In the end, night falls and envelops him slowly, putting the streets around him into an eerie quietude as his slow walk back to his home begins. Not before he stops for a very short time to take in the night's glory for a few more moments—his eyes tracing one constellation after another in the sky, a gentle wind blowing on his face, and a very soft sound of crickets providing the quiet background. He sees the same unimposing building he has always seen: a tidy, unremarkable house that is not large and not small and with its beauty in simplicity and not in opulence like others and surrounded by other houses. No dirt on the driveway, bright light on the porch, and the wall shows the slow fading of time that has gone by. He walks to the door, which is neither elegant nor run-down, but just common, and then he stands for a little while before he knocks as the silence surrounds him—three soft knocks that are heard softly over the dark night.His mother stands straight and tall welcoming him with a fresh look on her skin and a young appearance. The dark hair still and pinned up. Her eyes are gentle and look wide open --- they have a kind of brightness when turned towards him. She is being illuminated by the yellow light from the hallway. He perceives the warmth of her uncomplicated outfit consisting of a blouse and slacks and feels good about her soft scent of lavender which is near her. "Welcome home, sweetheart. How was the game?" she questions extending her lips in a kind smile, her voice covering him with warm confidence as if he was wrapped in a blanket of a beloved person.Tunishi steps into the room slowly and softly, almost like he was not there at all. His trainers are the only source of noise for a brief moment and they are so quiet that you could barely hear the floorboards being slightly creaked. His jersey is a little snug and partially soaked with sweat from the match, which altogether gives the impression of a very, almost casual, and indifferent, look. "It was good," he says and his change of tone does not reveal either pride or disappointment. His whole tone is completely neutral, not even hinting that the others have already celebrated the victory and recognized it. He passes through the entrance the same way, the same old way - no joy or excitement but, at the same time, no burden of others' hopes.
He strides directly to his bedroom, unaffected by the abundance of the air—garlic and tomatoes bubbling, toasted with grids, floating throughout the house like ribbons of air. He strolls slowly, absently, dragging his feet and moving slowly and lazily through space. Without much of a thought, he tosses himself onto the door of the bedroom. He finds himself in a bed, precisely that and land, as if gravity's law is optional. One arm flops across his forehead, while the other dangles off the edge of the bed with his fingertips approaching the carpet. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, not observing, or contemplating, instead, floating.His mother, worried, knocks gently—three taps that hardly interrupt the peace—then enters, her voice gentle and loving, "Is everything ok?" Tunishi is still and unresponsive. His gaze stays firm and with a lack of enthusiasm shrugging that only lifts his shoulder a bit he says, "Soccer is kind of boring," as if he were just discussing the weather. His mother responds softly, "It's completely your choice whether to play soccer or not. There are plenty of other activities you can choose from." She has a tender warm tone similar to a gentle wind, an energy lightly agitating the curtains with her voice, nearly at the bedside, her fingers lightly trailing back-and-forth over the crease in the bedroom rug. The sun has already set and is weakly lighting the room, the light is coming through the round blinds, the blinds casting long dark shapes, figures on the wall. Tunishi shifts slightly so his cheek is back on the pillow now, eyes set on the ceiling. "It's easy," he says, emotionlessly. "Basketball, baseball, piano, whatever, it all sucks." His words hang in the air like delicate particles, weightless, though deteriorating. His mother places a hand on his back, her warm fingers through his shirt. She gently rubs circles across the back of his t-shirt while he settles in. "Well," she takes a deep breath, calm, "you just have to try to find that... fire somewhere else. You were so excited before." She looks toward the shelf that holds his trophies and ribbons, a little crooked and dusty. She stands up slowly, a gentle crackle comes from her blouse brushing against the stillness. The fabric is a pale shade of blue, tucked neatly into fitted pants that are slightly shinier under the last rays of the setting sun. She rubs the crease in the upper leg of her pants with one hand as she turns toward the door and, with her voice turtle-smooth but stern. "Come down for dinner. You really shouldn't skip meals. You're not an adult yet." The scent of the roasted garlic and tomatoes still wafts in the hallway, now simply richer-a warm offering hanging in the air like an embrace, curling the door frame. She sits in a pool of amber light, her face calm but alert, then steps outside, and allows the door to gently hold her farewell.