Chapter 41: The Distance I Crossed

POV: Kaito Minami

Sleep had become theoretical.

Seven days without Hana in the office, and the city felt drained of everything but grayscale. The meeting rooms, the stock charts, the polished floors—familiar, silent, suffocating in the way only routine without color could be.

Boardrooms blurred together.

Rumors online hissed like static.

The board demanded answers I did not give.

And through all of it, her name sat on my phone screen.

Unlit.

Absent.

Not a call. Not a message. Not even a single emoji.

Logical. Expected. She needed space. I had pushed too far in the elevator.

And yet the silence collected in my chest like dust, clinging to everything it touched.

I needed information.

Not to intrude.

Not to intervene.

Just to know she was… reachable. Safe.

More certainty than a single text could provide.

So, I called her former employer.

A liaison call—formal, professional.

“Fujimoto Hana,” I said, leaning back in my chair, voice steady though the office air felt sharp, almost metallic. “I need her employee file forwarded.”

A pause.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I simply need to finalize documentation on my end.”

Not untrue. Her sudden leave had left paperwork incomplete, loose ends that could create future liability. No one had reason to refuse.

Minutes later, the email arrived: hometown. Address. Emergency contacts.

A few lines of text.

A postal code.

A town name.

Bureaucratic, precise, and yet suddenly intimate. Enough to tilt my carefully controlled world off its axis.

Someone needed to make sure she was safe.

The decision formed cleanly. No conflict. No hesitation. Just a single point of clarity piercing a week of noise.

I packed lightly: dark coat, cap, mask. No luggage, no traceable reservations. Security and board were not notified. My absence for one night would not matter.

I left through a service exit, avoiding the main doors.

The city around me was quiet, the hum of Tokyo muted. Every step measured, precise. Anyone watching would see a tired businessman leaving late.

I boarded the train. Hours passed in muted grays. Station lights flickered past, countryside fading into soft snowfall. Passengers murmured without notice.

I kept my head down, posture straight. Presence quiet.

Her town arrived without ceremony. Old vending machines flickered weakly. The wind carried the scent of cedar and frost.

I followed the directions from her file, each turn memorized. Her street sloped gently, lined with low houses and dim lanterns. The snow dusted the rooftops, pale gold light spilling over wooden frames.

A place untouched by Tokyo’s urgency.

I stopped beneath a lamppost near her home.

Her window glowed softly behind thin curtains.

Warmth. Life. Family.

Everything I did not have. Everything I could not touch.

I stayed in the shadows. Only to confirm her safety, nothing more.

A responsibility.

A precaution.

But when her silhouette moved past the window—just a shadow, a shape—the thread tightened behind my sternum.

Relief. Muted, restrained, but undeniable.

She was safe.

My phone vibrated in my coat.

A message—from her.

Are you doing okay? You look tired in the last press photo.

Seven days of silence.

Seven days of distance.

Seven days of restraint.

And she reached out first.

I typed before reconsidering:

I’m managing. When will you return?

A few moments later, her reply came almost immediately.

Hana: Maybe tomorrow. Mom wants me to stay one more night, but… I think I’m ready to come back.

Her head turned toward the window, toward the street. Toward me.

Had she seen me?

Her gaze sharpened, precise. I stepped deeper into the shadows, careful, controlled. She could not know I was here. Not now. Not without explanation. Not when I could not even explain it to myself.

I stayed until the lights dimmed, until the house fell into silence. Only then did I send:

Tomorrow is fine.

Neutral. Controlled. Exactly what she needed.

The image of her home remained: warm light spilling over the wooden walls, the quiet glow of a family settled into their evening, snow drifting lazily onto the street. A world alive with color, movement, life—the sort of brightness that was almost blinding to me, a man trained to see in grayscale.

I was not part of it. I could not belong.

But for a brief, unguarded moment, standing beneath that lamppost with the cold wind brushing past, I allowed myself the faintest awareness of it.

She deserved peace.

And I—just for a second—wished I belonged somewhere in it.