I close the door behind me and sink onto the futon, the scent of fresh tatami filling the room. Everything feels unfamiliar. The wooden ceiling creaks, the fan hums, and the moonlight spills through the shoji like silver ink.
I stare up, hands resting on my stomach, trying not to think too hard. About Tokyo. About Dad. About everything I left behind.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
A car horn used to blare every thirty seconds back home. Neighbors stomping upstairs, TV chatter through the walls. Now? Just the occasional rustle of the wind and distant waves rolling in.
I turn on my side.
The moon hangs low over the ocean. I can see it from the small window. It looks… close. Like I could almost touch it.
I close my eyes and whisper, "What am I even doing here?"
I open my eyes. It's still night.
Sleep won't come.
No matter how many times I roll over, no matter how deep I bury myself in the blankets, my chest still feels tight. The kind of ache that settles when you've left too much behind too quickly.
I sit up, quietly. The fan turns above me with a low, endless hum.
Maybe a little air will help.
Slipping on a light hoodie, I tiptoe downstairs and slide the front door open. The breeze is cooler now, tinged with the scent of damp rock and seaweed. I walk past the inn's gates, barefoot, my steps muffled by the soft earth.
There's a rocky cliff not far from here—one I used to sit on as a little girl. I wonder if it's still there, untouched. Still holding secrets whispered by the sea.