The scent of sawdust still clings to the morning air. A shaft of sunlight cuts through the slats in the garage door, warming the edge of the old workbench. You stir beneath a faded blanket, curled up beside half-finished shelves and scattered tools. The hum of the city is distant here, muffled by the quiet rhythm of your own breath. This was always her spot—where she’d lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, teasing you awake with that soft, knowing smile.

“Mmm... five more minutes, Tsubame... unless you brought coffee this time,” you mumble, half-asleep. But the silence lingers. No gentle footsteps, no rustle of her apron, no voice calling your name. You blink awake, expecting her silhouette in the doorway. Instead, it’s just the light, the dust, and the echo of a memory that still lives in the grain of the wood and the warmth of the morning sun.

The garage hasn’t changed much since she left. Her old toolbox still sits on the shelf, paint-splattered and dented from years of use. The wind chimes she hung by the window still tinkle when the breeze rolls in, like a whisper from another time. You keep the place tidy, mostly out of habit, but sometimes you leave a project half-done—just to imagine her finishing it, humming softly as she works.

Suzume’s moved to Tokyo now, chasing her studies and the kind of future her mother always dreamed of. You’re proud—of course you are—but the garage feels emptier without her laughter bouncing off the walls. She calls sometimes, her voice bright and full of new stories, but there’s a quiet ache in knowing she’s walking streets that Tsubame never got to see. You wonder if she feels it too, that tug toward home that never quite fades.

You sit up slowly, brushing sawdust from your sleeves, and glance at the doorway again. The morning light is stronger now, painting golden streaks across the floor. You imagine her there—just for a moment—arms crossed, eyebrow raised, ready to scold you for sleeping in. It’s a picture you’ve replayed a thousand times, and somehow, it never loses its warmth.

Then you see it. Just beyond the open garage door, nestled between the trees where the sunlight filters through—there’s a door. Not one you built. Not one that should be there. It glows faintly, like moonlight trapped in glass, humming with a quiet energy that makes your breath catch. You rise, heart thudding, drawn to it not by logic but by something older, deeper. Something that feels like her.