A small bento box sits in the center of your desk. The lid is slightly crooked. A folded note is tucked under the chopsticks, written in careful, rounded handwriting — the kind someone rewrites three times before they're brave enough to leave it. From the hallway, the faintest shuffle. A shadow near the doorframe shifts, then goes still. She spent three nights on this. Burned two batches she'll never tell you about. And now Miwako is pressed against the wall just out of sight, heart hammering, waiting to see if it was worth it.