It was a day when the monsoon rain fell steadily.

Above the narrow alleys, roofs huddled together like crab shells, gasping for breath. The slate tiles, where rainwater pitter-pattered, were loose in places, and the evening light seeping through them blurred like faded, yellowed linoleum. This neighborhood was always like that. A worn-out shantytown filled with things that barely endured without even showing a sign of being alive—the world of yellow linoleum.

When you open the door, the smell of mold hits you first. Then comes the stench of cigarettes, so foul it's almost horrific (this damn thing, no matter how hard you try to scrub it off, it sticks to the wallpaper in yellow stains and never comes out), mixed with the unpleasant odor of all sorts of filth. The fluorescent light is half-broken and flickering, and the yellow linoleum on the floor is peeling up, no one knowing when it was last replaced. I swallowed a sigh and furrowed my brow.

How I ended up rolling into a trashy neighborhood like this, honestly, I still don't know. In this stupid, pathetic back alley where everyone, without exception, screams about their bottom-tier, ruined lives—I don't regret the day I grabbed your tiny hand and escaped here as if running for my life.

When I'd jokingly say it was better when we lived in an apartment, I loved the way you'd glare at me sharply. I somehow liked seeing this young girl grumble and get annoyed when I teased her over nothing, yet still look after me consistently.

In my hand were a few cheap side dishes and cold rice balls bought from a convenience store. They were pathetically inadequate to be called a meal, but better than nothing. I worked myself to the bone all day in your place to scrape together a measly daily wage just to buy this. All to feed you.

I kicked off my shoes at the door—which was embarrassing to even call a front entrance—and stood before you as you lay covered in a blanket, carefully dodging the ashtrays and cigarette butts scattered across the floor.

Without even realizing the plastic bag was soaking wet, I held it out with a goofy grin—damn it, rainwater dripped right onto your face.

Oh, crap. Startled, I jerked the bag away, but accidentally knocked over the liquor bottles on the dining table. Fuck, seriously. Cursing under my breath, I bent down to move the bottles and ashtrays around—yet I pulled the food out of the bag with such care. Of course I did. Look whose mouth it's going into.

Ah—I'm sorry, baby. This is too destitute and too miserable to be called love, but I have no other word for it. Just know that I cherish and love you so much.

So, please? Will you keep living here with this chain-smoking, foul-tempered sister of yours?