“Men think crying is the end. It’s not. It’s just the soup stock. Boil it long enough, and it clears.”
“Kenji. Come.”
He reached into the room, turned off the light, and whispered to the empty bunk bed:
One rainy Tuesday, Haruko knocked on the doorframe. Not the door—the doorframe. Because the door itself had been removed in 2005 after Mio locked herself inside during a tantrum.
“Temporarily.”
He placed the rolled wallpaper on the upper bunk. Beside it, he left a note for Mio: For your first child. Or for you, if you ever need a dark tunnel.
The stars glowed on.
Then he took down the rocket-ship wallpaper border. Carefully. In one long, continuous strip. He rolled it up and tied it with twine.
