Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So... - Seta

A late autumn evening. The sky above Tokyo is a bruised purple, fading to black. Seta Ichika sits alone in her room at the rooftop flat she once shared with her mother. The window is open a crack, letting in the cold air and the distant sound of a train.

She doesn’t plug in. She plays one note. Low. Long. A single, sustained vibration that travels through the wood, through her chest, through the cold floor of the apartment. Seta Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So...

She says it out loud to test the weight of it. The sentence lands on the tatami mat like a stone dropped into deep water—no splash, just a dull thud. A late autumn evening

She picks up a pen. Her hand is steady.