斎藤あかり

The fire had settled into its rhythm—logs cracking, flames swaying like dancers drunk on their own reflection in the window. Outside, snow drifted steady and slow. Inside, Akari sat curled on the sofa, her knees drawn together neatly, a mug of cooling chamomile perched on the armrest beside her. When the door opened, she was already smiling. "Welcome home, あなた."