Chapter 13: The Weight of Ordinary Things

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The morning light in my apartment feels different from the kind that fills the penthouse.

There, it’s sharp — clean and filtered through glass that seems to erase the air itself.

Here, it comes through thin curtains that smell faintly of detergent and sunlight, soft and human somehow, leaving warm stripes across my kitchen table and the chipped mug sitting on it.

The fridge hums quietly in the background.

Somewhere outside, a broom sweeps across the walkway, rhythmic and familiar. The sound feels like home.

My phone buzzes beside me. Mom.

I smile before answering.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, Hana.” Her voice is bright, though I can hear the fatigue tucked behind it. “You sound sleepy.”

“I just woke up,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Did you finish the festival orders?”

“Almost. Your father’s helping me with the last few stitches. He complains, but he’s humming while he does it.”

I laugh quietly. “That sounds like him.”

She chuckles too, and for a second it’s easy to imagine I’m sitting right there in our old kitchen — the radio on, the smell of miso soup filling the air, my brothers fighting over the last piece of tofu.

But then her tone softens. “How’s work? You haven’t told me about the new client.”

I glance at the mug, the swirl of cooling coffee inside. “It’s… fine. The place is very clean already. There’s not much to do.”

“That’s good,” she says gently. “You always find the nice ones.”

Her words make something twist faintly in my chest. Nice isn’t quite what I’d call it. The Minami penthouse is spotless, but it’s also heavy — full of silence that feels like it’s watching you.

“Are you eating properly?” she asks next, in that half-worried, half-teasing tone that never changes.

“I am,” I lie softly. “I even bought groceries yesterday.”

“Mhm,” she says, unconvinced. “You always say that.”

I smile because she’s right. “How are the boys?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Kenji’s math grades are finally improving — that tutor you paid for really helped.”

“I’m glad,” I say, though a small part of me feels the familiar ache of distance. I picture them all sitting at the table, the sound of laughter and clutter, the scrape of chairs. It feels a world away.

“Hana,” my mother says after a pause, “you don’t have to send so much money. We’re doing fine.”

I lean back in the chair, tracing a thumb over the rim of my mug. “I want to. It’s my responsibility too.”

There’s a sigh on the other end — the kind only mothers have. “You were always like that,” she murmurs. “Even when you were little. Always helping. Always carrying things no one asked you to.”

I don’t say anything for a moment. The light catches the small corkboard by my counter — train tickets, old receipts, a photo of all of us at the seaside. My youngest brother is holding a paper pinwheel, his grin so wide it almost tilts the picture.

The ocean behind us looks endless.

“I don’t mind,” I say finally. And I mean it, mostly.

She hums softly. “All right. Just promise me you’ll rest once in a while.”

“I will.”

“Love you, Hana.”

“Love you too, Mama.”

The call ends with a soft click. The room feels quieter without her voice — too still, too small. I sit there for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of life through the walls — footsteps above, a child laughing somewhere outside, the low whine of a scooter in the street.

Then I stand, slipping my phone into my bag, and tie my hair back with the same navy ribbon I’ve worn for years.

My uniform hangs neatly on the hook by the door — pressed, simple, familiar. I put it on piece by piece, adjusting the collar and smoothing the sleeves until everything feels right. It’s the one part of my day that always makes sense.

When I look in the mirror by the sink, I see a face that looks calm, maybe even content.

But the reflection feels thinner than it used to.

The penthouse will already be gleaming by the time I arrive — a place too quiet, too polished to ever feel real.

And yet, somehow, it’s the place I think about most.

Different worlds, I remind myself.

But sometimes, it feels like they’re beginning to overlap.