“Are those prayers?” Mina asked.
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At some point after midnight, Kaito stepped into the corridor. The moon had climbed higher, and the camphor tree cast a filigree shadow across the garden. He realized this house was a kind of repository — not only for objects but for choices. Every evening it held the echo of past decisions like a chorus. The more he learned, the less tidy the family legend became. There were gray edges, sacrifices and small joys braided together. “Are those prayers
“I might come back,” he said, as if rehearsing it. ” he said