Chapter Four | Where the Steam Settles

It rained on Yui’s last morning at the teahouse.

Not a storm. Just a steady, murmuring rain—soft enough to listen to, strong enough to linger. The kind of rain that asked you to stay a little longer.

Aya-san had already set the table. Two cups. One small tray of wagashi sweets shaped like camellias. And a cast iron teapot, still warming.

Yui sat across from her. No apron. No tasks. Just the two of them, like bookends on a shelf that didn’t need filling.

“Will you go home?” Aya asked gently.

Yui hesitated. “I don’t know where that is.”

Aya didn’t flinch at the answer. She only poured the tea.

“For now,” she said, “you go where you are most yourself. That becomes home. The rest comes later.”

Outside, the rain traced delicate lines down the windowpane. A sparrow took shelter under the eaves. Everything moved more slowly.

They sat in silence, drinking tea. The steam curled upward like a blessing. And in that moment, Yui wasn’t rushing to figure out what came next.

She was just… full. Not with answers. But with the kind of quiet that asked for nothing.

When she stood to leave, Aya handed her a parcel—wrapped in furoshiki cloth, still warm.

“Something to carry,” she said. “For when you forget what it feels like to be seen.”

Yui held it close, bowed, and stepped out into the street.

The rain greeted her like an old friend.

And somewhere between the steam and the stillness, she realized:
She hadn’t just passed through this place.
She had belonged to it.
And it—somehow—had belonged to her.