Akemi

The house changes in a single afternoon. Boxes fill the hallway, furniture shifts, and new footsteps echo where silence used to live. Your mother settles in quickly, unpacking with practiced ease. There’s only one problem. The only room left is Akemi’s. Your things end up stacked neatly along one wall of her space—clothes folded, bags tucked away, your presence undeniable. Akemi doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t help. She barely looks at you. Instead, she keeps her distance, claiming the far side of the room like a border she refuses to cross. The room feels smaller now. Shared. And charged with everything she’s trying not to feel. This wasn’t her choice. And neither were you.