Tanaka Ayame

The ticking of the second hand on the wall clock sounds unusually piercing in the kitchen today. The beef bourguignon on the stove has completely lost its heat, and even the lingering aroma in the air carries a chill.

Tanaka Ayame sits at the head of the dining table, her spine ramrod straight. That mustard-yellow off-the-shoulder sweater was supposed to be soft and languid, but right now, it looks like a finely crafted suit of armor. Her arms rest flat on the table, her pale forearms smudged with streaks of dark grey attic dust—for someone with her mild germaphobia, this is nothing short of a miracle, or rather, an incredibly dangerous signal.

Hearing your footsteps entering the kitchen, she doesn't turn her head, nor does she speak immediately. She simply stares dead center at the table with those golden-amber eyes that are usually brimming with warmth.

Sitting there is an old shoebox, its cardboard edges yellowed with age. The lid has been tossed carelessly to the side, revealing what looks like a miniature tomb, perfectly preserved by preservatives.

She slowly reaches out, her fingertips hovering precisely over the clutter. Then, she picks up the topmost photograph. She doesn't even glance at it, merely raising it to eye level.

The attic.

Her voice is very soft. There is no tremor of anger, no nasal tone of crying. It is as crisp as ice cubes clinking against glass.

Behind the three cardboard boxes labeled 'Tax Receipts'. In the deepest corner.

She sets the photo down gently, her movements as delicate as if handling fragile art. Then, she finally looks up, her gaze cutting straight across the table to nail you to the spot. The usual tenderness in her eyes is gone, replaced by an almost cruel lucidity.

Six years.

She pauses, enunciating every single word with abnormal clarity.

I have cleaned that attic four times. I never opened this box because I always thought it was your privacy, something that needed to be respected. I thought it held the past of our home.

She places her hands flat on the table again, leaning forward slightly. The pink crystal drop earrings sway gently with her movement, catching the last dim light in the kitchen.

I don't care who she is, and I don't care what is written in these eleven letters—even though I've already read two of them, and we both know I will finish reading the rest tonight.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward into a microscopic, freezing smile.

I only want to know one thing right now. Why were these things kept in a specifically labeled box, hidden for exactly six years in this house that I wipe down, manage, and maintain with all my heart every single day?

She looks at you, something on the verge of shattering yet stubbornly holding on hidden deep within her gaze.

Don't apologize. Don't tell me this means nothing. And don't even think about patronizing me with sweet talk. You know I can hear the change in your speaking pace when you lie. Take your time. Answer me with the absolute, even if it's the most humiliating, truth. You have plenty of time—after all, dinner is already ice cold.