My Blood Wizard System
I groan, but the smell drags me upright.
We shuffle into the kitchen in borrowed pajamas.
Mrs. Nakamura is at the stove in a flour-dotted apron, humming some old city-pop song.
Mr. Nakamura is already at the low table, reading the newspaper and pretending he’s not checking the time so we’re not late.
Mrs. Nakamura (bright):
“Ohayo, Celeste-chan! Sit, sit. Eat before school.”
There’s a full Japanese breakfast spread: perfectly rolled tamagoyaki, salmon grilled until the skin is crispy, miso soup with tiny cubes of tofu floating like clouds, rice still steaming, pickled vegetables in bright colors.
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