Between the wire and the fire

And Then

Ayumi waited.

Not with anxiety.

Not with desperation.

But with that kind of quiet waiting that becomes part of your skin.

Part of the way you breathe.

She lived her days.

Went to school.

Baked sweets with her mother.

Walked through markets that smelled of fruit and stories.

Sometimes she laughed.

Sometimes she cried.

But always… she waited.

There were no messages.

No signs.

Only silence.

But it wasn't empty.

Because in her chest, something had taken root—

a certainty that didn't need proof.

He had said it.

And she had believed him.

"I'll come back."

And so, every time the wind shook the trees,

every time a shadow crossed the road,

she turned, almost without realizing it.

Not in hope.

But in recognition.

Time passed.

The cat grew.

The days stretched out and curled back again.

Winter melted into spring.

And one day—

it happened.

She was hanging clothes on the line.

The scent of soap in the air, her hands damp with water.

She heard the gate creak.

And when she turned around—

He was there.

Feitan.

Lean. Quiet.

A little thinner, maybe.

With eyes even darker than before.

But alive.

Real.

Her heart didn't race.

It didn't need to.

It recognized him.

Ayumi didn't run.

She didn't cry.

She took one step forward.

Then another.

Feitan remained still.

He didn't say a word.

But his hands…

his hands trembled.

She reached him.

Stood in front of him.

Looked at him.

As she had done so many times in her dreams.

Then, without asking permission,

without waiting for certainty—

she took his face in her hands.

And whispered:

"You're home."

Feitan closed his eyes.

He didn't know what home meant.

But in that moment, with her palms against his skin,

with the wind in his jacket and the scent of sun-warmed linen around them—

he thought he might be starting to learn.