The train left without looking back.
Harumi stood on the platform for a few seconds, gripping the handle of her suitcase like it was a "rewind" button.
It was already dark. The small countryside town had gone quiet. Mountain wind brushed her face — cold, clean, honest.
She smiled.
— This is it, — she said, more to herself than to the world. — New life in Hinode. No drama. No chaos. No surprises.
Izumi nearly fell over while carrying a box that was way too big for her.
— You said that before buying this house without even visiting it.
Harumi grabbed another box with determination.
— I did research.
— You read three online comments.
— Honest comments!
— One of them said, "I think it has plumbing."
Harumi ignored that.
The town was small. Quiet. The scent of home-cooked food lingered in the air. Cats lounged across sidewalks like they owned the place. An elderly man watering his plants watched the two of them with the unmistakable expression of someone thinking, these girls won't last a month.
Harumi waved cheerfully.
— Good morning!
He blinked slowly.
Did not respond.
Izumi muttered:
— They already know you're not from here.
— Perfect. That way I can surprise them.
At the end of the street stood the house.
Traditional. Old. Beautiful… if you used a generous amount of imagination.
Harumi stopped at the gate and examined it in silence. The roof looked solid. The structure seemed decent. The veranda had charm. Dust? Yes. Problems? Most likely. But it was standing.
She smiled with resolve.
— We can work with this.
Izumi tilted her head.
— "This" being the house? Or your denial?
Harumi took out the key.
— Trust the process.
She turned it.
Nothing.
She turned it again.
The key made a strange sound.
CLACK.
The doorknob fell into her hand.
Silence.
Izumi looked at the object.
Then at Harumi.
— Fascinating process.
Harumi took a deep breath.
Because otherwise, she would panic.
— Okay. First lesson of the house: don't trust things just because they look attached.
She set her box down and pushed the door with her shoulder.
The door flew open a little too enthusiastically.
They both stumbled inside.
A cloud of dust rose as if the house had sighed after years of holding its breath.
Izumi coughed.
— I can see the air.
Harumi walked a few steps down the hallway. The tatami creaked. The curtains hung crooked. One of the sliding doors leaned at an angle that felt… legally questionable.
She slowly turned, evaluating everything.
Not in despair.
In calculation — although, truthfully, she mostly wanted to look smart. Like a responsible adult who absolutely knew what she was doing.
— The structure's good, — she said, pointing at the ceiling. — The wood's still solid. Natural ventilation. Great afternoon lighting.
An interior door fell over behind them.
THUD.
Izumi blinked.
— The ventilation is… aggressive.
Harumi stared at the fallen door.
— Okay. Second lesson: nothing in this house is emotionally stable.
Izumi burst out laughing.
— You spent all your savings on this!
Harumi crossed her arms, still smiling.
— I invested in potential.
— In potential collapse.
— In potential to become a home. A spectacular one, by the way!!
That quieted Izumi for a second.
Harumi walked to the window and straightened the crooked shoji screen. Light flooded in, illuminating the dust floating in the air.
The house looked less abandoned.
Just… waiting for a miracle.
She spoke softer now, but firm.
— I needed a place like this.
Izumi noticed. This wasn't impulse.
It was a choice.
— You're going to renovate everything by yourself?
Harumi turned with a determined look. The kind of look that was frankly dangerous on someone like her.
— Not by myself. YOU'RE helping me.
— NOOOO! I'm just here for a week!
— A week is plenty of time to learn how to use a power drill.
Izumi made a face and stuck her tongue out.
Harumi clapped once, energized.
— Action plan: clean the living room today. Check the plumbing tomorrow. Survive the first shower by Friday.
— Survive the shower?!
— The bathroom door just fell off. Be resilient.
Izumi started laughing again.
Harumi placed her hands on her hips and looked around.
Boxes everywhere. Dust. A fallen door. A retired doorknob.
She took a deep breath.
— See all this?
— Unfortunately.
— In a year, we're going to look back and laugh.
Izumi smiled.
— You sound very sure.
Harumi gave that half-confident smile.
— I'm not sure. But I have intention. And that's already half the journey.
The house creaked again.
Izumi pointed at the floor.
— It disagrees.
Harumi replied immediately:
— It's just adjusting to our energy.
A brief silence.
Then the two of them started unloading boxes.
Tripping.
Complaining.
Laughing.
The house was old.
But it was alive.
And so was Harumi.
She had no idea that this calm, slightly stubborn decision was about to turn her life into something much bigger than peace and eight hours of sleep.
But for now?
It was just the beginning.
And she was ready.