The incense curled upward in a thin, gray ribbon, catching the late-afternoon light that slanted through the living-room blinds. Miki knelt on the tatami, palms pressed together, eyes fixed on the black-and-white photograph propped against the small butsudan. Hiroshi's smile looked frozen in time—crooked at one corner, the way it always did when he was teasing her about burning dinner.
One year.
Three hundred and sixty-five nights of waking to an empty half of the bed.
She had counted every single one.
"Happy anniversary, Hiroshi," she whispered, voice cracking on the last syllable. The words tasted like ash.
Behind her, the front door clicked open. Ryosuke's sneakers squeaked once on the genkan tile before he remembered to toe them off. Miki straightened her spine, wiped the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan, and forced the corners of her mouth upward.
"Welcome home," she called, bright as summer. "I made your favorite—katsu curry."
Ryosuke appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered in his university track jacket. His dark hair was damp from the November drizzle outside. He took one look at the butsudan, the single white chrysanthemum in the vase, the half-empty box of tissues on the floor, and his easy grin faltered.
"Mom…" He crossed the room in three strides and crouched beside her. "You don't have to pretend with me."
Miki's smile wobbled. "I'm not pretending. I'm… coping." She reached to smooth the wrinkle between his brows, the same gesture she'd used when he was five and scraped his knee. "You're soaked. Go change before you catch cold."
But Ryosuke didn't move. His gaze flicked to the photograph, then back to her face—really looked, the way only he ever did anymore. "You cried in the kitchen again, didn't you? I saw the rice cooker still plugged in. You forgot to hit start."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was distracted."
He exhaled through his nose, a sound too old for eighteen. "That's it. Pack a bag."
Miki blinked. "What?"
"We're leaving. Tonight. There's a ryokan two hours north—private onsen, no neighbors. I booked it with the part-time job money." He was already on his feet, scrolling through his phone. "I'll drive. You just… sit there and breathe for a second."
"Ryosuke, that's sweet, but—"
"No buts." He pocketed the phone and extended a hand. "One night. Hot springs, good food, mountain air. You haven't left the prefecture since the funeral."
Miki stared at his outstretched palm. Calloused from shot-put practice, steady. Safe. The same hand that had held hers at the hospital when the doctor said *massive internal bleeding*. She swallowed the memory and let him pull her up.
"Fine," she said, smoothing her skirt. "But only because you'll sulk if I don't."
He flashed a lopsided smile—Hiroshi's smile—and disappeared down the hall.
---
An hour later, Miki stood in her bedroom folding a change of clothes into an overnight bag. The house was quiet except for the low hum of Ryosuke loading the car. She opened the dresser drawer for underwear and paused.
Hiroshi's side was still untouched: folded boxers, the cologne he'd worn on their last date, a single gray hair on the pillow she couldn't bring herself to wash. Her fingers brushed the bottle. Sandalwood and citrus. She lifted it, uncapped it, inhaled. The scent punched the air from her lungs.
A soft knock. "Mom? You ready?"
She capped the bottle quickly, shoved it to the back of the drawer. "Almost!"
Ryosuke leaned in the doorway, duffel slung over one shoulder. His gaze swept the room, lingered on the open drawer, then flicked to her face. Something unreadable passed across his features—concern, maybe, or something warmer. He cleared his throat.
"I put the heated blanket in the car. It's cold up there."
Miki managed a real smile this time. "You think of everything."
She turned to zip the bag. The overhead light caught the lace trim of the bra she'd unconsciously chosen—black, delicate, the one Hiroshi had bought her for their tenth anniversary. She hesitated, then left it on top. *Ridiculous*, she thought. *It's just a trip with my son.*
Ryosuke's eyes followed the motion. For a split second, the air between them felt too thick, like the moment before thunder. Then he blinked, stepped back.
"I'll warm the engine," he said, voice rough, and was gone.
---
Miki emerged in a camel coat and scarf, hair twisted into a low knot. Ryosuke held the passenger door of their old Corolla open, one hand on the roof. The interior light painted gold across his cheekbones.
She slid in. The seat was already warm; he'd started the heater for her. As he rounded the hood, she caught their reflection in the side mirror—mother and son, ordinary. Nothing to see here.
Ryosuke settled behind the wheel, keyed the ignition. The radio came on low—some enka ballad about lost love. He reached to change it, fingers brushing hers on the dial. Static crackled between their skin.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's fine." Miki folded her hands in her lap, stared straight ahead as the car rolled down the quiet street. Rain stippled the windshield; the wipers kept a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
Ten minutes passed in silence. Then twenty. The city lights thinned into darkness.
Ryosuke glanced sideways. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're gripping your purse like it owes you money."
She looked down—knuckles white—and forced her fingers to relax. "Habit."
He reached over, pried the purse from her lap, set it in the back seat. Then, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he laced his fingers through hers on the center console.
Miki's breath caught. His palm was warm, rough. Bigger than she remembered. When had her little boy's hands become a man's?
"Just breathe, Mom," he said softly. "I've got you."
The road curved upward into the mountains, headlights carving tunnels through the pines. Miki closed her eyes, let the engine's rumble and the steady pressure of his thumb stroking her knuckles lull her into something dangerously close to peace.
She didn't see the way Ryosuke's gaze kept drifting—from the road, to her parted lips, to the pulse fluttering at her throat beneath the scarf. Didn't see the way his grip tightened when the moonlight caught the lace edge peeking from her coat pocket.
In the hush of the car, the anniversary felt very far away.
And something new—something that had no name yet—was already steaming in the dark.