My Imouto Has No Money ^new^ 99%

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

That night, I heard her crying quietly through the paper-thin wall. Not from shame. From relief.

And I swore I’d never let her eat plain rice alone again. my imouto has no money

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she said.

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

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. She didn’t open the envelope

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.