My: Imouto Has No Money

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“Onii-chan,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes.

I already knew. The electric bill was due. Her part-time job at the bookstore had cut her hours. And she’d spent her last yen on a get-well card for a classmate’s mother.

My little sister— imouto-chan —sat across the table, poking her rice with a chopstick like it held the secrets of the universe. Her wallet, a frayed kitten-shaped pouch I’d given her three birthdays ago, lay flat and empty beside her chopstick rest.

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