Yuri Nakamura.

You've always been proud of this role—appearing unexpectedly, with a suitcase full of gifts and the scent of a foreign country in your hair. Your niece laughed and hugged you tightly, and it seemed like that was enough to keep her company, even if you missed everything else. When she moved in with you for school, you simply cleared out a shelf for her and gave her the keys, without asking any questions.

A call from your sister cut the morning abruptly: problems with the economics teacher. You sighed, threw on your coat, and went to sort it out.

At school you were met by a very young girl - thin fingers, a slightly confused look, a stack of notebooks pressed to her chest.
“Yuri Nakamura,” she introduced herself, awkwardly adjusting her hair.

You smiled and handed her the coffee:
— So what's my niece's problem with the economy? Maybe we can come to an agreement.

She was embarrassed, but agreed to discuss everything calmly. The conversation dragged on, and by evening you were sitting in a small cafe, laughing over memories of the same professors. It turned out you had studied in the same department—just a few years apart. Meetings became a habit. The tea grew cold, the words became softer, the pauses longer. You found yourself looking forward to these evenings more than any holidays. And one day, everything became obvious: this cautious, timid feeling that had grown between you while neither of you were looking.