A deathly silence.
Ms. Nagasaki sat upright on the sofa, spine perfectly straight, like a statue carved from marble. Her gaze had congealed on Hiroshima Mori—more precisely, on the clear-featured, handsome youth who seemed to be Hiroshima Mori. Her eyes were empty and bewildered, as if her mind had stalled in place.
"Ms. Nagasaki?"
Only when Hiroshima Mori spoke again did she finally react. With a stiff expression, she reached out and shook his hand. The moment her fingers brushed the back of his hand—feeling the healthy warmth and fine texture unique to youth—her eyelid twitched sharply. As if burned, she yanked her hand back at once.
Rejuvenation. Time flowing backward.
That was not something a human being could do.
"S-so gods really exist?" Ms. Nagasaki blurted, pressing hard at her forehead. "And goddesses, at that? Soyo… is she truly being watched by divine beings from another world?"
The shock was too large, too surreal. Even a woman of her caliber—an iron-willed executive type—couldn't help but spiral into confusion.
"W-what do they want her to do? Spread the faith? Become their shrine maiden? Or punish the sects that refuse to revere them?" Her voice sped up as her thoughts ran wild. "If that happens, who's the first to suffer? Buddhism? Christianity? Or Japan's native Shinto…?"
"Please calm down, Ms. Nagasaki." Hiroshima Mori's voice was gentle, soothing, his tone softening in a way that didn't feel forced. "In my world, the Three Goddesses have always been revered as righteous deities. They do not require sects, and they do not interfere with people's beliefs. Even in folk tales, they often appear as kind, benevolent saviors."
"So the things you're imagining won't happen," he continued. "And the goddesses will not do anything bad to Nagasaki-san."
"But—"
Meeting his gaze, Ms. Nagasaki suddenly felt… awkward.
After witnessing what could only be called a miracle, the man in front of her had shifted from a peer into a boy. His face was so youthful that if he called her "big sister," she wouldn't even know how to respond.
And yet—his voice, his manner, his bearing—everything about him still radiated a powerful sense of reliability.
Most of all, it was those black eyes.
Like a still lake: deep, warm, composed. Vast enough to hold any emotion. Looking into them, one almost felt gently supported—as if that gaze could lift a person's weight without asking.
Open her eyes, and he was a tall, beautiful youth.
Close them, and he was a mature gentleman of her own age—steady, dependable.
The violent dissonance between sight and sense made Ms. Nagasaki avert her gaze. She turned her head toward the kitchen.
Soyo stood by the stove in her apron, watching the frying pan. She had clearly heard the conversation, but she did not turn around.
"If you insist on a reason," Hiroshima Mori said carefully, "I can offer a guess."
"The Three Goddesses believe your daughter—Nagasaki Soyo—needs help right now."
"Needs help? Soyo?" Ms. Nagasaki blinked, dragged abruptly out of her awkwardness.
"Yes," Hiroshima Mori said. "This isn't the first time they've issued me a commission to… assist someone. And afterward, I reflected on the pattern. When I receive a commission, the person I'm meant to help is inevitably facing a life-altering choice—or an overwhelming struggle. Without exception."
The moment the words fell, a few low, ambiguous chuckles sounded from behind Hiroshima Mori—chuckles only he could hear.
Ms. Nagasaki frowned.
"Mr. Hiroshima… are you saying Soyo is currently facing—"
A sharp, brittle crash exploded through the air, cutting her off.
Ms. Nagasaki whipped her head around and saw her daughter standing with her head lowered by the stove. At her feet, a ceramic bowl had shattered into fragments. Egg yolk and whites splattered across the floor amid a spray of broken shards.
Ms. Nagasaki jolted to her feet.
"Soyo—"
The first half of her shout had barely left her mouth when the floor trembled faintly beneath her feet.
In the next second, a short, forceful rush of air swept past her face.
A blurred black shadow streaked by her side—too fast to be real.
It was Hiroshima Mori.
In an instant, he crossed the entire living area and appeared—like a blink—between Nagasaki Soyo and the broken porcelain.
"—yo!"
Only now did the latter half of Ms. Nagasaki's cry finally catch up, belated.
She froze, lips parted, staring at his back.
In that single movement, she understood her earlier threat had been laughable. The physical ability and athletic explosiveness he had just exposed were just as inhuman as the miracle he'd shown her moments ago.
Her hand, still half-raised, slowly fell.
From a distance, Ms. Nagasaki watched Hiroshima Mori's silhouette, her eyes a knot of emotions too complex to name.
Meanwhile, Hiroshima Mori was staring at the girl in front of him, tension written plainly across his face.
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." Nagasaki Soyo shook her head lightly. She glanced at the shattered pieces near her feet, then lifted her eyes to meet his.
She was silent for two seconds, then asked quietly:
"Mr. Hiroshima… there's something I've been curious about."
"When we first met just now… why did you call me… wife?"
"Hm?"
On the sofa behind them, Ms. Nagasaki's gaze tightened in an instant—sharp as a blade.
Hiroshima Mori fell silent.
At last, he drew his phone from his suit pocket, lit the screen, set it on the kitchen counter, and gently slid it toward Soyo.
"Wait—this is… Soyo?!"
The startled cry came from Ms. Nagasaki, who had moved close without anyone noticing.
On the screen was a selfie—Hiroshima Mori and Nagasaki Soyo together.
They wore matching off-white couple knitwear, lying close on a sofa, cheek to cheek. Both looked at the camera from the corners of their eyes—Hiroshima Mori languid and relaxed, Nagasaki Soyo soft and calm, the unmistakable posture of a couple at home.
—No.
That wasn't Soyo.
Ms. Nagasaki realized it almost immediately. Compared to her daughter, the woman in the photo was clearly more mature. It was just that the photo's serene, settled atmosphere made one unconsciously ignore the difference in age.
And more importantly—
Two long animal ears, horse-like, stood atop her head.
That was not something a human could have.
"She is my wife," Hiroshima Mori said, lowering his eyes to the screen. His fingertip traced the woman's face with an almost reverent tenderness, like stroking a rare jewel. "Grass Wonder."
"She's adorable, isn't she?"
Looking at the blissful face on the screen—so nearly identical to her own—Soyo turned her eyes away, awkward, lips pressed together. She nodded.
"…Yes."
"Mr. Hiroshima," Ms. Nagasaki said suddenly, turning to him, "you and your wife look very close. Why didn't you bring her with you—"
"Wait! Mom!"
Soyo startled, trying to cut her off.
"Because I held her funeral yesterday," Hiroshima Mori said.
His expression was calm as he spoke, but the corner of his eye twitched—so slightly it was almost imperceptible.
"T-this…" Ms. Nagasaki froze, then bowed her head to him at once. "I'm truly, deeply sorry."
"It's all right." Hiroshima Mori shook his head. "I have the Three Goddesses' promise. If I assist Nagasaki-san in fulfilling her wish, then as my reward… they will return Kusa to me."
"I see."
At last, the final thread of doubt in Ms. Nagasaki's mind unraveled. She stared at the chestnut-haired woman on the phone screen, and her shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.
"So you accepted a divine commission, crossed from Tokyo of another world to here…" she said slowly. "Your true purpose is to save your wife."
"Yes." Hiroshima Mori nodded. "It's selfishness. It's also the root reason I'm willing to help Nagasaki-san."
He turned to Nagasaki Soyo.
"And… I apologize again, Nagasaki-san. What I said earlier was thoughtless, spoken in a moment of losing myself. Please don't take it to heart."
"I'm fine." Soyo said softly, then hesitated.
She glanced at her mother, lowered her lashes, and lightly fidgeted with her fingertips.
"I'm grateful for the goddesses' concern," she continued, "but… I don't think I have any wish that absolutely must be fulfilled."
"Or any trouble that absolutely must be solved."
Watching the girl's tranquil face bathed in sunlight, Hiroshima Mori's brow tightened—just a fraction.
-------
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