished otherwise—at least at the beginning.
It didn't help that they'd settled into the same nocturnal rhythm. She had become something of a night owl, and apparently, he was too. Almost every night, right around two in the morning, the penthouse lights would flicker on. All Utahime had to do was lift her gaze to the left, and there he was.
Every night, she told herself she'd mind her own business, and every night, she failed.
There was something about the way he moved—something achingly familiar, something that seemed to speak to her. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.
A gramophone sat by the glass window of his living room, and after coming home, he would almost always put on a record before settling into whatever chores awaited him. On quieter nights, the faint strains of Beethoven drifted through the night air, somehow slipping past the barrier of glass and steel to reach her.
Sometimes he would sit by the window, one leg tucked beneath him, a full plate balanced on his lap. And as he ate, whenever the music swelled into one of his favorite passages, he'd lift his chopsticks like a conductor's baton, his head swaying with the rhythm, completely lost in the melody.
Some nights he'd emerge flushed with sweat, dressed in a black tank top and loose trousers, his skin glistening under the warm overhead lights. His brows would knit as he glanced repeatedly at his wristwatch, as though dissatisfied with whatever workout he'd just finished.
She would only see him for a few minutes each night, doing something near the window—the only part of his home visible from her balcony. Then he'd retreat farther inside. Around four in the morning, without fail, he'd rise from the floor, switch off the lights, and, she presumed, go to bed.
It was a peculiar routine, but through those brief appearances, she gathered small, unremarkable glimpses of his life, and somewhere along the way, they became a welcome distraction from her own grief.
One night, he sat reading a book, his back pressed against the glass, his spine curved into what looked like an impossibly uncomfortable position.
It made her wonder. He could've chosen any comfortable spot in that enormous penthouse, so why there? It was the only place from which she could see him. He wasn't even facing the city, so there was no view to admire. And yet he kept returning to that exact spot, night after night, until he finished the book.
Whether it was years of instinct honed by her profession or simple self-preservation, she couldn't say, but she noticed how often he drifted toward the edge of the window closest to her balcony. Sometimes he'd pace with a bottle of fruit juice in hand. Other times, he'd stand there absently scrolling through his phone. It seemed almost impossible that he hadn't noticed her. All he had to do was glance down. Even peripheral vision should've betrayed her presence. And yet he never looked. He either had remarkably poor eyesight, or he knew she was there and wanted her to watch.
The second possibility should've unsettled her. But in a strange, almost perverse way, it comforted her instead.
Because every night, from two until four, she wasn't alone. In the quietly intrusive way she'd woven herself into a stranger's routine, she found herself feeling connected to someone—anyone.
Until it stopped being quiet. Or discreet.
Tonight, he'd started a new book. Headphones covered his ears, and in the hand that wasn't holding the book, a pen rolled effortlessly between his fingers with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear. It seemed entirely unconscious, his body moving on instinct while the rest of him disappeared into the pages.
That's when her phone rang.
Her eyes tore away from him, and with trembling fingers, she answered the call.
Two minutes later, a sob broke free. Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. The phone slipped from her grasp and clattered somewhere onto the balcony floor as both hands flew to cover her face.
A long ten minutes passed in absolute agony. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth, trying to hold together whatever had just shattered inside her.
Then the doorbell rang.
She hastily wiped at her face and retrieved her phone from the balcony floor.
3:20 a.m.
Instinct made her glance toward the penthouse, to the corner where he'd been sitting only moments before.
It was empty.
Utahime's stomach dropped.
She pushed herself to her feet and crossed the apartment. Beside one of the still-unopened moving boxes, the baseball bat she'd left propped against the wall caught her eye. She grabbed it, tightened her grip around the handle, and tiptoed toward the front door.
The doorbell rang again.
She looked through the peephole.
It was him.
Her fingers violently trembled as she reached for the doorknob and twisted it, opening the door just a fraction—enough for one eye to peer through.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Through the narrow crack, she could see only one of his eyes—stark, summer blue.
He took a careful step forward, not attempting to push the door, only closing the distance slightly. Then he spoke, his voice low and strangely kind.
“There’s an expensive bottle of wine in my kitchen,” he said. “But I don’t drink. If you’d like, I can open it for you.”
He paused.
Utahime didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell if it was shock or the strange familiarity in the way he spoke to her, despite it being their first meeting.
“I’ll be awake,” he added at last.
Then he stepped back and disappeared down the stairs.
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