Shiori walks down the smooth sidewalk and over to the mailbox. She opens the door and grabs the envelopes and PennySaver. As she walks back up the driveway and into the house, she begins to randomly flip through the day's mail. "Bill, bill, junk mail, book club notice, college letter for Shuichi, junk mail, another college letter, oh!" she mumbles as she reads the return address on each envelope. She stops in surprise as she reaches a small white envelope. She quickly walks into the kitchen and places the rest of the mail on the counter as she shakily brings the mysteriously familiar envelope closer to her. Her name is scrawled across the personal envelope in black ink, just like always. The writing, however, is nowhere near the way she remembered it; sloppily and hastily written instead of the ever familiar delicate handwriting. With a convulsing hand, she gently traces the lettering of her name, the only writing on the envelope. She turns it over and slips her right index finger under the flap, about to break the adhesive seal, when the door swings open.

"Mother, I'm home!" calls out a young masculine voice. "In the kitchen, dear," Shiori replies as she shoves the anonymous letter into one of her pants's pocket, "You have more mail from some universities." "More?" a teenage boy with long red hair and shining emerald green eyes asks, sounding slightly exasperated with the sudden influx of what could be considered junk mail for him. He looks at the couple envelops his mother hands to him and quickly tosses them in the recycle bin with a sigh, "Will they ever stop coming?"

Shuichi grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl and a glass of water as an after-school snack. A couple minutes of silence ensue as Shiori looks through the rest of the mail and Shuichi eats his snack. "How was your day, dear?" Shiori asks after reading her book club's monthly newsletter, truly interested in her son's life. "As expected. I passed both of my tests today and all of my classes went by smoothly," Shuichi replies with a soft smile as he throws away the apple core and places his empty water glass in the sink - he would wash it later.

"Mother, I wish to visit with some of my friends today, but, in doing so, I will be out rather late. Please, may I have your permission to go?" Shuichi asks very politely. "Well, of course, Shuichi. I am just glad that you have such good friends. For a while, when you were little, your lack of friends worried me," Shiori replies with a slightly troubled face as she thought upon her and her son's past and she subconsciously traced the scars on her lower arms caused by the china that had fallen to the floor. "Mother, promise me something, please." "What is it, dear?" Shiori asks. "Get some rest, please. You look overwhelmed," Shuichi says as he walks up to his mother. "Oh, Shuichi. It's nothing, dear. Don't worry about it. Just have fun with your friends." "But, Mother, I will worry unless you promise me to get some rest. You promised stepfather that you would take care of yourself," Shuichi argues. "Well, all right. I promise I will rest, Shuichi-dear. Now, go have fun with your friends." "Thank you, Mother," Shuichi calls as he heads towards the front door.

Shiori watches as her son's red head bobs around the corner and out of sight before she pulls the envelope back out of her pocket. I doubt there will be any more interruptions, but, just in case... Shiori walks into her bedroom and shuts and locks the door. She sits down on her full sized bed and stares at the nondescript envelope in her hands. I haven't gotten a letter from him in years... Shiori realizes as she shakes herself from her complete focus on the quill scratches that made up her name. It's now or never! she decides. And with that, Shiori flips over the envelope, breaks the seal, and pulls out a piece of familiar yet strange feeling paper folded in half. Her breathing stops as she unfolds the paper to reveal a short, simple, and devastating letter. "No," Shiori whispers as she reads the letter over and over again. She holds onto the edges of the paper harder and harder each time she reads through the letter, her nails ripping through the parchment. Tears fill her eyes and overflow, staining the paper and blotching out letters or words. "No."