Shadows and Light

Ethan hadn't invited anyone into his world in a long time.

And now, Mira was standing at his front door, hugging a worn denim jacket tighter around her. The early spring air still carried winter's chill. Her breath misted softly as she waited, eyes scanning the building like it was a puzzle she was trying to solve.

He hesitated behind the door for a beat too long, his hand resting on the handle. He could feel the old hesitation creeping up—what was he doing? Letting someone in? Breaking the rules he'd made for himself?

But he opened the door anyway.

Mira smiled faintly, the kind that didn't demand anything from him. "Hey."

He stepped aside. "Come in."

Ethan's apartment was exactly what Mira expected, and somehow not. Sparse. Clean, but not obsessively. Neutral colors. The curtains were open just enough to let light spill in, but not so much that the room felt exposed. A guitar leaned quietly in the corner, strings dusty. Books lined one shelf—classics, mostly. Hemingway. Orwell. A few titles in French.

Mira walked in slowly, careful not to disturb the space.

"You weren't lying," she said softly, running her fingers over the spines. "You really do like the old stuff."

"It's not lying if you just… don't talk much," Ethan muttered, closing the door behind her.

Her gaze flicked to him. "You talk more now."

He shrugged. "You ask the right things."

Mira smiled again but didn't push. She dropped her bag by the couch and took a seat, crossing one leg over the other. Ethan hovered awkwardly near the kitchen.

"I made tea," he said. "If you want."

"Sure," she replied. "But only if you're having some too."

He rolled his eyes and disappeared into the small kitchen. Mira sat back, her eyes tracing the small details of his life scattered around the room. Everything here was deliberate. No clutter. No signs of chaos. But there was something about the silence here—it wasn't empty. It was… waiting.

The tea was warm between her hands when he finally joined her on the couch, sitting with just enough space between them that she noticed.

"You don't let people in much, do you?" Mira asked, glancing at him over the rim of her mug.

Ethan stared at the floor for a long moment. "No."

She nodded like it wasn't surprising. "But you let me in."

"Don't make me regret it," he said, but his voice wasn't sharp. It was almost tired.

Mira didn't answer right away. She watched him—the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb ran over the chipped edge of his mug like it was a habit he didn't notice.

"I won't," she said simply.

For a while, they sat there in silence, the kind that didn't demand conversation.

Later, as they moved to the small table near the window, Mira pulled out her sketchpad. Ethan raised a brow.

"You sketch?"

"Helps me think," she said, flipping through pages filled with rooftops, hands, profiles of strangers on buses.

She hesitated on one page. A quick, precise sketch of a boy sitting alone on a rooftop, hoodie pulled up, profile turned away.

Ethan stared at it for a long time.

"That's me."

She glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Yeah."

For the first time, he didn't look away.

"You've been drawing me?"

Mira shrugged. "You're interesting. And you sit still."

Ethan huffed something close to a laugh. It surprised them both.

The afternoon drifted on in quiet conversation. Nothing deep. Music. Movies they hated. Classes they skipped. She found out he liked jazz. He found out she was allergic to strawberries.

But just as the sun began to dip low and Mira stood to leave, the air shifted.

"Ethan?" she asked softly, pausing at the door.

He glanced at her. "Yeah?"

"You're not alone, you know."

The words landed heavier than she probably meant. But she didn't take them back.

He didn't answer. Just nodded, barely. And for now, that was enough.

Later That Night

Ethan sat on the couch after she left, staring at the spot where she'd been sitting.

Her sketchbook was still there.

He didn't mean to open it again.

But he did.

Near the back was a drawing different from the others.

Darker. Rougher lines.

A man's face—sharp features, cold eyes, a scar running from brow to cheek.

Something about it made Ethan's chest tighten.

And scribbled in small, careful letters beneath it was a single name:

"Kaito."