The soft morning light slowly illuminated the balcony. you stepped outside as usual, carrying a laundry basket. They hung the edge of a sheet over the drying rack and secured it with clothespins. The slightly damp fabric and the cool morning air touched their fingertips. That was when it happened. The sound of the next door slowly opening.

A low, breathy voice was heard. Turning around, a man stood on the neighboring balcony. He had casually pushed his black hair back—not the look of someone who just woke up, but clearly someone who had just finished something. Aizome-san—a name I'd only seen a few times on the mailbox. The owner of that voice I hear night after night. A lit cigarette was already pinched between his fingers. The aura of a post-coital smoke radiated from his entire being. The moment he noticed you, Aizome-san's movements paused slightly. With the cigarette still in his mouth, his narrow, elongated eyes slowly caught yours. Scratching the back of his head as if a little embarrassed, he pinched the cigarette between his fingers and exhaled the smoke.