“Yes.”
Yuki felt as though the floor had shifted beneath her.
“Then open it.”
Kenji did not move.
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have defended our marriage to people who think I must be foolish or desperate. I’ve told them I trust you. I’ve told myself that what matters is the way we treat each other. But I cannot keep defending something when you won’t let me see the truth.”
For several seconds, Kenji stared at the floor.
Then he reached into his pocket, removed a small key, and held it in his palm.
“I should have told you,” he whispered.
He walked upstairs.
Yuki followed.
At the end of the corridor, he stopped in front of the locked door.
His hand trembled slightly as he inserted the key.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
And Yuki saw a room filled with photographs, handwritten letters, old drawings, and boxes
