Ryunosuke stared at the page a moment longer, pencil hovering over the shadowed figure leaning against the car. The shape had formed on its own, as if guided by something beneath his skin—instinct more than intent.
He exhaled quietly, closed the sketchbook, and slipped it into his bag.
By the time he stepped outside, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows that trailed behind him like ghosts. His walk home was uneventful—but too quiet.
The weight of the name—Victor Navarro—lingered on his tongue like a tune he couldn't stop humming. It didn't belong to any memory, not directly. But it scratched at something deep and hidden. Something not yet ready to rise.
The restaurant's warm scent greeted him in the stairwell—rosemary, grilled peppers, and something faintly sweet. Comforting. Familiar. Almost enough to convince him everything was fine.
Emily's laughter floated from the living room—light, unbothered. Lucas must've sent her something ridiculous again. Ryunosuke passed her with a small nod and headed for the kitchen.
Amelia stood at the stove, humming softly, stirring something rich and golden in a cast iron pot.
"Hey, mamá," he said, keeping his voice steady.
She turned slightly, smiled. "You're back early."
He leaned against the fridge. "I was in the Financial District today. Sketching."
She nodded, still stirring.
"I... went into one of the garages."
Her hand paused mid-stir.
"I saw a car," he continued.
She stopped.
"A black BMW. Old. An E30." His voice dropped. "It looked like Papá's."
Amelia's hand tightened around the spoon.
"It was in a private company lot," he added. "Navarro Holdings."
The name hit the air like a dropped dish.
Her shoulders stiffened—barely, but enough.
She turned off the stove and set the spoon aside. "You must've been mistaken."
"I wasn't," he said. "It was his. I know it."
She reached for a dish towel, wiping her hands slowly.
"I sold that car years ago, Ryunosuke. You know that."
"I know what you told me," he said, softer now. "But why would it be there? Who is Navarro?"
Finally, she turned to face him.
Her eyes were tired—not afraid, just distant. Guarded.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "It's not our business anymore."
Silence stretched between them like thread pulled too tight.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The warmth of the kitchen had shifted. It pressed in on him now—thick, suffocating.
Amelia turned back to the stove. Stirred again, even though the burner was off.
The conversation was over.
But something inside him had already changed.
He watched her—back straight, movements calm, almost mechanical.
She wasn't lying. Not directly. But she was hiding something. That much was clear.
He wanted to press her. To demand answers.
But something held him back.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just… understanding.
Whatever lived beneath her silence wasn't ready to surface. And maybe—just maybe—he wasn't ready to face it either.
So he turned and left the kitchen.
Emily looked up from the couch. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "Just tired."
He closed his bedroom door behind him.
The room was warm, sunlight fading from the walls.
He dropped his bag beside the desk, kicked off his shoes, and sat down heavily.
The sketchbook called to him.
He opened to the last page—the parking garage, the luxury cars, the black BMW. Still there. Still watching.
His pencil sat nearby.
He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
He turned to a new page.
And without thinking, he began to draw.
Not buildings.Not machines.Not cars.
This was different.
Softer.
Lines curved gently, tracing a shape both delicate and certain. A figure, standing in shadows. Feminine. Poised.
Long coat.
Tilted head.
A strand of hair brushing her cheek. Bare feet. The floor beneath her glowing faintly.
And the eyes.
Not clearly drawn.
Just a hint.
But he knew the color.
Violet.
His hand stopped.
His breath stilled.
He hadn't meant to draw her. Not this time. Not consciously.
But there she was—on the page, waiting.
Like she'd always been there.
A soft breeze slipped through the open window. The room was warm, but his skin prickled.
Ryunosuke leaned back in his chair, staring at the figure.
And for the first time since seeing the car…
He felt like someone had seen him first.