Episode 4

Rina had never meant to read it.

It wasn’t even hers. Just a slip of paper, folded twice, left on the edge of the break room table beside a half-empty cup of tea. Emi must have dropped it when she came in for water. Rina hadn’t meant to pry. But the ink had caught the light—*“I still have your scarf”*—and then the next line: *“I miss you.”*

She’d read only three sentences before guilt clamped around her chest like a vise.

She folded the letter again. Placed it back exactly as she found it. Didn’t touch Emi’s cup. Didn’t mention it at the morning meeting. But all day, the words hummed under her skin.

*“I broke myself to keep from being broken.”*

She’d never seen anyone so still and so shattered at the same time.

At 5:18 p.m., she stood outside Emi’s workspace, arms crossed, clipboard pressed to her ribs like a shield.

“Tanaka-san,” she said. “Are you heading home?”

Emi didn’t look up. Her hands moved with precision over the diary, brush barely grazing the page. “Soon.”

Rina hesitated. “I… found something today.”

Emi’s hand stilled.

“A letter,” Rina said. “On the table. I didn’t read much. Just… enough.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Emi set the brush down. Looked up. Her eyes weren’t angry. Not exactly. They were *tired*—like she’d been waiting for this moment for years.

“You read it,” she said.

“I saw a line. Two. Then I stopped.” Rina swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Emi studied her. Not with suspicion. With something quieter. *Recognition?* “You didn’t tell anyone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I would’ve wanted someone to do the same for me.” Rina’s voice dropped. “Who is he?”

Emi looked back at the diary. At Lady Sato’s faded script. “No one important.”

“That’s a lie,” Rina said softly. “No one important doesn’t make you write letters every day.”

Emi didn’t answer.

Rina exhaled. “You don’t have to talk about it. But… you don’t have to be alone, either.”

She turned to leave.

“Rina.”

She stopped.

Emi didn’t look at her. “Thank you. For not reading more.”

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It wasn’t friendship.

But it was a crack.

And cracks let in light.

---

The walk home was longer than usual.

Emi took the back streets, past the moss-covered shrine, through the narrow alley where laundry lines crisscrossed like veins. The scarf was in her coat pocket now, folded small, but she could still feel its weight.

She didn’t want to go home.

Not because of Rina.

But because of the truth she’d written the night before—*I was afraid*—and the way it now echoed in every silent corner of her life.

When she turned onto her street, Haru was sweeping the path again.

He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“Work ran long.”

He nodded, continued sweeping. “The phone rang.”

Emi paused. “For me?”

“No. For the house.” He leaned on the broom. “From Tokyo. The National Archive. Said they’re digitizing old private collections. They found your name on a donor list. Wants to confirm something about a manuscript you cataloged years ago.”

Her stomach dropped.

*Tokyo.*

Not a person. Not Kaito.

Just bureaucracy.

Just paper.

But it was a thread.

And threads could pull you back.

“When did they call?” she asked.

“Twenty minutes ago.” Haru studied her. “I told them you’d call back tomorrow.”

She nodded, too quickly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I know.”