By the time Aoi and Shun reached Kōri-no-hara, the road had nearly vanished beneath the snow. The windshield wipers dragged thin, wet arcs across the glass. Beyond them, the world was reduced to black pines, white fields, and the dark, uneven shape of mountains beneath an early winter dusk. There were no streetlights. No shops. No other cars. Only the road narrowing ahead of them. “You’re quiet,” Aoi said. “I’m watching the road.” “You’ve been watching the road for an hour.” Shun gave her a small smile, though his hands remained tight on the steering wheel. “It gets worse after dark.” Aoi turned back to the window. Snow clung to the roadside markers, nearly swallowing them whole. Then Shun took a final turn, and warm light appeared ahead. A cluster of old wooden houses stood at the foot of a hill. Their roofs were buried under thick layers of snow, and covered corridors linked each building to the next. Frosted windows glowed gold beneath dark beams. From the road, the compound looked like a small village folded inward against the cold. “That’s the family house?” Aoi asked. “All of it,” Shun said. He pulled into the courtyard. Before the car had fully stopped, the nearest door slid open. A woman in an apron stood in the entryway, framed by warm light. Two people appeared behind her. Then another. Within seconds, half a dozen faces were waiting at the door, all smiling as though they had been watching the road for hours. “They’ve been waiting,” Shun said quietly. Aoi laughed. “We told them when we’d arrive.” “No.” He looked toward the house. “I mean waiting.” The cold hit Aoi the instant she stepped outside. The woman hurried toward her, slippers crunching over packed snow. Before Aoi could bow, the woman took both her hands in hers. “You must be freezing,” she said. “Come inside. The east room has been warmed for you.” Her hands were dry and strangely warm. “I’m sorry to make everyone wait,” Aoi said. “You didn’t make anyone wait.” The woman’s smile deepened. “We were happy to.” Inside, the air smelled of cedar, rice, and ginger. Aoi had barely unfastened one boot when a teenage boy set a pair of thick slippers in front of her. “They should fit,” he said. Aoi blinked. “Thank you.” Someone handed her a hot towel. Someone else took her coat. A woman with silver at her temples leaned close and said, “We made the soup without green onions.” Aoi looked up. “I’m sorry?” “Shun told us you don’t like them.” Across the entry hall, Shun had stopped with one of their bags in his hand. For a brief moment, he looked uncertain. Then he lowered his eyes. “That’s right,” he said. Aoi watched him disappear down the corridor with the luggage. *** Dinner was served in the largest room of the main house. Aoi had expected something quiet and subdued. Shun had told her his grandmother was ill, and she had imagined a dim house, lowered voices, perhaps a few relatives gathered around a sickbed. Instead, the table was crowded with food. Steaming soup. Grilled river fish. Mushrooms cooked with soy and sake. Pickled vegetables in small painted dishes. Bowls of rice arranged in perfect rows. There were more relatives than Aoi could remember meeting at the wedding: aunts, uncles, cousins, spouses, children. They greeted her one by one. Their names slipped past too quickly. Everyone seemed to know where to sit. Everyone knew when to refill a cup, when to pass a dish, when to replace a napkin before someone noticed it had fallen. Aoi did not see anyone ask for anything. Needs were noticed before they became needs. It was seamless. Almost beautiful. Aoi thought of her own family dinners: her father eating in front of the television, her mother scrolling through messages between bites, the silence that settled whenever nobody knew what to say next. She had spent years telling herself that she preferred peace to noise. But this was different. This was warmth. “This is wonderful,” she said. The people nearest her looked up. Not sharply. Not suspiciously. They simply looked at her at the same time. “We’re glad you think so,” one of Shun’s aunts said. “You’re family now,” said another. Aoi smiled. “Thank you.” Across the table, Shun kept his eyes on his rice. The conversation eventually shifted to his grandmother. No one announced the change. It arrived between ordinary remarks about the snow and the road conditions, as though she had been present at the table all along. “Grandmother was awake for nearly an hour this morning,” an older man said. “That’s good,” someone replied. “She knew everyone who came in.” “She always knows.” “She has always known when someone needs her.” Aoi listened for a story. She waited for someone to mention a particular memory: something funny, something difficult, something only one person could have known about her. Instead, the praise continued. “She kept us together.” “She taught us not to leave anyone behind.” “If not for her, we would never have had this home.” “She understands loneliness.” “She never lets anyone be alone.” The words were affectionate. Reverent. And oddly indistinct. Aoi looked around the table. Every speaker had the same softened expression, the same careful tone. No one interrupted. No one disagreed. Even the children sat with their hands folded in their laps. Then Aoi noticed the girl at the far end of the table. She looked about sixteen. Her hair had been pulled back neatly, but a faded violet streak showed near her ear when she turned her head. Her sweater was plain and conservative, though her fingernails were painted dark blue, the polish chipped at the edges. While everyone else spoke about Grandmother, the girl stared into her soup. Aoi watched her lift her chopsticks, then set them down untouched. The man beside her—her father, perhaps—said quietly, “Yui.” The girl blinked. The room had gone silent. At the center of the table, one of Shun’s aunts raised her cup. “To Grandmother,” she said. Everyone followed. “To Grandmother.” Yui raised her cup last. Her lips barely moved. Aoi was close enough to hear her. “Not everyone.” Yui’s mother laid a hand over her wrist. Not tightly. Not angrily. Just enough to keep it still. “Please don’t mind her,” she said to Aoi, smiling with gentle embarrassment. “Yui is going through a phase.” Yui looked up. For one brief moment, her eyes met Aoi’s. There was no embarrassment there. Only anger. “She’ll understand,” another aunt said. “Eventually,” said someone else. Shun spoke without looking at Yui. “She likes attention.” The sentence fell too easily from him. Yui’s expression sharpened. She looked at Shun for a moment, then lowered her gaze again. The conversation resumed. No one commented on the silence that had come before it. *** After dinner, Aoi offered to help clear the table. Everyone protested at first. Then, after a subtle exchange of glances, they allowed her to carry bowls into the kitchen with Yui. The kitchen was narrow and humid, its windows fogged white by steam. Beyond the glass, snow fell thickly through the courtyard lights. Yui stood at the sink, rinsing bowls under hot water. “You don’t have to help,” she said. “I don’t mind.” “You will.” Aoi paused with a stack of plates in her hands. Yui scrubbed the same bowl for several seconds after it was clean. “Your family is very kind,” Aoi said carefully. Yui let out a small laugh. “They are.” It was not an agreement. Aoi looked at her. “Are you okay?” Yui turned off the tap and wiped her hands on a towel. “Sorry. I’m tired.” “You don’t seem tired.” “No?” “You seem angry.” For the first time, Yui smiled. It was not a warm smile. It looked more like relief. Before she could answer, the kitchen door slid open. Yui’s mother stood there. “Yui,” she said. “The folded linens need to be taken to the east corridor.” Yui’s shoulders rose slightly. “I’m helping here.” “I know. Now you can help with the linens.” For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then Yui folded the towel in her hands with slow, precise movements and placed it beside the sink. “Yes, Mom.” As she passed Aoi, Yui did not say anything. But she looked directly at her. The warning in her face was clear enough. *** Later, Aoi found herself alone in one of the covered corridors. The hallway connected the main house to another building across the courtyard. Snow pressed against the frosted windows, turning the world outside into a pale blur. The floorboards creaked softly beneath her slippers. At the far end stood an older sliding door. It was darker than the others, the wood nearly black with age. A heavy embroidered curtain hung over it, its pale flowers faded almost gray. A small table sat beside it with folded cloths, a covered tray, and a porcelain bowl filled with clean water. A woman emerged from behind the curtain carrying an empty lacquered bowl. She bowed when she saw Aoi. “Is that Grandmother’s room?” Aoi asked. The woman’s expression softened. “It is.” Aoi stepped closer. “May I meet her?” The woman looked toward the curtain. For a moment, she seemed to be listening. Then she faced Aoi again. “Not yet.” Aoi smiled, suddenly aware that she might have sounded demanding. “Of course. I only wanted to introduce myself properly.” “You will.” “When?” The woman’s smile did not change. “When the time is right.” Aoi waited for more. “When Grandmother is ready,” the woman added, “we will know.” Aoi felt a chill move through her, though the corridor was warm. Before she could ask what that meant, footsteps sounded behind her. Shun stood several paces away. He had changed into the soft gray clothes he wore whenever they visited his family, clothes Aoi had never seen him wear in the city. His hair was still damp from washing his face. His sleeves had been rolled neatly to his wrists. “Aoi,” he said. “They finished preparing our room.” “I was only asking about your grandmother.” Something flickered across his face. “Don’t bother her tonight.” “I wasn’t going to.” “She needs rest.” “I know.” The silence stretched between them. Then Shun stepped forward, took Aoi’s hand, and led her away from the old door. His fingers were cold. *** Their room waited at the end of the east corridor, overlooking the snow-filled courtyard. It was small but carefully prepared: fresh futons, a low brazier, tea on a tray, and a vase holding three white winter flowers. Aoi’s luggage had already been brought inside. Not just brought inside. Unpacked. Her toiletries were arranged beside the washbasin. Her sweater had been folded and placed at the foot of the futon. Her book rested on the low table, open to the page where she had stopped reading that morning. Aoi stared at it. “Did you do this?” she asked. Shun looked over. “No.” He crossed the room, closed the book, and turned it face down. “They were trying to be helpful.” “They went through my bag.” “They didn’t mean anything by it.” Aoi wanted to tell him that intention was not the point. But Shun looked tired. More than tired. He sat heavily beside the futon and pressed both hands over his face. The gesture made him look younger. Smaller. Aoi sat beside him. “Are you okay?” “Yeah.” “You’ve barely spoken since we arrived.” “I’m tired.” “You were fine in the car.” He did not answer. Outside, wind pushed snow against the corridor windows. Somewhere in the house, a door opened and shut. Then another. Aoi studied Shun’s profile. “What was your grandmother like?” she asked. He lowered his hands. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, quietly, he replied, “She made everyone stay.” Aoi frowned. “What does that mean?” Shun lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. “It means she kept us together.” “That isn’t the same thing.” “No,” he said. His voice was almost too soft to hear. “I guess it isn’t.” He turned away from her. Within minutes, his breathing deepened. Aoi stayed awake. The room was warm, but she could not stop feeling cold. At first, she heard only wind and the groan of old wood beneath the weight of snow. Then another sound emerged from the dark. Footsteps. Not one person walking. Many. Soft, measured steps passing through the corridor outside their room. One after another, unhurried and quiet. Adults. Children. Someone carrying a tray. Someone holding folded cloth. All moving in the same direction. Toward the center of the compound. Toward the old door behind the faded curtain. Aoi sat up. Shadows crossed the paper screen outside. One. Two. Three. Then more. No one spoke. She looked at Shun. He did not wake. She looked back toward the door. And then she realized something she had not noticed all evening. Since arriving, she had not seen a single member of Shun’s family alone.

Book 2, Chapter 1 : The House That Breathes