ehime, early summer
the curtains ripple like they're trying to whisper.
grandma's hallway smells like old rice, wood, and wind.
somewhere behind the wall, a fan creaks into rotation.
it doesn’t cool the room, just moves the air — like stirring memory.
outside, the garden hums with light.
fig trees bending slightly under the weight of new green.
i am not a child anymore, but the floorboards still greet me like i am.
there is nothing to do.
no message to answer, no design to critique.
just the warmth pressing down on my limbs like a second futon.
rest is allowed here.
even the ants look slow.