Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Kaori’s Cold Eyes

Humans say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

As a former human, I can confirm this is sometimes true. But sometimes, the windows are closed. Bolted. With blackout curtains and an "Emotionally Unavailable, Please Come Back Never" sign stuck to the glass.

Kaori had eyes like that.

Sharp. Distant. Always calculating the next thing: a dish to wash, a bill to pay, a problem to silently carry.

And never—not once since I arrived—had those eyes really looked at me.

She fed me. Bathed me. Cleaned up after me. But her gaze always passed through me, like I was a shadow passing across the floor, nothing more than another piece of responsibility in a house built on quiet strain.

It started that morning.

Yumi was eating breakfast at the table—a wonky mix of soggy cereal and a peeled banana she offered to me like treasure. I sniffed it politely and declined by turning my head toward the wall.

“Are you sure dogs can’t have bananas?” she asked.

Kaori didn’t answer at first. She was at the sink, eyes fixed on a coffee mug that she’d been rinsing for far too long.

“Some can,” she said finally. “But he probably won’t like it.”

“He likes meatballs,” Yumi chirped. “He barked when I sang about them yesterday.”

Kaori dried the mug, her fingers slow, precise. Still not looking at me.

Later, while Yumi was at school, I wandered around the house. I wasn’t snooping. I was investigating. There's a difference.

The home had the scent of careful erasure—pictures taken down, frames turned backward, dust collecting in corners where memories used to live.

In the living room cabinet, behind a stack of tax forms and an unopened mailer marked “To the Occupant,” I found a photo. Half-tucked in an envelope. Slightly bent.

It showed Kaori, Yumi... and a man.

Handsome in that smug, bank-ad-commercial kind of way. Hair gelled. Smile neat. Arm stiffly around Kaori’s shoulder.

Yumi looked younger—maybe four or five. She was clutching a stuffed dog.

Not a real one. A plush.

There was no joy in the photo. Just posed normalcy. A family-shaped performance.

I sniffed it.

It smelled like bitterness and cologne.

That afternoon, Kaori was folding laundry when her phone buzzed.

She didn’t pick it up right away.

But when she did, her posture changed. Her hands stilled. Her voice dropped.

“No, you can’t,” she said quietly into the receiver. “That’s not the agreement.”

I froze, ears twitching.

“I don’t care if she asked about you. She’s eight. She asks about the moon, too. Doesn’t mean it’s coming back.”

Her voice didn’t shake. That’s what made it scarier.

“No. You don’t get to come here. You left, remember?”

Pause.

“And for the record, she got the dog because I let her. Not because you were allergic. Not because you hated them. Because she asked, and I decided to give her one damn thing she wanted.”

Click.

Silence.

Kaori stood still for a long time, holding a T-shirt to her chest like a shield.

Then she folded it, slowly, perfectly, and went back to work like nothing had happened.

That night, I stayed close to Yumi.

She talked in her sleep. A soft mumble: “Mochi... don’t go, okay?”

I didn’t plan on it.

I curled at her feet and watched Kaori as she passed by the doorway with a towel over her shoulder, pausing only briefly before pulling it tighter and moving on.

She still didn’t look at me.

But that night, when she set down my bowl of food... she stayed there for a second longer.

She didn’t say anything.

But her fingers brushed the edge of my ear as she stood.

And maybe it was my imagination...

But her eyes weren’t quite as cold.

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