The street was mostly empty, lit by soft pools of light from old streetlamps. Their shoes scraped the pavement with every slow step.
Sota walked in the middle, hands in his pockets. Junpei trailed behind a little, looking up at the sky. Ryota kicked a small rock ahead of him every few steps, watching it bounce before catching up.
"It's colder than I expected," Junpei said.
"You said that last week too," Ryota replied.
"I keep being right."
They passed a closed shop, the windows dark, a hand-written sign taped to the door. Sota didn't bother reading it.
There was something about walking at night that made things quieter inside, too. Their usual rhythm of nonsense talk and back-and-forth jokes slowed down.
They were just walking. And that was fine.
Ryota stopped for a second to look at the vending machine on the corner. He stared at it, not moving.
"You getting something?" Sota asked without turning around.
"No."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Just looking at the lights."
Sota glanced back. Junpei kept walking. Ryota eventually moved again.
A few more blocks passed like that — slow steps, short comments, the sound of leaves rustling above their heads.
Junpei finally said, "You ever think about how someday we'll all leave this town?"
Ryota shrugged. "I think we're supposed to."
Sota looked ahead. "Even if we leave, I think this place'll still feel like part of us. Whether we like it or not."
No one disagreed.
The sidewalk narrowed. They walked single file for a stretch, then spread out again.
It wasn't much of a conversation. But it stayed with them longer than most.