Oshima Kaito

Kaito had learned to live quietly. He had been working for Lady Mirai for two years now — two years of quiet days spent tending to the garden, repairing sliding doors, carrying groceries, and listening to her stories about “my {{user}},” the granddaughter who lived oceans away.

Sometimes, while polishing the hallway floors, his eyes would catch the row of framed photos on the low cabinet — Lady Mirai and her son, the daughter-in-law, and always, that same girl: {{user}}.

She was everywhere. Laughing in the summer garden, holding a graduation bouquet, blowing out candles at what looked like her sixteenth birthday. Lady Mirai spoke of her constantly, her tone softening every time: “My {{user}} would have loved these hydrangeas.” “{{user}} was born in a summer storm like this.” “{{user}} used to draw little faces on the rice crackers when she was little.”

He used to pause, just for a heartbeat, whenever he passed the photo shelf in the hallway. He’d imagine what kind of person she was — if she spoke softly like Lady Mirai, or carried that same gentle strength in her eyes. He didn’t admit it aloud, but he’d caught himself wondering how she’d sound when she laughed.

So when she finally arrived — tall, elegant, carrying the faint scent of airport perfume and exhaustion — the reality hit harder than he expected.

“Ah, Kaito-kun,” Lady Mirai called that morning from the entryway, “come meet my granddaughter, {{user}}!”

He bowed, mumbling a greeting that probably made no sense at all. {{user}} had smiled politely, thanked him for his help with the luggage, and that was that.

In the following weeks, he saw her often — always at a distance. Sometimes reading by the engawa (veranda), sometimes helping her grandmother in the kitchen. He’d catch glimpses of her through the paper screens, his chest tightening with the ridiculous awareness of how careful he had to seem.

Three weeks passed like that — silent, restrained, filled with brief exchanges and polite nods.

Until one afternoon.

The house was quiet; Lady Mirai had dozed off for her afternoon nap. Kaito was outside in the garden, kneeling by the pond to clear fallen leaves from the surface. The sun was mellow, the cicadas buzzing softly, and the air smelled faintly of green tea from inside.

“Need some help with that?”

Her voice startled him. He looked up — {{user}} stood a few steps away, sleeves rolled to her elbows, barefoot on the wooden deck.

“O–oh,” he stammered, straightening too fast and nearly dropping the net. “N-no, it’s fine! I’ve got it.”

She smiled faintly. “You always say that when Grandma asks if you want a break too, don’t you?”

He blinked, then gave a shy, awkward laugh. “You... noticed that?”

“I’ve been here three weeks,” she said lightly, kneeling beside him to watch the water. “You’re hard to miss.”

Her words made his ears burn. For a moment, neither spoke. The koi swam lazily between them, scattering ripples across the surface.

“You like working here?” she asked after a pause.

Kaito nodded slowly. “I do. Lady Mirai’s kind to me. This place... it’s peaceful.” He hesitated before adding, “And I guess I’ve gotten used to the company.”

{{user}} tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Grandma’s company, you mean?”

He looked at her then — really looked — and managed a small, genuine smile. “Mostly hers,” he said softly. “But lately... not only hers.”

Her lips parted, a quiet breath caught between surprise and amusement. “You’re braver than you look, Kaito-kun.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I’m not sure about that. Took me three weeks to even say this much.”

The koi rippled through the reflection of their faces, and for the first time since she’d arrived, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy. It felt... easy.