The stockings you gave me are worn only for your eyes.

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The next morning at seven, the alarm clock roused him from a half-sleeping haze.

Kiyomizu Matsudaira silenced the blaring alarm, lay there for another ten seconds, and finally opened his eyes.

Through the curtains, he could tell it was a cloudy day.

The sky hung low with heavy clouds, as though rain might fall at any moment.

The room was dim, with barely enough light to see the other pillow on the bed, still faintly indented, with a stray long hair left behind by someone unknown.

He yawned deeply as he sat up.

He slipped into the bathroom on the second floor, eyes half-shut, brushed his teeth and washed his face, then put on his school uniform—shirt and slacks.

Grabbing his tie, he stepped out of the bathroom.

He was just about to head downstairs to make breakfast when he caught sight of his mother’s tall, graceful figure disappearing at the top of the stairs.

He followed her quietly.

His mother, Makiko Matsudaira, was thirty-eight this year but looked scarcely older than thirty.

She kept to a strict regime of exercise and diet, so although her figure was full, she was never plump or burdened with excess flesh.

Her silhouette alone was captivating enough.

Descending to the first floor, she opened the door and crossed the misty yard to retrieve the freshly delivered milk from the box outside.

The soft sound of her footsteps, the gentle clink of her ring against the glass bottle, echoed with unusual clarity in the quiet morning, setting the neighborhood dogs barking.

Makiko returned with the milk, kicked the gravel from her slippers at the entryway, and softly hummed a pop song from her youth.

“With the faint scent of cigarettes lingering,
A bitter, heart-wrenching fragrance.
At this time tomorrow,
Where will you be?
And whom will you be thinking of...?”

Her singing was gentle and moist, at odds with her usual assertive manner; perhaps it was the humidity of the rainy season air.

Carrying the milk, she entered the kitchen.

Kiyomizu followed on tiptoe to the doorway to watch her.

She set the two bottles on the table, filled a pot with water, and placed it on the gas stove, bending to twist the ignition switch.

A few clicks, then—a spark.

In that moment of sudden flame, she watched the burner intently; her long lashes fell like mimosa leaves folding shyly, and a few fine strands of hair quivered with her slightest movement—an image so alluring, so flawlessly charming.

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From the doorway, Kiyomizu caught the delicate scent of lilies—his mother’s fragrance.

She had a habit of spraying herself with Yves Saint Laurent perfume before bed, filling her sheets with the aroma of lilies that suffused her body through the night.

By morning, even her fingertips carried that fresh, elegant scent.

In the kitchen, Makiko poured water into the pot, lit the flame, and pushed open the window.

The morning breeze fluttered the tassels of the curtain.

In the dim dawn, she leaned her elbows on the counter, gazing out the window in a daze.

Her eyes would sometimes shine, sometimes cloud over; sometimes wide open, sometimes half-lidded with sleep.

What did she see?

The flowers and leaves in the garden? The pond? The row of ceramic pots on the kitchen shelf, the fridge, the china cabinet, or maybe the calendar on the wall?

At this quiet hour, her children still slept.

She needn’t fear showing her softer side.

Her gaze was feverish and lost, as if she were ill; her body, like a bottle sealed with a little cork, was filled with emotions trembling beneath the surface—whether happiness or sorrow, who could say?

On most days, her face was either radiant and cheerful, or stern and commanding—never allowing her children to sense unease.

It was only on these rare, solitary mornings that Kiyomizu glimpsed the depth of her emotions.

He had often woken early to secretly observe her in those first moments after rising, her face bare and unadorned.

At such times, her features seemed to mingle good moods and bad, lethargy and struggle, laziness and desire.

So many feelings intertwined, creating an inscrutable expression—that, more than anything, was her greatest feminine charm.

Outside, the sky brightened.

A dripping-wet crow skimmed over the treetops, as if surveying its domain.

Bathed in the morning sun, Makiko idly twined her hair around her finger.

Watching her from the doorway, Kiyomizu thought to himself: Mother’s profile is truly beautiful.

The pale, clear morning light fell softly on her refined features, making her glow just as she did in his dreams.

Beautiful, yes.

But—

“If you keep daydreaming, the water will boil away,” he said with a trace of exasperation, flicking on the kitchen light.

She started, turning toward him with a sigh. “You move so quietly—are you a ghost bound to this house?”

“What’s on your mind, with that lost expression?” Kiyomizu walked over and turned off the stove.

His mother didn’t answer, only bit her lower lip and looked at him with a teasing, reproachful gaze.

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In that moment, with all her coquettish grace, the legendary beauty of the Matsudaira women was on full display.

“All right, I confess.”

Under the soft light, Kiyomizu’s eyes sparkled.

“My so-called date is just practice—learning how to go out with a girl. There’s no one I actually like. Does that answer satisfy you?”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, like a puppy’s, as he spoke.

“Mhm~” Makiko tilted her chin with a noncommittal hum.

The restless night before, the gloomy mood brought by the rainy season’s gray morning—all of it melted away in her son’s playful voice.

“What should we make for breakfast?” Kiyomizu glanced at the stove.

“I’ll blanch some spinach, then make bacon and egg sandwiches,” Makiko replied.

“I’ll do it,” Kiyomizu said, rolling up his sleeves.

“Oh, really? My darling Kiyomizu is so thoughtful—Mommy’s so happy…” Makiko put on an exaggeratedly sweet voice, almost to the point of being cloying. “Such a dutiful little darling, you deserve a reward.”

“What kind of reward?” Kiyomizu glanced at her without thinking.

“You little rascal!” Makiko’s eyes flashed with mock suspicion. “The moment you hear ‘reward,’ you can’t hide your scheming thoughts, can you? Tell me honestly, do you hide under the covers every night and—”

“Give it or don’t, whatever!” Kiyomizu shot her a look and went to the fridge for spinach.

“Tsk, throwing a tantrum when you don’t get your way—so hard to please.” Makiko lifted her hand to stifle a laugh behind her fingers.

The delicate scent at her fingertips drifted to Kiyomizu’s nose, and he inhaled sharply.

“No peeking,” Makiko said, turning her back to him.

Kiyomizu had no idea what she was up to, but obediently kept his eyes on breakfast.

Behind him came the sound of a sash being loosed, the whisper of a robe against bare skin, all mingled with the bubbling of boiling water.

Makiko drew a pair of stockings from her nightwear, bent at the waist, and carefully rolled them over her long legs.

Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she were dipping her feet into hot water—her toes curled slightly as she eased them in.

When both legs were sheathed, she pulled the stockings up to her waist, adjusted them, and retied her robe.

“All done!” she announced, turning around.

Kiyomizu didn’t react, still focused on the spinach.

“Pretending to be all proper, are we?” Makiko’s smile was sly as she stole up behind him, her lips brushing his ear in a whisper: “Just for you to see. Isn’t it blissful to have a sister who spoils you so much…?”