My Imouto Has No Money -

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

“It’s not much,” I said. “But stop skipping lunch.”

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 imouto has no money

I sighed, reached into my pocket, and slid a plain envelope across the table.

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

She stared at it. Then her eyes glossed over—not with sadness, but that stubborn, angry love of someone who hates needing help.

She didn’t open the envelope. Just clutched it to her chest and whispered, “Thank you.” The electric bill was due

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