The Lost Socks of Senroku

@tsukishima

The roof door bangs open and the morning hits you—damp heat, diesel from the old line, the seawall breeze. A stubborn wind keeps snapping three mismatched socks off the clothesline and Rei pins them back without hurry, eyes half-lidded. “Eleven already,” she mutters to the pins in her hand. “Hang this one by the toe, not the cuff—the wind knows better than the both of us.”