The Threads That Bind Us

The soft glow of dawn spilled through the thin curtains, painting the room in gentle shades of gold.

Obanai stirred, the warmth of the futon wrapped around him like a shield. His eyes fluttered open to the faint sound of humming—a familiar melody that tugged at his heart.

He blinked slowly and realized: the room smelled like sweet rice and toasted bread.

Careful not to disturb the fragile morning peace, Obanai turned his head toward the doorway.

There, framed by the soft morning light, was Mitsuri. She stood by the small wooden stove, humming softly, her pink hair catching the sun like a halo.

Her yukata was loosely tied, and she looked as radiant as ever—unburdened by the weight of the world they both fought in.

Obanai's heart ached with quiet gratitude.

He wanted to say something—to tell her how much these moments meant—but the words stuck in his throat.

So instead, he watched her.

She turned and smiled when she noticed him awake, her eyes bright and warm. "Good morning, Iguro," she said softly.

"Good morning," he replied, voice rough but steady.

She walked over and sat beside him on the futon, offering a bowl of steaming miso soup. "I made your favorite."

Obanai took it, their fingers brushing, sending a small spark through his body.

For a moment, everything was still. The world outside could wait.

Because here, in this room filled with light and love, they had found something rare.

A quiet beginning.
A soft promise.
A thread weaving their hearts closer—one morning at a time.