Chapter 36: A Week Away From Gray

POV: Hana Kimura

The moment I stepped into my apartment, my phone vibrated with a message.

From him.

I steadied my breath before opening it.

Kaito Minami:

You will take leave for the next seven days. Minimum. Extend your stay with your family if necessary.

I will handle the situation.

Do not return to the office until I tell you.

My grip tightened around the phone.

Seven days.

Maybe more.

His tone firm, but beneath it—quiet, controlled concern he would never say aloud.

He was pushing me away from the fallout.

Protecting me by distance.

I swallowed hard and typed:

Me:

I understand. I’m heading to my parents’ house tonight. I’ll message when I get there.

I locked up my apartment, suitcase wheels tapping softly along the hallway. The city lights buzzed overhead, too bright for the knot in my stomach.

Halfway to the station, I finally texted my mother:

Me:

Mom… I’m coming home for a bit. They gave me a week of leave. I’ll explain when I get there, I promise. I’m taking the late train.

Her response came instantly.

Mom:

Are you okay? What happened? Do you want your father to pick you up?

My eyes stung.

Me:

I’m okay. Just overwhelmed. I’ll be there soon.

More dots.

Appearing, vanishing.

Mom:

We’ll be waiting. Come safely.

My chest tightened in a way no rumor or headline could cause.

---

The train rocked gently as it sped north, the city gradually dissolving into dark fields and unlit countryside.

Seven days away.

Maybe more.

My fingers curled around my phone, thumb resting where his name sat on the screen. No follow-up text. No checking in. No reassurance.

Because he trusted me to follow instructions.

Because he was busy containing fires I had accidentally helped ignite.

The train lights flickered as the conductor announced the next transfer point. I messaged my mother again:

Me:

Switching trains now. Should be there in 40 minutes.

Her response was warm, worry-laced:

Mom:

I left the porch light on.

---

When I reached my hometown station, the cold air hit with the familiar scent of cedar and old winter.

Their house sat at the end of a quiet residential street—two stories of warm wood and soft lights, attached to my mother’s sewing workshop. Through the windows, I could see the glow of the studio lamp she always forgot to turn off.

Before I lifted my hand to the gate, the front door opened.

“Hana?”

My mother’s voice wavered.

She wore her apron still, a measuring tape hanging around her neck, as if she’d dropped her work the moment she saw my message.

“Hana!”

Kenji—my high school sophomore baby brother—burst into view behind her, socks sliding on the floor.

“You’re actually here?! What happened?”

“Kenji,” my father warned with a low tone, stepping out behind Mom. Calm, steady, quietly worried.

Then Shun appeared—my older younger brother, the college freshman home on a break.

He leaned on the doorframe, eyes wide. “Mom’s been pacing for like an hour. Did you get in trouble at work—?”

“Shun,” Dad repeated, firmer.

Both boys shut up on command. Kind of.

Mom reached me first, pulling me into a hug that squeezed all the breath out of me.

“You should have called earlier,” she whispered. Her hands brushed over my hair, my cheeks, as if checking for invisible damage. “A whole week off? Hana… what happened?”

I swallowed. “It’s just… complicated at work.”

Kenji’s eyes sparked with curiosity. “Does it have to do with that photo of—”

“KENJI,” Mom snapped, mortified.

He shrank instantly, muttering a sorry that fooled no one.

“Come inside,” Dad said gently. “You can rest first. Talk later.”

Warmth wrapped around me the second I stepped in—the faint hum of the sewing machine still vibrating through the floorboards, even though it was off. The smell of fabric, miso broth, and home washed over me at once.

I set my suitcase near the stairs and slipped my phone from my pocket.

Still no message.

Of course.

He had a board to face.

Shareholders to placate.

Rumors to crush before they spread.

But even so… I typed instinctively:

Me:

I arrived safely. Thank you.

I placed the phone face-down on the table, pretending I wasn’t listening for every tiny vibration.

But as my family settled around me—Mom fussing, Dad quietly supportive, Shun trying not to stare too hard, Kenji asking too many questions—I felt it.

That invisible thread.

Stretched two prefectures long, thin as silk but unbroken.

A gray line between us.

And no matter how far I had run tonight…

I could still feel him holding the other end.