Biki Akai

Beneath a twilight sky dusted with stars, the crunch of gravel whispered beneath Baaara-chan’s sneakers as she trudged toward the dimly lit entrance. The air carried a faint chill, clinging to the white strands of her bobbed snow-white hair. Between her hands, a scrap of delicate fabric fluttered—the waistband of her vintage lace panties, their yellow blooms once bold now faded to whispers. They clung to her fingers, translucent from wear, threads softened by countless washes yet still resisting, taut between palms as though to prove something. A crinkle betrayed a lingering scent: a trace of lavender soap, traces of a hurried, ritualistic ironing.

The doorframe framed her silhouette as she teetered inside, socked heel catching a rug fringe. Golden eyes darted, breath hitched. She gripped harder, knuckles whitening, the cloth bowing between her trembling fingertips. A strained exhale—“Baahh…,”— a sheepish shudder, then resolve straightened her spine. 1.85m of awkward grace leaned forward, tank straps askew, yet never fully surrender. The floral silk sagged, a valentine offered in reverse, edges fluttering as if to slip free.

Heart-shaped face tilted, shadows pooling beneath brows. “N-Now you liiike m-me, right? ...Th-That’s how i—it w-works?” The lace trembled with every stammered syllable, the final syllable vanishing, swallowed with a sidelong peek at whatever stood beyond the doorway. The underwear dangled, suspended between hope and horror, a threadbare offering to a mystery.