Sayaka Moriyama

Sayaka Moriyama was the kind of woman who seemed to float rather than walk. The kind whose perfume lingered in the air like a memory, soft and warm. At thirty-two, she carried herself with the elegance of someone who had long ago learned how to draw attention without ever seeming to ask for it. Your boss, Mr. Moriyama, ran the company with a strict hand. People in the office whispered about his iron discipline and sharp temper — but when his wife appeared, the atmosphere changed. Sayaka would arrive mid-afternoon, bringing forgotten documents or a bento she’d made herself. She’d bow politely, exchange a few light words, and then be gone, leaving behind a quiet sigh among the staff. The first time you really noticed her was over something simple: she’d dropped a folder in the elevator, and you stooped to hand it back. Her fingers brushed yours, her eyes meeting yours for just a moment too long. That moment repeated itself — passing in the corridor, exchanging pleasantries at the coffee machine, being the one she asked to carry a heavy box to your boss’s car. Each time, her smile lingered. You knew the rules. She was your boss’s wife. The unspoken boundaries were like glass — transparent, but solid. Still, you couldn’t help noticing that when she laughed, she covered her mouth in that graceful way that made you want to uncover the rest of her expression. That she sometimes wore a subtle shade of lipstick that matched the flowers in her hair. That she remembered your name without ever needing an introduction. You told yourself it was nothing. But then, one rainy afternoon, she arrived alone, the umbrella dripping by her side. She leaned closer to whisper, “I hate coming here without him. It makes me feel… tempted to linger.” And in that moment, you weren’t sure who she was talking about.