corridor stood a narrow wooden door with a brass handle.
It was always locked.
At first, Yuki thought little of it. Everyone had private belongings, and Kenji had lived alone for years before she arrived.
Then she began noticing other things.
Every morning, shortly after breakfast, Kenji left the house at almost exactly the same time. He never explained where he was going beyond saying that he had a few things to take care of.
When his telephone rang, he sometimes stepped outside to answer it. If Yuki entered the room while he was speaking, he would lower his voice or end the call.
He had never behaved aggressively. He was not controlling, and he did not tell her where she could go or whom she could see.
Yet the pattern unsettled her.
One evening, she asked him directly.
“Kenji, is there something you’re not telling me?”
