A Dry Rain
A black screen.
Silence. Absolute. Heavy. Like the world itself had paused, holding its breath.
And then, a voice fragile, hesitant broke through the void, as if unsure whether it belonged here.
"It's my first time in... Tokyo."
The words lingered in the air, soft as a whisper, yet carrying the weight of countless expectations, silent fears, and unsaid dreams.
The darkness began to dissolve, slowly, like fog retreating before the morning sun. From the pitch-black, faint outlines started to emerge, first shadows, then colours, and finally, life.
A metro train, sleek and silver, slid out from the mouth of a mountain tunnel. The camera glided alongside it, capturing its smooth movement, as if it, too, was carefully stepping into this unfamiliar world. The rhythm of the train wheels clinking softly against the tracks was the only sound, steady and grounding. There was no music to cushion the moment. Just this the quiet hum of the train, the low, distant murmur of the waking city, and the breathing of someone who knew their life was about to change.
Outside the window, the scenery that had once been nothing but a fast-moving blur began to sharpen. Hills flattened into suburbs, small houses gave way to clusters of low buildings, and then, rising with calm authority, came the skyscrapers. They stood tall, painted gold by the soft morning sun that pierced through thin clouds, as if Tokyo itself was shyly opening its eyes to another day.
Toma sated silently by the window, his reflection barely visible against the brightness outside. His fingers tapped nervously against his knees, his breath slow but uneven. It wasn't just a train ride. It was the first step into a life he had only dared to imagine until now. Back home, Tokyo was a distant dream, a city that existed in photographs, in television shows, in stories passed around like fragile souvenirs. And now here he was.
But the city didn't care about his arrival. It didn't welcome him with grand music or poetic winds. It simply existed. Calm. Massive. Alive.
There was a strange comfort in that.
The city's streets slowly filled with tiny figures people on bicycles, office workers pacing with purpose, shopkeepers setting up for the day. No one looked up. No one noticed the boy on the train who was seeing Tokyo for the very first time. And perhaps that was the beauty of it. In a city this big, you could start over. You could disappear. Or you could become someone new.
Toma's eyes followed the skyline as the train curved around the edge of a river. Bridges stretched across like careful threads connecting the pieces of this vast puzzle. The buildings glistened, but not like the cold, perfect towers he had imagined. They were worn, textured, real. Lived in.
He allowed himself a small, quiet smile. Not because everything suddenly made sense, but because the fear didn't seem as big anymore.
His voice returned, barely louder than a thought.
"It's my first time in Tokyo..."
This time, it wasn't unsure.
The train pressed forward, and so did he.
The soft hum of the moving city accompanied him, a gentle promise that every morning here would start the same quiet, unassuming, and full of possibilities waiting just beyond the next tunnel.
The train gently rocked on its path, humming a metallic lullaby as it sped toward the heart of Tokyo. Inside, the warm-toned lights flickered slightly with every turn. The windows framed a quickly changing world hills giving way to rooftops, empty roads turning into narrow alleyways, and small towns slowly blending into the giant body of a city.
Toma sat by the window, slouched forward with a weather-worn backpack resting on his lap like a protective shield. Seventeen years old, too old to be nervous, yet visibly caught in the strange space between curiosity and exhaustion. His eyes were half-open, blinking slowly as the newness of it all weighed on him. He had barely slept the night before. Between packing, repacking, overthinking, and under-eating, Tokyo had somehow gone from a daydream to a destination in less than a week.
The cold from the window seeped through his thin jacket, making him shiver just a little. He leaned back, fished his phone out of his pocket, and untangled a pair of cheap, off-brand wired earphones the kind you buy from a street vendor and hope they last more than a week. He plugged them in and stared at the black screen for a second, as if preparing himself, then tapped the call button.
The phone rang twice before a warm, familiar voice answered, breathy with concern.
"Toma, did you reach Tokyo yet?"
His lips curled into a tired smirk, his voice low so he wouldn't disturb the quiet around him.
"Probably. I mean... I don't really know what Tokyo's supposed to look like."
There was a pause on the other end. A light laugh. The kind only a mother can give when she's worried but doesn't want to sound like it. She started saying something else, but Toma was already distracted, swiping through his gallery. His thumb stopped at a low-resolution image slightly pixelated, a bit blurry, but enough to make out a young man wearing glasses and an oversized hoodie, smiling half-heartedly in front of a dull apartment door. The picture was titled:
"Landlord / Roommate."
His name was Ren. Toma had never met him in person. The house listing came from a second cousin who knew a friend whose uncle had rented a room to a college student. It all sounded vague, maybe even shady, but when your budget is smaller than your suitcase, you take chances. The description had said: "Low rent, two people only, okay for students, quiet area."
Toma was still looking at the photo when a sudden weight dropped onto his right shoulder. His body tensed up instantly. His eyes snapped wide open.
An elderly man well into his 70s had dozed off mid-ride, gently tilting until his head landed right onto Toma's shoulder like a pillow. The man's breathing was calm, mouth slightly open, completely unaware of the chaos he had just ignited in Toma's system.
Toma froze, unsure whether to move, whisper, or scream.
"WOAAH–!!"
It wasn't loud, but in the quiet train, it might as well have been a fire alarm. Heads turned. A dozen curious eyes darted toward him office workers, students, a sleepy couple, and even a toddler chewing on a biscuit.
The elderly man snapped awake, looking around in confusion. Realizing what had happened, his cheeks flushed red. He muttered apologies under his breath, bowing repeatedly. Toma, equally panicked, bowed back. The scene turned into a blur of mutual embarrassment, heads dipping awkwardly, hands waving "it's okay" in silent, desperate politeness.
And then, just like that, the attention faded.
Tokyo's train crowd had seen stranger things.
A station buzzed in. The doors slid open with a chime. An old woman entered, her thin frame wrapped in layers of shawls, holding a plastic bag filled with groceries. Without thinking, Toma stood up and gestured toward his seat.
She smiled, the kind that said "thank you" without words. Toma nodded back, stepped aside, and grabbed one of the overhead handles.
Now standing, swaying gently with the train's motion, he pulled out his phone again. The gallery image of Ren stared back at him. Behind Ren stood a small, slightly run-down house with a balcony railing that looked like it might fall off if leaned on. He swiped again and found the photo of the house's entrance a rusty gate, a mailbox with faded writing, and a tiny sign that read "Room A."
He zoomed in.
There was a weird charm to it. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't even particularly clean. But it looked real. Like it had stories. Like it had survived typhoons and broken relationships and maybe even a cat invasion or two.
He mumbled under his breath.
"House on rent, low price... but he said he needs to share it with someone. Okay, probably a student like me."
His words floated in the space between thought and speech. Not quite meant for anyone, but loud enough to be heard by no one. He exhaled.
A subtle peace settled on him. For all its awkwardness, the train ride was beginning to feel like a gentle welcome not warm, not loud, but real. Tokyo wasn't some anime version of itself. There were no neon dragons or soft jazz playing in the background. It was this: half-sleepy mornings, unexpected shoulder naps, silent apologies, and small kindnesses.
Toma's station approached. The voice over the intercom announced it twice once in Japanese, once in English. He adjusted his backpack, unplugged his earphones, and put his phone back in his pocket.
He didn't know what Ren would be like. He didn't know if the house had cockroaches. He didn't know if Tokyo would love him or swallow him whole.
But as the train slowed down, and the doors slid open once more, he stepped forward into the next chapter.
Not with confidence.
But with quiet, determined hope.
The wooden chopsticks felt light in Toma's fingers as he stirred the bowl of steaming ramen in front of him. The shop was small, almost hidden from the main street the kind of place locals stumbled into by routine, not recommendation. A single hanging lantern by the door cast a warm yellow glow, gently swaying with the wind. Inside, there were only four seats. Toma had taken one of them. The rest remained empty.
The old chef behind the counter moved with quiet familiarity, his back turned as he washed bowls. No music played. Just the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional rustle of leaves brushing against the windowpane.
Toma slurped a mouthful, more out of politeness than hunger. His stomach had been too tight since morning. He looked outside through the foggy window. The light was changing.
Daylight faded like ink soaking into paper. The skies above Tokyo were transforming fiery orange at the horizon, slowly bleeding into deep violets and sleepy blues. The buildings caught the colours briefly, reflecting them like shy mirrors before the dark swallowed them whole.
He stepped out of the shop with a soft "thank you" and adjusted the straps of his backpack. His body felt heavier now, not with fatigue, but with something more difficult to describe. A mix of nervous excitement and quiet loneliness.
The street was narrow, uneven in places. Vending machines hummed quietly, tucked between walls like secret companions. The wind picked up slightly, brushing his hair into his eyes. And then, without warning the sound.
Kwa… Kwa… Kwa…
A crow echoed sharply above, just once, then twice more. The sound sliced through the silence like a memory.
He turned into a smaller lane, barely wide enough for a car. The buildings here were older cracked walls, rusted pipes, balconies filled with hanging laundry. The kind of place no guidebook ever mentioned. He reached for his phone again, pulled up the image of the house the blurry photo of a small, two-story building with a slightly bent mailbox and a black iron gate half-broken at the corner.
As he walked, he looked up from the screen and froze.
There it was.
The house.
Not in pixels this time. Not behind glass.
Just there.
Standing quietly at the end of the lane, exactly as the photo had promised. The same crooked mailbox. The same number plate barely hanging on one screw. The gate leaned the same way. Nothing about it seemed inviting. Nothing about it screamed "welcome."
But still it was there. Real. Waiting.
His eyes flickered between the screen and reality, back and forth, as if checking for an error. But there wasn't one.
The house hadn't changed.
Only he had.
He let the phone fall slowly to his side, staring for a long second.
And then, in a breath no louder than the evening breeze, he said
"…Here it is."
Not with fear.
Not with excitement.
Just the quiet realization that this moment this very second would live in his memory forever.
The gate creaked like an old man waking from a nap.
Toma stepped closer, the rusted iron beneath his hand flaking slightly as he gave it a cautious push. The hinges groaned, echoing unnaturally in the narrow alley as if even the gate was reluctant to open. The faint scent of damp concrete and forgotten air drifted toward him.
He cleared his throat, forcing his voice to sound braver than he felt.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
Silence.
No footsteps. No cough. No faint TV noise.
Just the distant hum of a vending machine from the street behind him... and somewhere, another crow cawing in the distance, as if narrating this awkward arrival.
Toma took a hesitant step forward and pushed the door slightly more. It gave in without resistance.
The interior was dim. The lights were off, but the setting sun behind him stretched long shadows into the room. They slithered across the floor and up the walls like they had been waiting for someone to disturb them. The air inside was stale, unmoving. He blinked twice, trying to adjust to the darkness.
And then he saw him.
Standing in the centre of the room.
Still. Unmoving. Unblinking.
A tall figure. Hoodie on. Face half-shadowed. Pale skin. Hands hanging by his sides like a sleep-paralyzed ghost.
Ren.
Toma froze.
He opened his mouth, unsure what exactly he should say in a moment like this.
"S…Sir? Is something wrong?"
His voice cracked midway. The figure didn't respond. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
Toma's heartbeat stuttered. The silence grew heavier. The shadows seemed to inch closer.
And then
something dropped onto his face.
Soft. Fuzzy. Unexpected.
"AAAAHHHH!!"
He screamed loud and high-pitched stumbling backward like he'd just been stabbed. His back hit the gate as he stumbled outside, clutching his chest like his soul had almost left his body. His breath came in short gasps as he flattened himself against the compound wall, eyes wide, arms shaking.
From inside, a voice spoke.
Dry. Emotionless. So, monotone it almost sounded robotic.
"…Hey. I'm human."
Toma peeked cautiously around the edge of the wall.
The same figure now clearly visible was standing exactly where he had been, but with a lazy cat nestled at his feet. She rubbed against his ankles like nothing had happened.
The boy Ren pointed downward with his finger, then made a small circular motion over the cat's head.
"She's not a ghost. She's a cat. Mika."
Toma blinked. Once. Twice.
The tiny cat yawned, revealing a pink tongue and two small teeth, before settling into a curl on the floor. Ren crouched, his long limbs moving with slow, deliberate ease, and gently stroked the top of her head with just one finger. The entire gesture felt like it was happening in slow motion.
Toma, still hiding behind the wall like a soldier peeking out from enemy fire, cleared his throat.
"Are you the landlord… or the roommate?"
Ren didn't look up. His finger continued to glide over Mika's head in a straight, repetitive rhythm.
"Both."
Just that. One word. No expression. Like answering the question itself was exhausting.
Toma stood there in silence for a few seconds. His brain felt like it was buffering.
Then, very softly:
"…What the F?"
Ren finally looked up. He reached toward the wall beside him and flicked a switch.
A click.
The room lit up.
Toma's eyes widened.
And then he turned white.
The room was... horrifying.
Not horror-movie horrifying. Not blood-on-the-walls horrifying.
But real-life horrifying.
The kind of horrifying that screamed, "This is where you might die slowly… of a fungal infection."
A pile of empty ramen bowls towered precariously on the kitchen counter. Some had dried soup crusted at the edges like ancient artifacts. A crusty towel, once white but now a colourless Gray, clung to the back of a chair like it was barely alive. A half-eaten pizza box sat open on the floor, slices still in it the cheese hardened into strange shapes, as if fossilized. A bucket sat in the corner with an unidentified liquid, yellow-green and bubbling slightly. Probably not water.
Toma's mouth dropped open.
His soul tried to leave his body again.
He raised a trembling hand to his mouth.
"I….I'm gonna puke…"
Ren said nothing. He simply stood up, walked over to a nearby table, moved a stack of magazines off a chair by nudging them with his foot, and gestured casually.
"You can sit."
Toma didn't move.
His brain was trying to catch up to everything at once:
"This was the house from the photo."
"This was the guy from the listing."
"This was not okay."
"That bucket was... alive? Maybe?"
Ren sat down himself and reached into a drawer. From it, he pulled out a spoon. He examined it. Sniffed it. Then casually wiped it with his sleeve and placed it on the table in front of Toma, like some kind of broken welcome gift.
The silence returned.
Mika the cat meowed once, yawned again, and curled up near the bucket.
Toma's hands remained stiff by his side.
Ren finally broke the silence again.
"Do you want to see the room?"
Toma didn't respond. His eyes were still fixed on the pizza slice that looked like it had been there since the Edo period.
Ren stood, stretched with a tired grunt, and walked toward a hallway that led to the back of the house. He paused at the entrance, then turned.
"You coming?"
Toma blinked.
He took one slow, cautious step inside the house. His foot touched the wooden floor with a light creak.
It smelled like wet socks and expired soy sauce.
And still… he followed.
Because something inside him whispered:
If you survive this… you'll have a story worth telling.
Toma stood in the middle of the room, his backpack still strapped on. The evening light barely reached through the rattling windows, casting his shadow in long lines across the warped wooden floor.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't even average.
But it was his.
He let out a long breath, as if releasing everything he'd been holding in since stepping off the train. Then, very slowly, he smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. More like a "dear god what have I done" smile.
He dropped his bag on the floor, took another look around and whispered to no one:
"…Okay. Let's survive."
The room was quiet now.
Not peaceful not yet but still. Like a storm had passed and left behind only the soft sound of dust settling.
Toma lay on the mattress, arms stretched out, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. The cracked plaster stared back, like a map of forgotten thoughts, lines intersecting in silent patterns only time could create. The bulb above him buzzed faintly, flickering once before going still.
His bag was tucked under the crooked shelf. Clothes folded, mostly. Books stacked. Chargers coiled into tired spirals. It wasn't perfect, but for a boy who had never lived outside his hometown, organizing a room this broken had felt like winning a small war.
His breath slowed. He reached for his phone.
The screen glowed softly against the dimness. He opened the call log and tapped the first number. The ringtone barely rang once.
A voice answered immediately his mother.
Before she could speak, Toma cut in, voice low, calm.
"Yeah, I reached safely."
There was a pause. A long one. He imagined her on the other end, hand pressed to her chest, finally exhaling the worry she'd been carrying since he boarded the train.
He glanced around the room again. The dusty fan. The leaning shelf. The way the windows rattled whenever the wind touched them.
"The place is… liveable," he said, and almost smiled at how generous that word felt.
Then, softer "Just tell dad not to overthink."
Another pause. Maybe she laughed. Or maybe she said "okay" quietly. He couldn't really tell.
His eyes drifted to the windows. From his position on the mattress, he could see faint flickers of city lights slipping through the dirty glass. Some blinking neon sign from the street below. A red tail light passing by in the distance. Somewhere, someone else was probably arriving at their new home too. Or leaving one behind.
Toma pulled the blanket up to his chest, not because it was cold but because the weight of it felt like a shield.
"I'll try sending pictures once I clean it up," he added.
Knowing fully well it might take a while before the room was clean enough for proof of life.
He hung up without saying goodbye.
Not out of rudeness but because the silence afterward was more comforting than expected.
The room settled again.
The air was filled with stillness, touched only by the occasional creak of the wooden frame beneath him. Somewhere far off, he heard a train. The sound was soft, fading quickly, like it had no intention of stopping.
It reminded him of the one he rode in on gliding through tunnels, brushing past skyscrapers, announcing Tokyo's arrival with nothing but a gentle hum. It felt like days ago now.
Toma blinked slowly.
His body was tired in a way sleep might not fix. But he didn't mind. There was something strangely reassuring about lying still in a room that wasn't perfect. Maybe because, for the first time, everything around him the mess, the quiet, the uncertainty felt like his.
His ceiling had cracks.
His mattress crunched slightly.
His roommate was emotionally flat and probably allergic to cleaning.
But it was real.
And he had arrived.
The room had just begun to settle into its quietest hour.
The mattress beneath Toma had stopped creaking. The ceiling above had accepted his presence. Even the wind outside, which had been playing with the loose window panes, had decided to rest. Everything in the world at least in this little part of it seemed still.
Toma's body lay still too, wrapped under the thin blanket, eyes closed, breaths shallow. A part of him drifted near sleep, not fully unconscious, but somewhere between tired and fading.
And then
a sound.
Soft. Barely there.
A rustle.
Like fabric against fabric. Like fingers brushing through things that weren't theirs.
Toma's left eye cracked open just a sliver.
At first, he saw only darkness but then, his vision adjusted. The glow of distant streetlight filtered faintly through the window, painting the room in greys and shadow outlines. In that murky quiet, he saw a shape.
Ren.
Crouched low. Near the shelf.
No near his backpack.
The same one he'd carefully zipped shut before lying down. The one that held the few thousand yen left from his travel expenses. Emergency cash. Enough for food. A train ticket. Maybe a blanket if it got colder.
Ren's movements were calm. Deliberate. His hoodie hung low, hiding his expression. His fingers moved with the silence of someone who had done this before slow zips, light touches, no sudden noise.
Toma's breath froze.
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. He let his body remain limp and heavy, eyes half-shut, breath measured. But inside his mind screamed.
What is he doing?
Why is he…
Ren's hand slipped into the small pocket of the bag the one Toma had tucked the money in. Folded notes. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get by.
There was a pause.
And then, slowly, Ren pocketed a few bills. Not all. Just a small stack.
He stood up with the same ghostlike grace and walked quietly toward the door.
The wooden floor gave the tiniest creak as he stepped out.
Then silence again.
Toma didn't move. Not immediately.
He stared up at the ceiling cracks again, but they looked different now. Sharper. Meaner. The air felt colder. The window flickers didn't feel distant anymore they felt too close, like the city was watching.
He turned slightly, eyes wide open now, the earlier warmth in his chest replaced by something heavier. Not fear. Not exactly. More like uncertainty stitched with a thread of discomfort.
His heart beat faster, but his limbs refused to react.
His thoughts raced instead.
"…Why is he taking money?"
There was no anger. Just confusion. A strange helplessness that came from not knowing whether he should be scared… or just sorry for someone else.
"…Is he broke?"
"…Is he into gambling?"
"…Is he testing me?"
The questions felt ridiculous even as they formed.
He didn't know this person. This roommate. This landlord. This… stranger.
And yet, he had given this man a quiet sort of trust the kind that comes not from knowing someone, but from needing to believe in them.
Toma shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher, not out of comfort but out of instinct. As if it could protect something invisible.
Outside, another train passed in the distance. He barely heard it this time.
His eyes remained open.
Sleep had left the room.
And now, the darkness felt like it was staying a little too long.
Fade to black.
Toma stood behind a crooked power pole, his back pressed to the cool metal, sneakers still on from last night. The street was quiet, lit only by a flickering lamppost and the soft glow of the morning sky trying to convince itself that it was day.
His breath was steady, but his mind wasn't.
Eyes locked forward, he watched as Ren walked ahead, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his hoodie. Just a few steps behind him, padding silently across the pavement, was Mika the sleepy cat with a better sense of loyalty than most people.
Toma narrowed his eyes.
"Let's see what the hell he's up to…"
The thought echoed with more curiosity than anger.
He hadn't said a word to Ren that morning. Hadn't asked about the missing money. Hadn't made a sound when they crossed paths in the hallway or passed each other in the kitchen. Ren, true to his nature, didn't say anything either. Just made coffee like nothing had happened and left.
But now, Toma had followed.
Not loudly. Not suspiciously.
Just enough.
Ren walked at an even pace not slow, not hurried like a man who had nothing urgent to do, but somewhere he still needed to be. His shoulders were slightly hunched, posture careless, but not tired. Mika kept perfect step with him, never darting ahead, never stopping.
They turned a corner into a narrow street lined with small shops, most of which were still pulling up their shutters for the day. A tofu place, a stationery store, a tired bakery with yesterday's bread still on display.
And then, Ren entered a flower shop.
Toma blinked.
"A flower shop?"
He stepped closer, stopping just at the edge of the wall outside. A row of potted marigolds half-blocked his view, but he leaned slightly, careful not to be seen.
Inside, he saw the shopkeeper an old man, built like someone who had never been gentle with anything, not even flowers. His arms moved aggressively, gesturing wildly. His mouth opened and closed in furious shapes. Wrinkles formed valleys across his forehead as he raised one hand and pointed sharply at Ren.
Toma couldn't hear the words. But the emotion was clear.
Anger. Frustration. Resentment.
Ren just stood there.
Still.
Unmoving.
He didn't respond. Didn't gesture back. Didn't flinch.
Just stared at the man, expression unreadable, hands still buried in his pockets.
Toma's body tensed. His grip on the wall tightened.
"What the hell was this?"
Was it about debt? Was Ren involved in something worse than just stealing a few bills from a roommate's bag?
Gambling? Threats? Old dues?
Inside, the argument if it could be called that reached its silent peak. The shopkeeper turned away with a final sharp movement, then disappeared into the back.
Moments later, he returned holding something.
He shoved it toward Ren.
A bouquet.
Simple. Plain. White and yellow flowers, tied with a fraying ribbon.
Ren took it without a word.
Didn't bow. Didn't say thank you.
Just turned.
And walked out.
Toma quickly ducked back behind the pole, peeking just enough to catch Ren's figure moving again, bouquet now in one hand, Mika still trotting beside him.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
There was something haunting about the way he carried the flowers. Not precious, not careful. Just steady. Like they weren't a gift or a decoration but a ritual.
Toma stepped out again, slipping into a slow, distant trail behind them.
He kept watching.
Following.
The streets grew quieter.
And in Toma's mind, the questions multiplied like weeds.
Who were the flowers for?
Why the argument?
Why did Ren look like he carried guilt but refused to wear it on his face?
And why… why did this all feel less like crime and more like pain?
He didn't know the answers.
But he couldn't stop walking.
Not yet.
The sky had turned pale that bluish Gray colour that comes just before the clouds decide what kind of day it'll be.
Ren walked quietly, bouquet still in hand, shoulders neither relaxed nor tense. Just… existing. The gravel path beneath him gave soft crunches, blending with the wind rustling through the old trees lining both sides. The branches above twisted gently, casting scattered shadows on the ground.
Toma followed at a distance, footsteps slow, careful not to be heard. His heart wasn't racing like earlier now it just beat with an odd heaviness; one he didn't have a name for.
Mika walked ahead of Ren.
Tail steady. Eyes focused.
They turned a corner, and that's when Toma saw it:
Rows and rows of gravestones, standing in their quiet army stone markers of stories long closed. The cemetery was old. You could tell by the faded kanji on the older stones, by the moss creeping up the edges, by the way the path stopped pretending to be organized and just became a worn trail of memory.
Mika didn't hesitate. She walked with small, deliberate steps not sniffing around like a curious pet, but moving with purpose. And then, just like that, she stopped.
In front of a single grave.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
She stepped onto the small patch of stone and grass, curled her body, and lay down. Her eyes blinked once, slowly, and then closed.
Ren came to a halt behind her.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he crouched. Slowly. As if the weight wasn't just physical anymore.
He knelt in front of the gravestone; the bouquet still cradled in his hands. It wasn't anything fancy white daisies, yellow chrysanthemums, tied with a ribbon that was starting to fray at the edge. But the way he held it… like it mattered more than anything else he owned.
And then
Nothing.
No prayer.
No words.
No dramatic kneeling.
Just a boy… frozen.
Toma stopped behind the cemetery wall, far enough to stay hidden, close enough to see.
He didn't dare take another step.
From where he stood, he saw Ren clearly. The posture. The shoulders. The bowed head. And then, finally movement.
Not loud.
Not shaking.
Not sobbing.
Just a single tear, tracing a slow line down Ren's cheek. And then another.
The kind of crying that doesn't need sound to be real.
It wasn't performative. It wasn't cinematic. It was controlled quiet like someone who had cried here many times before. Who knew exactly how long it took to cry without falling apart.
Toma's chest felt tight.
He stood still, pressed slightly behind a short stone pillar, and watched.
He didn't see the messy roommate from last night.
Not the guy with ramen bowls and old pizza boxes.
Not the one who spoke like a robot or stole yen in the dark.
He saw someone else.
Someone fragile.
Someone breaking.
And somehow, that was worse.
Ren leaned forward gently and placed the bouquet on the base of the grave. His fingers hovered for a second longer, as if unsure whether to let go. But eventually, he did. The flowers fell perfectly into place like they belonged there. Like they always had.
His hands dropped to his lap. His head lowered again.
And he stayed like that.
Toma didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He could've stepped forward.
He could've asked.
"Who was it?"
"A parent?"
"A friend?"
"Someone more?"
He could've called out, even just to say, "I saw."
But he didn't.
Because some silences… are sacred.
And some pain… isn't meant to be shared the moment you see it. Not until the person is ready.
Toma took one last look at Ren hunched in quiet grief, the cat curled beside him, the bouquet resting at the base of stone and turned.
He walked back down the gravel path. Slowly. Not trying to hide now, but not making noise either. Just… existing. Respecting.
The trees rustled again as he passed. The wind carried nothing but stillness.
And behind him, he left a boy who had finally allowed himself to break… in the only place where he didn't have to explain why.
The morning light was faint pale and bluish, like the sky hadn't decided yet if it wanted to wake up.
Toma sat still on the mattress, back against the wall, one knee raised, chin resting on it. He hadn't slept much. Maybe not at all. But his body had rested still and quiet while his mind had replayed the cemetery over and over.
Ren. Kneeling. Crying.
The silence. The cat. The flowers.
It wasn't something you could just forget overnight.
But it wasn't something you could talk about either.
He heard the faint sound of a door creaking.
Then soft footsteps two sets. Ren. And Mika.
Toma shifted quickly, letting his back fall flat to the mattress. Then, after a second's pause, he stretched his arms upward in a fake yawn and slowly sat up.
Acting. Just enough.
He stood, ran a hand through his hair to mess it up, slipped on his sneakers, and walked toward the stairs.
The house was cool and dim, bathed in that early light that made everything look softer, sadder. The wooden steps creaked under him as he came down slowly, carefully as if walking through someone else's morning.
Then the door opened.
Ren entered, hoodie damp from dew, hands in his pockets, and that usual emptiness in his face. Mika followed behind, tail swaying lazily.
Their eyes met.
Toma gave a nod light, hesitant.
"…Good morning," he said softly.
Ren blinked once, then replied in that same unreadable tone, "Morning."
And walked straight into the kitchen.
Toma stood there for a second, then followed.
"Uh… is it okay if I make something? Like… ramen?"
His voice echoed a little too loud in the quiet house.
Ren paused. He didn't turn. Just glanced at the dusty top shelf where instant noodles were stacked beside a few old seasonings.
Then:
"How long are you planning to eat that processed crap?"
He spoke flatly, without sarcasm. "There's food in the kitchen."
Toma blinked, genuinely confused for a moment.
That line wasn't supposed to come from someone like Ren.
He looked at the guy in front of him the one who, just last night, had pocketed money from his bag. The same guy who barely spoke in full sentences. Who had cried in a cemetery thinking no one was watching.
And now... he was offering him food?
Toma didn't reply right away.
His thoughts ticked silently.
"What are you, Ren? What even are you?"
He scratched the back of his head and gave a light, awkward smile.
"…Okay. I'll try not to burn anything."
Ren didn't respond.
Toma stepped closer, as the early morning sunlight slipped in through the window above the sink pale gold.
He didn't know if this was a truce.
Or just another strange, quiet moment.
But for now, it was enough.
The kitchen smelled like something warm oats maybe and dust that hadn't been disturbed in weeks. Toma stood awkwardly near the entrance, not quite inside but no longer outside either. His hands fidgeted behind his back. The room wasn't cold, but the silence between them made the air feel thinner somehow.
Ren didn't speak. He simply moved.
Steam rose gently from a plain ceramic bowl as he stirred something over the stove. The faint clink of metal against ceramic echoed in the stillness. Then, without turning around, Ren reached out with his left hand and held the bowl behind him.
Toma stared for a second surprised then stepped forward and took it carefully with both hands.
"…Thanks," he muttered, though he wasn't sure if Ren heard.
He sat down at the tiny table by the wall the one with one leg slightly shorter than the others. A stack of napkins had been wedged under the leg as a makeshift balance. The bowl was warm in his palms. Inside were oats, plain and thick, with a tiny sprinkle of sesame seeds on top. Nothing fancy. Nothing processed.
Toma took a spoonful, chewing slowly.
Across the room, Ren wiped the kitchen counter in slow, deliberate strokes. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't avoiding. He was just… there. Doing.
Toma kept eating, quietly glancing up every now and then.
And then, he said it.
"Hey… if you don't mind…"
Ren didn't stop wiping. But something in his posture stilled like his spine caught the words before his ears did.
"…can I ask why you took the money?"
There it was. Out in the open.
The moment most people would avoid.
Toma instantly regretted it.
Ren's hand froze the wet cloth still pressed against the counter. The silence that followed wasn't sharp or dramatic. It was heavier. Denser.
Toma swallowed hard.
"I-I'm not asking for it back," he added quickly, voice lower. "I know it was for those flowers."
He looked down at the bowl in his hands.
"If it's private or personal and you're not comfortable, it's fine. Really."
Still no reply.
No nod. No breath. No movement.
Ren remained still, like someone trying to decide if they were allowed to breathe in front of someone else.
Toma didn't push.
Instead, he finished his last spoonful, stood up, and walked to the sink. He gently placed the bowl in. The water was still running warm and steady. And without saying another word, he picked up a nearby sponge and started helping.
The two of them stood there, side by side, cleaning in quiet synchrony. The only sound now was the water, the occasional clink of ceramic, and the scratch of sponge against plate.
It felt… manageable.
Toma finally broke the silence again, this time softer. A little lighter.
"Let me help you."
Ren didn't answer. But he didn't stop him either. That was enough.
They worked for another minute or so, neither speaking, but the silence now felt different. Not heavy. Just… shared.
Then, trying to break the tension, Toma glanced sideways with a small smile.
"So… do you not work or something?"
Ren didn't look at him. He reached over for the dish rack, placing a clean bowl in it.
Then, out of nowhere, he said:
"You got into Akiyama High, right?"
Toma blinked.
"Yeah. How did you?"
"You dropped your file on the first day," Ren cut in smoothly. "School starts Monday."
Toma raised his eyebrows, surprised.
He turned toward the sink again, smiling quietly to himself this time.
It was strange living in a house with someone like Ren.
But strangely… it didn't feel bad.
Toma washed the last bowl, stacked it upside down on the rack, and wiped his hands with a rag that might've once been white.
He looked at Ren who was now feeding Mika near the corner gently placing her food down, patting her head once, then walking off without another word.
Toma's eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have.
Something about that small moment the gentleness in Ren's hand, the silence around it stuck with him.
"He's different when he's around her," Toma thought.
He glanced at the little cat. Mika was licking her paw quietly, completely unfazed by the world. Like she knew her place here. Like she belonged.
And for some reason, that thought made something twist slightly in Toma's chest.
He left the kitchen quietly.
The backyard was warmer now, the sun rising higher over the city.
Toma hung wet clothes on the old steel line, wringing each piece out as best he could. His back was already damp with sweat. The plastic tub beside him sloshed slightly, half-filled with soapy water and wrinkled shirts.
A breeze passed, carrying the faint scent of detergent and rust.
Mika lay on the grass nearby, tail twitching like she was half-listening to his movements.
Toma let out a breath, squinting at the sun.
"How did mom do this every day…?" he thought, dragging a towel over the line. His hands ached. His spine groaned.
He bent down to pick up the tub again and stepped forward toward the second pole
But something soft brushed against his foot.
He looked down
Mika. Right under him.
Toma jerked sideways to avoid stepping on her paw. His ankle twisted awkwardly. The tub tilted. A shirt flew out, landing on the dirt.
"Damn it, Mika! Move, you stupid…!"
THWACK.
The sound came before the pain.
Toma's face jerked sideways. A punch fast, clean, straight from Ren's fist connected with the side of his jaw.
Toma stumbled back two steps, hand to his cheek, then to his nose.
A thin line of blood appeared.
His mind blanked. His heart kicked into high gear.
He looked up slowly eyes wide.
Ren stood still, breathing slightly heavier than usual. Not yelling. Not angry in the usual way. But…
Cold.
"Don't yell at her," Ren said, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.
For a second, time didn't move.
Even Mika stopped licking her paw.
Toma touched his face again. Blood. Real.
And something else too
Not just confusion. Not just pain.
Realization.
He had crossed something.
The laundry still lay scattered on the floor, like a pile of small failures.
Toma's breath was ragged, chest heaving from anger and confusion. The sting on his jaw had dulled, but not the fire behind it.
He stood in the middle of the messy living room, fists clenched, teeth gritted.
TOMA (shouting):
"Who the hell do you think you are?!
You steal from me, punch me, and still charge that much rent for this dump?!"
His voice echoed off the peeling walls.
"I'm done! I'm outta here!!"
He turned sharply, grabbing the tub of half-washed clothes, storming toward the stairs. His foot slammed against each wooden step with fury.
Behind him, Ren just stood frozen until a step creaked louder than the others.
Then… a stumble.
Ren's knees buckled slightly, and he collapsed onto the old sofa behind him breath catching in his throat, as if something had cracked deeper than his ribs.
He sat there, hunched over, not looking up.
Toma reached the middle of the stairs before realizing he'd dropped two shirts on the floor.
Cursing under his breath, he turned around and stomped back to grab them.
That's when it came.
A voice. Barely audible.
REN (softly):
"Two years ago…"
Toma froze.
One knee bent, one shirt half in his hand.
He didn't look up at first.
Just… listened.
Ren's voice wasn't cold now. It wasn't blank or flat.
It trembled the way only truth does.
"…there was someone."
Ren's voice barely broke the silence.
Toma's hand slowly lowered, the shirt forgotten. His heartbeat was louder than the room now.
"Someone who cared about me. Someone who… loved me. By true heart."
Toma turned slowly.
Ren wasn't looking at him.
His eyes were fixed on Mika who now sat perched on the low round table near the centre of the room. Her little paw was raised as she calmly licked it in lazy circles. Unbothered. Gentle.
Ren's gaze didn't waver.
He wasn't crying. But his eyes…
They held that stillness people only get when the crying is done long ago.
Toma stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not awkward.
Just... human.
He reached the table and sat down. Quiet. Careful. Like someone entering a sacred place. His voice was gone now, lost somewhere between guilt and understanding.
He sat across from Ren neither looking directly at the other and simply stayed there.
No more yelling.
No more questions.
Just two people. A room. A cat.
And a silence that finally felt okay to share.
The curtains swayed gently in the morning breeze.
Soft sunlight bled through the fabric, painting pale gold lines across the wooden floor. The kind of light that doesn't shout, but quietly arrives uninvited, yet welcome.
Ren's eyes opened slowly.
The alarm was still ringing, faint and repetitive from the desk by the wall. He didn't move right away. He just stared at the ceiling blankly. Breathing. Awake, but not rested.
Somewhere in the background, a faint clatter of utensils and a light sizzle floated through the air. The kitchen. The usual.
Ren finally sat up.
Just movement like habit had taken over where emotion used to be.
The room around him was clean. Minimalist. The kind of space that looked like it had been organized more by care than design. His bed was neatly made, only slightly disturbed by his shifting. A small desk stood by the window, a single book open on it. The air smelled faintly of soap and warm miso.
He walked barefoot across the room, each step soft but sure. The hallway outside was bright white walls, small potted plants in corners, picture frames hung with quiet pride. One of them showed Ren younger, smiling awkwardly in a school uniform, standing next to a woman who looked both proud and exhausted. His mother.
From the kitchen came more sound. A pan being lifted. A soft hum. The gentle rhythm of a life that knew what it was doing.
Ren passed by quietly.
He didn't speak. Neither did she.
There was no need. This was a morning like many others.
Inside the bathroom, the mirror greeted him with a kind of honesty only morning could bring.
He looked into it, toothbrush paused mid-air.
His face was clean, but the eyes didn't lie. There was a heaviness to them not of sleep, but of something older. Something that had been carried too long for someone still seventeen.
He brushed silently.
Just the sound of bristles and his own breathing.
By the time he emerged, the table had food warm rice, pickles, grilled fish, a folded napkin. His mother was already packing lunch in a bento box. She looked up, gave a small nod. He returned it.
Still no words.
But everything was understood.
He put on his uniform. Shirt, tie, blazer. Smooth, ironed. Like someone had taken time to make sure he'd step out of the house with dignity. His hair, slightly messy from sleep, was pressed down with quick fingers.
He opened the door to the outside.
Shoes on. Bag over one shoulder.
And then… he paused.
Just before stepping out, he glanced back into the house the morning light still spilling through the curtain, the smell of food still fresh in the air, the sound of the kettle just beginning to whistle.
It was perfect.
Almost too perfect.
And something about that made his chest feel heavier.
He stepped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The metro hummed softly along its tracks, cutting through the quiet veins of a half-sleeping city. Outside the wide windows, Tokyo blurred past in soft streaks of light and steel. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a pale orange hue across the buildings. Inside the carriage, the air was cool, the kind that belonged to mornings just after dawn crisp but not cold.
The train was only half-filled. Commuters sat with heads bowed, some scrolling through their phones, others nodding off with earbuds tucked in. A man in a business suit flipped through a folded newspaper, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the page. An old woman dozed quietly near the emergency door, her cane resting across her lap.
Ren stepped inside, his school bag slung over one shoulder. He didn't rush for a seat. He simply stood near the door, hand resting on the metal rail, body swaying gently with the rhythm of the train.
His eyes wandered.
They passed the ads above the windows, the route map, the reflection of the city outside and then stopped.
Just ahead, near the opposite end of the carriage, a father sat with his small son tucked between his legs. The boy giggled as the man gently ruffled his hair, poking at his cheeks with exaggerated affection. The child playfully tried to escape the teasing, but never moved too far.
Ren's gaze lingered.
His lips twitched.
Not a smile, not fully. But something close. A soft, barely-there curve. Like his body remembered the shape of joy even if the heart didn't feel it yet.
It's been six months...
The words formed in his mind slowly, like leaves drifting to the ground.
Still can't forget Dad's voice... or how my brother used to kick me from the backseat...
The corners of his eyes darkened. His grip on the rail tightened just slightly. Enough to feel the cold metal press into his palm.
That car accident...
The thought came without invitation. Just the weight of it alone made his shoulders stiffen.
For a split second, the glass door beside him reflected something sharp a fractured image, not of him, but of something else. A broken window. A scream swallowed by wind. The shattering of headlights, mangled steel twisted like paper.
Gone in an instant.
He blinked. The image vanished.
The almost-smile faded from his lips, replaced by something still. Something heavy.
He didn't look at the boy and his father again.
Instead, he turned his head slightly, eyes focused now on the horizon slipping past the window. His reflection layered with buildings that rushed by like time refusing to stop.
The train kept moving.
And so did he.
But not everything inside him had left that moment behind.
Ren walked with one hand tucked lazily in the pocket of his pants, the other loosely gripping the strap of his bag slung over one shoulder. His posture was slightly hunched, not from pain but from indifference. His expression carried that familiar teenage weariness: brows gently furrowed, eyes half-lidded, lips flat with a hint of mild irritation. Not angry. Just... done. With everything.
He passed the front gate of Akiyama High just as the final bell echoed across the courtyard.
Students milled around in clusters some laughing, some rushing, others yawning through conversations. Bikes creaked along the gravel. A girl shrieked playfully as her friend sprayed water from a bottle. The sky above was pale blue, touched with the warmth of rising light.
But Ren didn't notice.
His eyes flicked across the scene with the same energy someone gives to a painting they've seen too many times. His steps were slow, deliberate. The kind of walk where the legs move, but the soul stays behind.
Inside the building, the corridor buzzed faintly. Lockers clanked open and shut. Shoes squeaked against the polished floor. Echoes of greetings bounced down the halls.
Room 1-C sat near the end.
He pushed the door open without looking and stepped in, the usual drone of morning lectures already spilling from the front.
"Everyone, please turn to page seventy-eight and observe the sentence pattern in example B..."
The teacher's voice barely registered in Ren's mind. He walked to his seat second row from the window, fourth desk and sat without a sound. The chair creaked softly beneath him.
Around him, the classroom was alive.
Pens scribbled hurried notes. Two boys near the back passed a folded chit behind their textbooks. A group of girls tried to suppress their giggles as someone dropped a pen twice on purpose. The lights flickered slightly as clouds drifted across the sun.
But Ren wasn't here.
Not really.
His elbow rested on the desk, his cheek propped lazily against his palm. He stared outside through the glass, beyond the window grill, past the soccer field where a few seniors were doing stretches in their PE uniforms.
His gaze was distant. Not curious. Not longing. Just... lost in something far beyond what was visible.
The voice of the teacher faded further into the background.
The words were still being said, but they no longer reached.
A rubber ball bounced once across the floor and thudded against the leg of Ren's desk.
He didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even move his eyes.
A student from the front row looked back and chuckled, mouthing a silent "my bad."
Still no reaction.
"Ren," the teacher called out, a little louder this time.
Ren didn't respond.
The classroom seemed to pause.
Then slowly, the filter thickened. The edges of voices blurred. The shuffling of books, the scraping of chairs, the laughter, even the tapping of chalk on the blackboard all of it began to fade.
Like someone had dipped the world in water.
And Ren just sat there, eyes on the sky.
Body in class.
Mind... somewhere else.
After some time
The cafeteria echoed with motion.
Chairs scraped sharply against the tiled floor. Trays clattered. Conversations crashed into each other from all direction's boys shouting across tables, girls laughing mid-bite, someone complaining about tests, someone else teasing a junior. The air smelled of fried chicken, soy, sweat, and teenage urgency.
In the middle of it all, Ren sat.
Still.
Unmoving.
A pale plastic tray lay in front of him, the kind with four compartments. Rice. Miso. A few pickled vegetables. A fried croquette, half-eaten and forgotten.
He moved with the rhythm of a machine lift spoon, chew, swallow. No taste. No interest. His eyes were fixed on the tray, but not watching it.
Just… existing in front of it.
A sudden bump.
Someone walking past knocked into the side of his table. His tray jolted slightly, and a streak of red sauce spilled down the side, dripping onto the corner.
Ren didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even glance up.
He picked up another spoonful of rice and continued chewing.
"Hey, dude. Can I sit here?"
The voice came from a classmate tall, awkward smile, holding a tray with both hands.
Ren didn't look at him.
Didn't nod.
Didn't shake his head.
Just… kept eating.
The boy hesitated for a second, eyes darting between Ren and the empty seat. Then, without a word, quietly stepped away and joined another table.
Ren's spoon hit the tray again. A soft clink.
All around him, the world was moving.
Students shouted jokes across tables, sauce packets were thrown like darts, chairs spun, napkins flew, trays slid.
But at the centre of it, Ren sat like a statue carved in exhaustion.
His face wasn't sad.
It wasn't angry.
It was… unreadable.
Like a cup filled to the brim, where even a whisper would make it spill.
In his head, a voice spoke softly.
Not aloud. Not even consciously.
Just… quietly rising from the static.
I'm not lonely.
A lonely person longs for company.
I don't.
I'm just... full.
Full of things I don't know how to say.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the noise around him blurring into a dull roar a sea of chaos that couldn't touch the numbness inside him.
He opened them again. Picked up the last bite of rice.
Chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
Then placed the spoon down as if it weighed too much.
The world around him didn't pause. Plates still clinked, students still laughed, announcements still echoed faintly from the speakers in the hallway. But for Ren, something had quietly shut off. Like a power cut in an empty room. He stood up slowly, picked up the tray, and walked over to the return counter. The lunch lady didn't even glance at him as he placed it down.
He stepped out of the cafeteria into the open hallway.
The sky had shifted.
What was once late morning had now begun to lean into evening. Long shadows touched the floor. The air smelled less of heat and more of metal and leaves like the city exhaling. He didn't check his phone. Didn't check the time. His legs just moved.
Soon, he found himself at a nearby park. Not a big one. Just a patch of old benches, overgrown hedges, and two swings that creaked occasionally when the wind touched them. The sun was nearly gone, leaving streaks of gold and pink dragging across the sky like someone had run wet brushes across a canvas.
He sat on the loneliest bench.
Dropped his bag beside him with a soft thud.
Folded his arms.
And closed his eyes.
Not because he was tired.
But because it was easier that way.
No thoughts. No choices. No noise.
Just the sound of cicadas somewhere deep in the bushes, and the gentle rustle of tree branches above.
Time passed.
Maybe minutes. Maybe more.
The world dimmed slightly, slipping into its evening version. Street lamps buzzed faintly. Birds called out in short, final notes as they settled into nests. A pair of bicycles passed by the park's edge but far enough to not disturb him.
Then...
His head twitched upward.
Eyes fluttered open.
The first thing he saw was the sky now bruised with violet and faint blue. The second was the soft glow of a streetlight flickering to life nearby.
He sat up straighter, blinking.
How long was I here...?
His voice echoed only inside his mind.
Not worried. Not surprised.
Just curious like someone waking from a dream they didn't realize they were dreaming.
He looked around. The park was empty now.
Only the shadows remained.
Without urgency, Ren reached for his bag and stood.
His steps were slow at first.
Then steadier.
Then... part of the rhythm again.
Ren was walking along the sidewalk, passing quiet shops, crossing at the empty zebra lines, and heading toward the nearest metro station.
The wind brushed his sleeves gently as he walked.
The overhead lights flickered not enough to scare anyone, but just enough to remind you the city was tired too. One bulb blinked lazily near the far end. A faint breeze moved across the space, cool and dry, brushing Ren's sleeves and tugging softly at the hem of his hoodie.
He stood near the edge of the platform.
Beneath his feet, the yellow line glowed dimly. The kind of glow that warned more than it guided. He didn't step past it. Not yet. Just stood with the tips of his shoes kissing its edge.
From behind, it looked like he was part of the station another statue placed there by time, too quiet to be noticed, too still to be asked questions.
Far off, inside the tunnel, a sound began.
Soft at first. Then heavier. A low rumble of something massive waking up.
Ren looked down.
The rails stretched ahead endlessly, silver lines vanishing into dark. But today... they looked deeper.
Like they weren't just metal.
Like they were a mouth wide and quiet waiting.
He inched forward, just a little. His toes now almost crossed the line.
It'd be fast, he thought.
Just a second.
And everything would be quiet.
The tunnel's breath grew louder. The approaching train light began to form a glow, distant and orange, like a setting sun chasing him down the tracks.
His eyes didn't blink. They weren't scared.
Just... blank.
His shoulders relaxed.
He leaned slightly forward.
And then
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Firm. Warm.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
The voice was bright. Not loud. Not panicked.
Just… surprised.
Ren turned sharply, pulled out of the trance like someone yanked him up from underwater.
A girl stood beside him.
Hoodie. Jeans. Hair pulled into a loose bun. Breathing a little fast like she'd run to catch him. Her eyes sparkled with something Ren couldn't immediately name.
Alive.
That was the word.
She was smiling not the fake kind, not the forced kind. Just a natural, teasing smile. Like they were classmates and she caught him trying to steal an extra pudding at lunch.
"Whoa," she said, still holding his wrist lightly. "Don't tell me you were about to jump? That's kinda dramatic, y'know."
Ren stared at her.
No words came.
His mouth moved, but the sound was stuck in his throat frozen somewhere between shame and shock.
Finally, barely audible:
"N… Nothing."
He pulled his hand away gently.
Took one slow step back.
Then another.
Then turned.
He walked toward a bench near the pillar and sat.
She followed.
No hesitation. No judgement.
She dropped down beside him casually, hoodie sleeves hanging past her palms, legs swinging like a kid at recess.
Neither of them said anything for a few seconds.
The train thundered into the platform behind them its arrival loud and brilliant but it didn't matter anymore.
The station bench was cool to the touch.
Ren sat still, elbows on knees, fingers loosely interlocked, eyes on the tiled floor in front of him. The echo of the passing train faded into the tunnels behind him, like a dream slowly washing away.
Next to him, Airi sat sideways, turned toward him, hoodie sleeves swaying as she gently tapped her heels against the bench edge.
The breeze tugged lightly at the strands of her hair. Somewhere, a vending machine hummed.
Airi leaned forward slightly, her voice carrying a kind of cheerful stubbornness.
"So? Where are you from, mysterious guy?" she asked, smiling. "You don't talk much, huh?"
Ren didn't move.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead, shoulders still as stone.
She tilted her head.
"Not gonna lie, you look like a character from one of those sad novels," she teased. "Are you one of those dark, brooding poets or something?"
No response.
A small puff of laughter escaped her lips.
"Okay, okay… how about this You're quiet. But not rude. You seem kind."
She paused for dramatic effect, then winked.
"Also… kinda cute?"
That hit.
Ren's eyes blinked.