The first thing my husband did after our wedding was build a shelf.
Not for me. Not for our photos. For the boxes still stacked in the hallway, sealed with tape that had yellowed from age and neglect. He measured twice, drilled once, wiped the dust from his hands, and went back to work without saying a word about how we were supposed to live together now.
I watched from the kitchen, ring still heavy on my finger, wondering when it became possible to marry someone and still not know where you were allowed to stand in their life.
Naoto believed in actions.
I believed in words.
Between us, the house stayed quiet.
The wedding itself had been small. Smaller than my mother wanted, larger than Naoto seemed to expect. Relatives filled the seats first. Friends came later, smiling, uncertain where to stand. Someone cried quietly during the vows. Someone else cried too loudly and embarrassed everyone.
We took photographs. We bowed. We signed our names. By the end of the afternoon, the room looked the same as it had before, only with fewer chairs and more empty glasses.
Our marriage was arranged by our parents. Nothing dramatic. No objections. Just a series of conversations that ended with agreement. That was how we came to live under the same roof, wearing rings that still felt new and learning, slowly, what they were supposed to mean.
By evening, the shelf was still half-finished.
Wood dust had settled into the corners of the room, thin as pollen. Naoto left his tools lined neatly on the floor, the way some people left shoes by the door. I didn't touch them. I wasn't sure yet what counted as permission.
I cooked with what we had. Rice, miso, tofu. The grocery store was close, but spending money felt like a conversation we hadn't had. I rinsed the rice twice, then once more, because it felt safer to be precise. The kitchen echoed when I moved. Too empty. Too clean. Like it was waiting to learn our habits before deciding what to keep.
When the food was ready, I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Naoto tighten a screw with quiet focus.
"Dinner is ready," I said.
He stopped immediately. No sigh, no delay. He wiped his hands on a cloth, set it down, and followed me as if this had always been scheduled.
We ate facing each other at the small table we'd brought from the old place. He ate steadily, without hurry. I watched him between mouthfuls, the way he lowered his gaze to his bowl, the way his shoulders finally relaxed. He didn't comment on the food. He didn't frown either. It occurred to me that silence, to him, might mean approval.
When he finished, he stood and gathered the dishes.
"I can wash—" I started.
"It's fine," he said, already at the sink.
Water ran. The sound filled the space between us. I stayed seated longer than necessary, then stood when I realised there was nothing else to do. He glanced at me over his shoulder.
"Are you finished?"
"Yes."
He took my bowl and washed it with the others.
Later, he returned to the shelf. I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, watching him work. He measured again, adjusted the level, frowned slightly, then fixed it without saying why. When he was done, he stepped back, assessing it with quiet satisfaction.
"I'm finished with the rooms," he said. "You can pick one."
I nodded.
He turned to wash his hands.
"Will you start working tomorrow?" I asked.
He glanced back at me, as if surprised by the question. "Yes. In the morning."
"I see."
He dried his hands. "I'll be back before it gets dark."
I nodded again.
He left the room.
I stayed where I was, looking down the hallway, counting doors. I wondered which one he had already chosen. I wondered when I was supposed to ask. The house was very quiet, but it no longer felt empty.
It felt occupied.
I would start work tomorrow too, but later.
My job didn't take much of the day. It left long stretches untouched.
I walked toward the back of the house. The yard was small, bordered by a fence that still smelled new. Nothing had been planted. The ground looked untouched, as if it hadn't decided what it was meant for.
Maybe I could use this space.
Naoto worked full-time. His days already had shape. Mine could still move around his.
I stayed there a while longer, imagining nothing specific, just the idea of making the place look lived in.
**
I woke to movement that wasn't meant for me.
The house sounded awake in careful ways. A cupboard closing softly. Water running, then stopping. Footsteps that avoided the floorboards I'd already learned to hear. By the time I sat up, the room was empty.
Naoto's futon had been folded neatly at the foot of the wall.
I listened. The front door opened, then closed. The sound travelled through the house and settled there, final.
When I went into the kitchen, the table had been cleared. A single plate sat in the centre, covered, still warm. Rice, neatly packed. Miso soup in a flask. Chopsticks laid parallel, aligned with the edge of the table.
One portion.
I looked at the clock and sat down too quickly. I ate without slowing, tasting only enough to know it was familiar. By the time I stood, the warmth had already faded from the bowl.
The shower steamed the small bathroom. I dressed quickly, pulled my bag from where I'd left it the night before, and wheeled my bicycle out into the morning air.
At the kindergarten, the gate was already open. Shoes lined the entrance, mismatched and bright. One of the teachers was crouched near the door, greeting the children as they arrived, tying a loose strap, wiping a face that hadn't fully woken yet.
"Good morning," she said when she saw me.
I returned the greeting and stepped inside, rolling up my sleeves.
The day began the way it always did, with small hands reaching and voices calling my name.
By then, the quiet of the house already felt far away.
At lunch, I ate with the children. Half a bowl at a time, stopping when someone needed help with a lid or a spill. Somewhere between bites, the thought surfaced. I wondered where Naoto ate. Whether he brought food from home, or bought something nearby. Whether he ate alone.
There was no space to sit with it.
At two, the children were collected, one by one. I bowed to the teacher and the others before wheeling my bicycle out through the gate.
On the way home, I stopped at a small shop that sold gardening tools. I didn't stay long. Just gloves. A pair that fit. At the grocery store, I bought what we were missing and nothing more.
I carried the bags inside and set them down by the door. The gloves were on top.