A Wasted Hour by Dizardia

Sometimes I feel like there's something inside me that wants to spill out—

a kind of pressure that builds up over time, made from things I never say.

Not because I don't want to say them, but because I know how people are.

Everyone's tired. Everyone's busy carrying their own mess.

And if you try to ask for help too often, you just become another burden.

I've learned to keep it all in.

The guilt, the regrets, the fear of disappointing people I once wanted to impress.

I tried to be honest once—tried to reach out.

But all it did was push people away, until I stopped trying altogether.

Maybe I deserve that.

Maybe not.

I don't know anymore.

What I do know is that no one's coming to save me.

And lately, I'm not even sure if I'd want them to.

Another wasted hour in a life made of them.

…

The office lights buzzed like trapped insects—constant, annoying, but easy to ignore after a while. I zipped my bag shut, the sound too loud for the hour. Everyone else had cleared out. Almost everyone.

"Still here?"

Co-worker A. Always wearing that tired smile, like we were comrades in some unspoken war. I nodded, just enough to count as human interaction.

"Boss pushed the commit deadline again," I said, my voice flatter than I intended. I didn't particularly care about explaining, but it's what people like Co-worker A expected.

He chuckled, fingers tapping his desk in a rhythm that grated on my nerves. "Isn't it always?"

I didn't respond, just shoved my charger into the front pocket of my bag and stood up. My reflection in the dark window caught my eye—unkempt black hair streaked prematurely gray, dark circles deepening each week. Twenty-something and already looking like someone's overworked uncle. Neat.

My coat hung limply from my chair, and I put it on with practiced movements, tugging the sleeves down over my wrists. The lining had started peeling near the cuffs, but I never bothered fixing it. Not worth the time.

"Do you ever think..." I began, not entirely sure why I said anything at all, "...what if life wasn't like this? Like, what if we lived in a fantasy world or something?"

Co-worker A laughed loudly, a little too genuine for my taste. "With dragons? Knights? Cute magical girls?"

"Even being a countryside farmer sounds better than this," I said, more honest than I meant to be.

At least that life sounds quiet. He kept laughing, and I pretended to join in because it was easier. My hand clenched at the sound of his too-cheerful laughter. I wasn't really joking, but he took it as one and I let him. I forced myself to relax. It wasn't his fault I was too bitter to joke tonight.

I grabbed my umbrella, cheap and bent near the spokes. Rain always waited till I stepped outside. Of course, it did. That's how life worked.

"Well, time to catch the train, eat the same sad dinner, maybe pull another three-star disappointment before bed." I gave a half-wave.

Co-worker A raised an eyebrow. "Careful out there. World's got it out for people like us."

'If only,' I thought. Instead, I just said, "No promises."

The door opened with a tired hiss. Outside—gray. The kind of color that doesn't argue, just lingers. I checked my phone.

22:42.

Of course, it was. The last commuter line out of the city left at 23:00, and it was a ten-minute walk—a fast one, if you didn't stop for anything on a good day. This wasn't a good day. This was a wet, miserable weekday that didn't care if I made it home or not.

The rain had picked up since I'd last looked. A fine drizzle when I entered the elevator had turned into sheets now, falling in slanted lines under the flickering streetlights. My umbrella buckled at the first gust of wind, protesting just like the rest of me. Cold water dripped steadily through gaps in my collar, sending chills down my spine.

'Just make it to the station,' I told myself, quickening my steps, careful but brisk, shoes squelching with every movement.

The sidewalks were slick, reflecting neon signs and blurry tail lights like puddles of melted paint. Occasional honks split the night air, mingling with the low roar of tires skimming wet asphalt. The scent of damp concrete and exhaust fumes made my chest tighten slightly.

Around me, the city pulsed in its own tired rhythm.

To my right, two people huddled under the awning of a closed ramen shop, waiting out the rain. Steam from a nearby vent curled around them, misting the edges of their jackets. Across the street, someone—like me—walked briskly, umbrella tilted forward, eyes fixed downward, every step cautious yet hurried.

Further ahead, a pair of kids laughed as they kicked at puddles, their shrieks cutting through the otherwise quiet evening. No parents in sight. Maybe none that cared. Or maybe this was the safest place they knew. Either way, they were soaked through, but smiling. Maybe that counted as happiness.

I tightened my grip on the useless umbrella, ignored the dull ache in my shoulders, and pushed on through the rain. My steps quickened—not quite a run, but faster than usual. The station wasn't far now.

As I moved, I slipped my phone from my coat pocket, thumb already drifting out of habit to unlock it in one smooth motion. Battery at 44%. Bad luck, if you believed in that sort of thing. Still, it was enough to get me through the gate—maybe not the night, but enough for now. I tapped open Mobile Suica. The screen blinked once, then turned green after a quick fingerprint scan—NFC ready.

The station entrance appeared ahead, blurred behind streaks of rain—glass and steel framed by low mist, lights flickering like tired eyes. I broke into a half-run, water splashing around my ankles, and slowed only when I reached the IC card gate.

I held my phone to the panel. It beeped, a green light blinked, and the gate slid open with a soft mechanical hum. Just like that—I was in. I exhaled slowly. Hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath again.

Warm air hit me like a wall. Not comforting—just heavy. It smelled faintly of damp coats, old metal, and vending machine coffee. My coat dripped steadily onto the floor, each drop punctuating the stillness. Behind me, the door sighed shut, sealing the city outside.

I checked the time. 22:58.

Close. But I'd made it.

That had become a habit lately—arriving just in time, just close enough to count as safe. It wasn't discipline—just inertia. The kind of motion you fall into when stopping feels harder.

The platform stretched out ahead—quiet, almost sterile. Only a few people lingered. A salaryman dozed near a column, a woman with a tote bag scrolled through her phone, and two high schoolers shared earbuds without speaking.

All of them were absorbed in their own little glowing worlds. Rain tapped faintly on the glass walls. The blurred city lights beyond them shimmered like half-remembered dreams, streaked by the water's slow descent.

I leaned against a pillar and pulled out my phone again—more reflex than intention. No new messages. Just the usual campaign ads, app updates, and a weather alert telling me what I already knew.

My thumb hovered for a second, then tapped the game icon. A soft ding greeted me as the login screen loaded. Daily bonus claimed and currency added.

Thirty Saint Quartz, right on schedule.

The banner ended in four hours. I'd been saving for weeks, but luck hadn't exactly been on my side lately. Every pull felt like a coin tossed into a bottomless well—brief hope, long silence. The rates were bad, sure, but somehow mine always felt worse. Still, I kept showing up. Like it owed me something. Like maybe, this time, the game would decide I'd suffered enough.

I stared at the screen for a moment. The bright, stylized characters danced like they always did—cheerful, hollow, and distant. They looked alive, but they weren't speaking to me. Not tonight. Something about their energy felt off, like a party happening without me in it. Or maybe I was just too drained to care.

I sighed, thumb lingering for half a second before I closed the app and slipped the phone back into my pocket. Above me, the fluorescent light flickered once. Then, as always, silence returned.

Then came the sound I'd been waiting for—not from the phone, but from the world outside. A deep, metallic hum. A low grind. The heavy screech of wheels kissing steel. That unmistakable rhythm—the mechanical chorus of late-night life—grew louder, echoing through the platform like a tired beast returning to its den.

I slipped my phone back into my coat pocket and stepped closer to the yellow line as the train slowed to a stop. A whoosh of displaced air hit my face—cold and sharp. The doors opened with a familiar hiss, and I stepped in.

No jostling crowds. No elbows. No rush. Just cool, recycled air and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Late-night trains aren't like the morning rush, I thought. No one's pushing. No one's half-awake and half-mad. Just ghosts heading home.

I scanned the rows of seats. Most were empty. I picked one not far from the door—easy to leave, easy to stay unseen. The kind of spot no one notices.

A soft chime echoed.

The doors closed.

The train lurched.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The world outside began to slide backward—city lights blurring into streaks of amber and neon behind the rain-specked glass. I pulled out my phone again. The game was still open. The UR Limited Banner was live. The featured character was ethereal and serene—long silver hair flowing like moonlight, draped in layered robes of white and violet that shimmered with arcane grace.

Lady Avalon. Support unit. Broken kit. A smile that felt both distant and gently kind. I'd been saving for her. Login bonuses. Daily quests. Time-limited events. Even the battle pass I told myself I didn't need.

Every Saint Quartz hoarded like sacred offerings. I held my breath. My thumb hovered. One pull. Ten pulls. Gold circle. Blue spark. A flicker of a rainbow ring—maybe. Please, I whispered—not for luck. Not even for joy. Just for something to work. For once.

The first ten—nothing.

The second was blues, and a single gold. 'Useless.'

The third—UR. My breath caught as raibow light flared and the music swelled...

...but it wasn't her. An off-rate. A smug, ice-queen lancer with a red spear to match her eyes. I didn't bother checking the stats. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth—I lost count. My hoard melted away, one shimmer at a time. Despair ticked down like the meter itself. I was running out.

The final multi. My last ten. The summoning circle lit up—gold, not rainbow. Still, I watched, already bracing for another letdown. But then came the petals, lilac shimmer trailing across the screen, followed by a soft, knowing smile. And just like that—there she was. Lady Avalon, Proto Merlin.

For a moment, I didn't move. Didn't even breathe. It felt too fragile, too unreal—like blinking might undo it. Then I smiled. Not wide, not loud, but real—just enough to reach the corners of my tired eyes. She was mine. Not a miracle, not a grand reward—just something that, for once, went right.

I tapped through the celebration screens without watching the fanfare. I didn't need the animations. She was already home—already part of my Chaldea. And now, finally, she just had to shine. Leveling her up felt almost like a ritual, slow and deliberate. EXP cards, skill gems, ascension mats—everything I'd saved was finally being used for what mattered. Each tap brought her closer to full bloom. Her robes brightened. Her eyes softened.

Her final form was everything I'd expected—elegant, timeless, complete. Perfect, I thought, as my thumb hovered over the last upgrade. One more tap, and her level hit the cap. No duplicates required. No last-minute panic pulls. No top-ups. Just preparation, long grinding sessions, quiet repetition. A small, planned victory. With her, my collection was whole. Lady Avalon. Caster Merlin. My Saberface support lineup—finally complete.

In a world that barely noticed I e Her final form was everything I'd expected—elegant, timeless, complete. Perfect, I thought, as my thumb hovered over the last upgrade. One more tap, and her level hit the cap.

No duplicates required.

No last-minute panic pulls.

No top-ups.

Just preparation—long grinding sessions and quiet repetition—turned into a small, deliberate victory. With her, my collection felt whole. Lady Avalon and Caster Merlin in place, my Saberface support lineup was finally complete.

In a world that barely noticed I existed… this was something that belonged to me. Something I had chosen. Something I had built with time, intent, and persistence. The train rattled on beneath me, lights above buzzing softly in the quiet. And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself feel it.

Peace.

The train rattled on beneath me. Overhead, the fluorescents hummed low. I let the upgrade screen fade and locked my phone. The window held a pale ghost—tired eyes, messy hair, a wrinkled coat—but for once the knot in my chest loosened and I actually felt content. Outside, the night slid past in quiet streaks.

"Now arriving at Tofukuji Station. The doors will open on the left."

I glanced around the carriage. A few passengers remained, heads down, lost in their own little worlds. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, city lights smeared across the glass like fading brushstrokes.

The train didn't wait long before pulling forward again.

"Next stop, Inari Station."

I wiped a patch of fog from the window. Through the streaks of water, I caught a glimpse of the red torii gates in the distance—faint silhouettes under scattered streetlights. They once looked like magic. Now they just looked far away.

One station after another, the city slipped further behind, peeling away like old layers of noise and light.

"Now approaching Uji Station."

Beyond the glass, rows of cultivated fields stretched into the dark, barely visible under the faint glow of the platform lights. Somewhere out there, the smell of fresh earth and wet leaves mixed with the cool night air. I leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the train do what it did best—carry tired people closer to home, or at least somewhere quieter.

The next announcement felt like a closing note.

"Now arriving at Kizu Station. Transfer available to the Yamatoji Line."

Only a handful of people were left. Some were already asleep, others staring blankly at their screens. The stars outside were clearer now—pale blinks through thinning clouds.

And then finally—

"Now arriving at Nara Station. This is the final stop. Please make sure you have all your belongings."

I stood, pocketed my phone, and adjusted the strap of my bag. The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

The station air was colder than I remembered—thin, metallic, and damp. It clung to my coat and crept under my collar. My steps echoed softly against the empty platform as I made my way toward the exit.

The automated gates waited, quiet and impersonal. I pulled out my phone again and swiped up to pull up the transit pass. The screen lit and the phone vibrated faintly. The reader beeped, the light blinked green, and the gate slid open with a low mechanical hum. Outside, the air hit properly—fresh, cool, with a trace of lingering rain. The scent of wet stone and moss drifted in from somewhere deeper in the dark.

The streets around Nara Station were mostly empty now. The storm had passed, but the pavement still held its shine beneath the pale streetlamps. I walked, shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the slick concrete, breath fogging just enough to remind me of the cold. The familiar corner came up and I turned toward the konbini.

Its lights hung in the distance—bright and familiar, yet colder than I remembered. The sign over the door flickered in a tired pulse against the night. I pushed the glass open and stepped inside as the sensor chimed—a small, flat ding that sounded more like a reflex than a welcome.

"...Irasshaimase..." a voice drifted from the counter—flat and tired, more reflex than welcome. I didn't look over.

Warm, recycled air wrapped around me—clean, almost too clean, with a faint trace of something sweet from the bakery section. It smelled like comfort manufactured by policy. I headed straight for the refrigerated shelves at the back—same routine, same shelf. The discount stickers were already out, red and yellow tags slapped onto plastic containers like little victories waiting to be claimed.

I crouched and scanned. Curry rice again, huh? My stomach cast its vote with a low, disapproving growl. I picked it up and checked the expiration—barely good for another hour. If I didn't eat it right after I got home, it would just sit there, mocking me. I set it back down.

The row of onigiri on the next shelf caught my eye. Seaweed's probably soft by now, but they're cheaper. I grabbed one, then another, and then I hesitated. Just these? Or should I take the curry too?

I stared longer than I needed to—caught in that small, absurd moment between saving coins or saving hunger. Like most choices in life, neither option felt like a win. In the end, I took the curry and the two onigiri. Not proud or ashamed—just… safe.

At the register, the part-time clerk barely looked up; his uniform hung loose on his frame and his eyes hovered somewhere between sleep and obligation.

"Seven hundred and twenty yen," he muttered.

I tapped my phone to the reader. The Suica icon glowed green, the machine beeped, and Payment Complete flashed in katakana—smooth, efficient, the kind of transaction I wished applied to more of life. The clerk gave me a half-second glance and looked away.

"...Arigatou gozaimashita," he said, the word sounding automatic, like everything else tonight.

Outside, the air met me like something real—cold, honest, still wet from the earlier rain—and the smell of damp pavement mixed with a hint of moss and stone. It wasn't much of a meal, but it was enough—same as always.

I stood there for a moment with the bag in my hand; the street was quiet, empty but not silent. Then I started walking, my steps slow over the shimmering pavement, shoes tapping softly against the concrete, my path lit by a streetlamp's pale glow. Just a little farther and I'd be home.

Or so I thought at that time…

The road stretched quiet before me. Streetlights stood at regular intervals, their pale glow barely cutting through the lingering mist. My shoes scraped softly over the damp pavement, the only sound that followed me now.

I passed shuttered storefronts with dark windows. At the corner, the small neighborhood shrine waited, its paper lanterns swaying in the faint breeze. I gave it the usual glance and kept walking. Not tonight.

As the road climbed, the houses thinned and the gaps between them widened. My breath drifted in small, fading clouds. At the end of the street, the house waited, its outline familiar even in the dim light.

The curtains were drawn. The porch light still worked, but only barely, casting a dull circle over the entryway.

I lingered at the old wooden gate, my hand resting on the worn slat longer than I should have. The place looked the same as always—quiet, untouched, waiting. With a small sigh, I unlatched the gate and pushed it open.

The hinges gave a soft complaint that sounded loud in the stillness. No footsteps came to the door. No voices stirred inside. Only the scent of old wood and memories that refused to fade.

At the genkan—the sunken tile by the door with the small step up into the house—I slipped off my shoes, tapped the rain from the soles, and turned them to face out. The wooden geta-bako breathed a faint cedar smell, and a pair of house slippers waited on the raised floor.

I set my shoes neatly on the lower tile and stepped up. The air inside was colder than the night, but here at least I knew the shape of the silence.

My pace slowed as I passed the small kamidana tucked into the alcove near the living room. A trace of incense lingered, though I hadn't lit one in days. Beside the altar stood a simple vase of fresh white lilies, holding their posture despite the chill—simple and quiet, just enough to say I haven't forgotten.

My eyes settled on the photo frame propped beside the shrine. A frozen moment from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else—Mother's gentle smile, Father a step behind her standing a little too straight, my younger siblings grinning like they didn't know a single worry. And me, off to the side, smiling too. Before everything changed. Before the silence learned this house by heart.

I stood there longer than I meant to, a tightness catching in my throat. "...Tadaima," I said before I could stop myself. Just habit. No one left to answer.

And yet—carried on the faint draft that stirred the lilies—I almost heard it. "Okaeri." Soft. Familiar. A voice from a time that isn't here anymore. My chest tightened. It isn't real, I told myself. Just memory being kind. A house remembering better days, even if I pretend I don't.

The lilies swayed once and the quiet settled again. I let out a slow breath, turned away, and headed for the kitchen. There was a meal waiting to be warmed, and a long night ahead. The house felt colder as I walked deeper inside.

I switched the lights on one by one, enough to push the shadows back, not enough to make the rooms feel any less empty. I set the convenience-store bag on the low table in the living room and went straight to the bathroom.

The mirror met me with a face I barely recognized—messy hair streaked with gray, dark circles, the same tired expression. I let cold water run over my face and down my neck, then stood a moment watching the drops gather and fall from my chin into the sink.

'Another day done. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow.'

I peeled off my damp clothes, folded them out of habit though no one was around to care, and changed into an old T-shirt and loose pants. The floor creaked as I headed back to the living room. Dinner waited there, discount curry rice and two onigiri lined up like quiet company.

In the kitchen I opened the fridge and took one of the last canned beers. Only two left. I popped the tab with a soft pshhht and the thin scent of cheap alcohol rose up. With the microwave humming and the beer in my hand, I sat on the floor by the low table, my back against the worn couch.

When the timer beeped, I took the curry, peeled back the plastic, and ate. It was not good, but it was warm, and for now that was enough. I washed it down with a long sip, letting the bitterness sit on my tongue before I swallowed.

For a while the only sounds were the faint clink of chopsticks on plastic and the occasional fizz from the can. Outside the world was long since quiet. In here it had always been that way. I pushed the empties aside. The leftover beer warmed uselessly in my hand.

The room settled into that heavy silence that arrives when you have run out of distractions. I reached for my phone out of habit, not looking for anything in particular. That was when I saw the notification. No app icon. No sender. Just a flat gray bar across the top of the screen.

"Are You Satisfied with This Life?"

I frowned. Probably clickbait. Shady gacha promos loved dramatic titles. Still, my thumb swiped it open. The screen went blank—pure white. No spinner. No signal it was working.

Then a single line typed itself across the empty space. "One final question before everything changes." My thumb hovered over the back button, but nothing responded. Another line appeared, centered and clean.

"Will you take the challenge?" Two options blinked below it—[YES] and [NO].

A small pit formed in my stomach. Not fear. Just that specific discomfort, like realizing you might have forgotten to lock the door and being unable to remember your hand on the key. I checked the time. The clock widget was gone.

Outside, a faint breeze rattled the windows. The lilies near the kamidana shifted, though I was sure there hadn't been a draft. That was when I noticed the timer in the corner.

00:59 … 00:58 … 00:57

'This is ridiculous. A prank. A glitch. Some app I forgot to delete.'

And yet, some quiet part of me recognized the shape of the moment. Nights spent grinding, choices that could not be undone. One tap. Irreversible.