Chapter 1.5
The suitcase sat open on the floor, half-packed, surrounded by a quiet chaos of scarves, socks, and books she wouldn't read. Ayame knelt beside it, folding a sweater for the third time. Her hands moved automatically. Her mind did not.
The trip was a few days away. Ren's excitement buzzed in his messages. Noa sent a checklist every morning. Even Yuuta had chimed in—polite, factual, curious about whether she liked herbal tea or green.
Ayame, in turn, sent polite responses. Minimal emojis.
The apartment was still. Her fingers hovered over a notepad she'd left beside her laptop. Ideas half-scrawled. Lines of dialogue that once burned now felt weightless.
The cursor blinked in her document. Waiting.
She stood and went to the kitchen instead. The kettle clicked on. A silence followed.
She pressed her palms against the edge of the counter. The pressure grounded her.
Then the tears came, soundless and sudden.
She turned away from the window and sank slowly to the floor, knees drawn in. The ticking of the kettle, the hum of the fridge—everything became too loud.
What am I doing? she thought.
A soft rustle made her look up.
The white cat was there.
It had curled up on her writing chair, tail wrapped around its body, eyes half-closed in that sleepy, all-knowing way. As if it had always been there. As if it had waited.
She blinked at it through blurry eyes.
The cat stood, jumped lightly to the floor, and padded toward her.
It pressed its body against her side, warm and soft. A small purr vibrated through her coat. She reached out slowly and stroked its fur. It leaned into the touch, cheek nudging her hand like a child.
The warmth reached her chest.
She smiled.
"You always come when I break, huh?"
The cat blinked up at her, then trotted back toward the window. In one elegant leap, it disappeared onto the sill—and when she reached the glass to look, it was already gone.
She turned back toward the kitchen, noticing something she had nearly forgotten: the faint chime from her purse as she moved. The bell—small, silver, tied with red ribbon—swayed gently from its place on the strap. She hadn't removed it since that day. Now, it sounded almost like reassurance.
She gently lifted the purse from the chair and cradled it against her chest. The bell's chime felt like a whisper in a quiet room—subtle, unobtrusive, but impossible not to notice once heard. She ran her fingers along the ribbon. A thread tugged from the hem, the knot slightly looser now. She considered retying it but left it as it was. Some things were better when they looked a little worn.
---
The next morning, Ayame met Noa for coffee.
The café was noisy, a bubble of warmth against the outside chill. Noa waved from a back table, already halfway through a scone.
"You look better," she said.
"I cried for half an hour last night," Ayame replied honestly.
"That'll do it."
Noa poured her tea. "Yuuta's finalized the route. It's mostly mapped trails, some forest, some ridge. You'll love it. Maybe even get inspired. You know, nature and novels."
Ayame stirred her cup slowly.
"I'm scared," she said.
Noa's voice softened. "Of what?"
"Of liking it. Of it ending. Of… disappearing and no one noticing."
Noa reached across the table, her fingers closing around Ayame's briefly.
"I'd notice."
Ayame's throat tightened. Her fingers curled loosely around Noa's before letting go. She glanced out the window as a bus pulled up, its lights fogged by steam. For a second, she imagined herself not getting on the train, not going at all. But something in her chest told her she would.
---
The night before the shrine trip, Ayame returned to her family's home again. Her suitcase was already in the car.
She helped Ren polish the shrine box, just as they used to. Kneeling side by side, cloth in hand, the lacquered wood catching faint glints of light.
Ren looked sideways at her. "You've been smiling more lately."
"Have I?"
"Not like, wide or anything. But your eyes are less heavy."
She didn't know how to answer that.
Later, she passed her mother in the hall.
"You packed too many coats," her mother said flatly. "You'll have no room for omiyage."
"I'll make space," Ayame said softly.
Her mother kept walking.
Ayame glanced down at her purse resting on the nearby bench. The silver bell shimmered faintly, and as if responding to her thoughts, it gave a muted chime.
---
At the shrine the next day, she wore the same pale lavender kimono. The winter sun barely pierced the clouds.
Ren offered to carry her purse. She let him.
The small bell tied to the strap gave the faintest chime as he lifted it—soft, silvery, almost too light to hear. He looked down at it for a second and then gave her a sideways glance, curious but silent.
Their parents walked slightly ahead again—her father quiet, her mother already rehearsing what to say to old neighbors.
But the white cat was there.
It circled Ayame's feet once, brushing her ankle, then sat watching from the path's edge. When she crouched, it let her scratch behind its ear.
"I'm leaving soon," she whispered.
The cat meowed—bright and soft.
Then it vanished into the trees.
She stood slowly, brushing a bit of dust from her sleeves. The bell on her purse rang once—just enough to let her know she wasn't entirely alone.
---
That night, Ayame wrote a single line in her notebook before sleep:
I wonder if I have to disappear to be found.
End of Chapter 1.5 — Where the Wind Goes Quiet