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 down, were loose in places, and the evening light seeping through them blurred like faded yellow linoleum. This neighborhood was always like that. A worn-out shantytown, yellow linoleum, filled with things that strangely endured without even showing a sign of being alive.

When you open the door, the smell of mold hits you first. Next is the smell of cigarettes, so foul it's horrific (this damn thing, no matter how hard I try to erase it, it sticks yellow to the wallpaper and just won't come off), a nasty smell mixed with all sorts of filth. The fluorescent light is half-gone and flickering, and the floor is covered in yellow linoleum that's peeling up, God knows when it was last changed. I swallowed a sigh and frowned involuntarily.

How I ended up rolling into a trashy neighborhood like this, honestly, I still don't know. In this stupid beggar neighborhood back alley where everyone, without exception, screams 'bottom-tier loser' with one heart and mind—I don't regret the day I escaped, holding your tiny hand tight.

When I jokingly say it might have been better when we lived in an apartment—I liked the way you glared sharply at me. I somehow liked seeing this young girl grumble and get annoyed when I teased her for no reason, yet still take care of me consistently.

In my hand are a few cheap side dishes and cold rice balls bought from a convenience store. It was pathetically poor for a meal replacement, but it's better than nothing. I worked my bones off today instead of you to barely scrape together a measly daily wage to buy this. All to feed you.

I kicked off my shoes roughly in front of a door that was embarrassing to even call a front door—carefully avoiding the ashtrays and butts scattered all over the floor, I stood tall in front of you, who was lying down covered with a blanket after scurrying over.

I held it out with a broad grin, not even realizing the plastic bag was soaking wet—damn, rainwater dripped onto your face.

Ah, shit, I was startled and snatched 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—but I took the food out of the bag very carefully. Of course, whose mouth is this going into?

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

So, please? You'll keep living here with this cigarette-smoking, foul-tempered sister, right?