Out of place

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We ate at the low table, plates still warm, tomato juice soaking just enough into the crust. For a while, the conversation drifted into easier things—old commercials, train mishaps, the proper ratio of topping to bread.

But that photo—Satoshi-sama—still hovered like steam over the whole room.

I leaned back, nudging my empty plate aside. “So,” I said brightly, “let’s go to Hokkaidō.”

Ryoji looked up mid-bite.

I grinned. “Come on. I had two weeks off, nothing planned, still jetlagged enough to make bad decisions. What better time for a family road trip?”

His brow lowered. “To your father?”

“Sure,” I said, stretching my legs. “I haven’t seen him in forever. He’s probably still in that weather station with his terrible instant coffee and his stack of old mystery novels. And if this Mr. Satoshi was part of that past—then maybe there’s something worth asking.”

Ryoji went still. Not dramatically—but something in him braced.

“No,” he said.

Just that.

“No?”

He stood, gathering the plates too quickly. “Sell the house. Get closure. Then go back to Italy.”

I blinked at him. “Wow. That was decisive.”

“I’m just thinking of your safety.”

“From what? My dad’s terrible taste in furniture?”

He didn’t laugh.

That silence again. The one where his thoughts folded in on themselves.

I stood too, walked up behind him at the sink. “You’re not just being cautious. You’re afraid of what we’ll find.”

He kept scrubbing. “Maybe.”

I softened my voice. “Is it about this Satoshi-sama?”

Still nothing.

“Ryoji.”

He exhaled through his nose. “If I say yes, you’ll just want to go more.”

“I already want to go more.”

His knuckles whitened around the dish.

And then—

Ding-dong.

We both turned to the front door.

His body moved before his eyes did, like instinct. He dropped the towel, crossed the room, peeked through the side glass—and froze.

Not defensive. Not alarmed.

Just… confused.

He opened the door with a guarded posture.

And standing there, with a cane in one hand and a bag of mandarins in the other, was a figure that somehow managed to be completely out of place and yet absolutely familiar. Kyoshi’s grandfather.

“Good afternoon,” the old man said with a smile that curved like an inside joke. “Is Natsumi-chan home?”

Ryoji stared at him like a time traveler had just materialized.

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The old man looked over his shoulder and spotted me. “Ah, there she is. Still shorter than Shizuka, I see.”

My breath caught.

”… Kuroda-sama?”

He stepped in before I could speak, waving the mandarins like a festival prize. “Parting gift from Shizuka and Kyoshi. They insisted.”

I blinked. “That’s… sweet. If unexpected.”

Kuroda-sama offered Ryoji a small bow. “And you must be her guardian for the week. Kyoshi mentioned someone with a watchful eye.”

Ryoji bowed minimally. Said nothing.

Kuroda chuckled. “Mind if I sit? These knees weren’t made for stairwells.”

He lowered himself to the table with a soft grunt. A beat passed. He scanned us, grandfatherly, like trying to spot who’d stolen the remote.

Then he smiled. “Would it trouble you for a glass of water, Natsumi-chan?”

“Of course,” I said, already standing.

I poured from the carafe, the glass cool in my hand—and turned.

He reached for it. Fingertips inches from mine.

But something in the air shifted—like a subtle pressure drop.

And before he could touch me, Ryoji stepped in.

Casual. Seamless.

“I got it,” he said, gently taking the glass from me.

He set it on the table with one hand.

With the other, he laid his palm softly on Kuroda-sama’s shoulder.

A pause.

Then something behind Kuroda’s eyes narrowed—like a file drawer sliding open.

His gaze lifted to Ryoji.

Recognition hit. Silent. Sudden.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Ryoji offered a half-smile. Controlled. Cool. Lifted the plate of bruschetta from the table.

“I bet your mandarins taste great,” he said. “But today, you’ll be the one eating something.”

He leaned slightly, gaze unbroken. “Try this, Kuroda-sama. You’ll love it.”

Kuroda-sama’s pupils contracted. Then, slowly—softened.

His demeanor flicked like a switch.

“Oh my,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Tomatoes! My favorite.”

He took one with the cheerful enthusiasm of a man who’d forgotten what he’d come for.

I watched, uneasy. “That was… weird.”

Ryoji sat beside me, unshaken. “He’s just old. They get like that.”

Kuroda dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “If you don’t mind me asking…” he said gently, “was it strange, seeing Kyoshi and Shizuka again?”

I hesitated. “A little. But not in the way I thought it would be.”

He gave a small nod, eyes on the table. “They didn’t want to impose. Thought maybe space would be easier.”

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I raised an eyebrow. “But they know I don’t even like mandarins.”

He smiled at the fruit bowl, too quickly. “Ah, well. Thought counts, doesn’t it?”

Ryoji, without looking up: “She prefers oranges.”

Kuroda perked up suddenly. “Ah! Pachinko time.” He patted his pocket watch like it mattered. “Wouldn’t want to miss the lucky slot.”

He stood, bowed deeply, and shuffled toward the door. “Thank you for the snack!” he chirped.

Ryoji followed, watched him disappear, and closed the door.

I crossed my arms. “That,” I said, “was like a fever dream wrapped in citrus.”

He nodded.

“They know I don’t eat them.”

I looked at him. He looked at me.

And behind all that calm—I saw it.

Not just thoughtfulness. Not just calculation.

A tension. A pressure. Something more.

Like something coiled behind his eyes, too vast for words.

Ryoji stood without another word and crossed to the window. He pulled the curtain aside just enough to peer through.

I turned in my seat, half-curious, half still unnerved.

Outside, Kuroda-sama was already halfway down the street, cane tapping the pavement in a lazy rhythm. He looked… ordinary. Light coat, hunched shoulders, muttering something to himself like a man caught in the loop of a good joke.

But Ryoji didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

He just stared.

It prickled against my skin. Like the moment right before a thunderclap.

But it wasn’t the air. It was his eyes.

Ryoji’s posture was calm—almost serene as he stared out the window—but his gaze… Those weren’t his eyes.

Gone was the quiet depth, the roughness hiding something warm.

What stared down at Kuroda-sama now was cold. Ancient. Like the gaze of something that had seen too much—and judged it all.

There was no malice. No anger. Just the terrifying stillness of someone who could end a life without blinking.

I froze. My breath caught. My fingers curled against my sides. And for the first time in my life, I felt true fear.

Then—

He blinked.

The light faded. His shoulders eased. He turned to me with something almost human in his face again.

“Let’s go to Hokkaidō,” he said.

And just like that, the world exhaled.

I blinked.

Then I smiled.

Because even if I didn’t know what had just passed through the room like a ghost, I knew one thing for sure:

He was coming with me.

And that meant the next page—whatever it held—we’d turn it together.

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