It's been three weeks since the store closed.
Kenji never called back.
I stopped checking my phone after the first week — every "no new messages" just started feeling like a reminder.
The days blur together again. Morning, night, repeat.
I still wake up early sometimes, like my body hasn't realized it doesn't have a reason to anymore. I'll sit on the edge of the bed, listen to the birds outside, and then crawl back under the blanket because there's nowhere else to go.
My mom doesn't knock on my door anymore. She just leaves plates outside sometimes — cold rice, leftovers, whatever's around. I don't know if it's guilt or habit. My dad doesn't talk to me at all. He just sighs louder when he walks past my room. My sister keeps to herself, pretending I don't exist. I guess that's easiest for everyone.
The money I saved is gone. I ration food, skip breakfast, stay in my room to avoid being seen. The electricity bill came with my name on it this time — I don't even know why. Maybe they're trying to remind me that I'm a burden they pay to keep alive.
I tried going back to the shop once, just to check.
The shutters were still down. Dust had gathered along the bottom. The note was gone.
I stood there for a long time, staring at my reflection in the glass. I looked like someone waiting for something that wasn't coming back.
When I finally turned away, I noticed a stray cat sitting near the curb. It watched me with this blank curiosity, tail twitching, like it was trying to decide whether I was worth noticing. I crouched down and held out a hand, but it didn't move closer. Just stared. Then it walked off.
I watched it disappear around the corner. I don't know why, but that small moment hurt more than I expected.
A few nights later, I dreamed about the store.
In the dream, everything was lit up again — the warm yellow lights, the smell of wood, the sound of Kenji laughing in the back. I was stacking boxes, humming under my breath.
Then I turned around, and the store was empty.
No sound.
No light.
Just dust floating where the sun used to hit the counter.
I woke up with my throat tight, heart beating too fast. For a second, I didn't remember where I was.
I started walking at night again. It's quieter then. No one looks at you.
Sometimes I pass the train station just to watch the lights flicker. There's something comforting about watching people come and go — everyone heading somewhere, carrying their reasons with them. I wonder if I ever had one. Maybe I did, and I just lost track of it.
I bought another canned coffee the other night. Same brand as before. It didn't taste the same. I guess things only feel warm when you have someone to share them with. Now it just tastes like metal and old memories.
My mom caught me in the kitchen a few days ago. She didn't say anything at first, just watched me pour water into a cup. Then, quietly, she said, "You had something good going, Ace. Why did you stop?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just stared at the cup and said, "It stopped first."
She looked at me for a long time, then turned and walked away. Her footsteps sounded tired, like she was dragging guilt behind her.
The ceiling in my room finally cracked open last night. A small piece of plaster fell onto the floor, white dust scattering across the wood. I didn't bother cleaning it. I just sat there, staring at it.
Funny how something can break slowly for so long, and then, one day, it just gives up all at once.
I know the feeling.
It's getting colder now. The nights stretch longer. I still wake up early, still lie there waiting for a reason to get up. Sometimes I think about the store, the sound of Kenji's voice, that moment when I thought maybe, just maybe, I was crawling out of the hole.
Now it feels like the hole just got deeper.
Still… sometimes I catch myself looking at the door, wondering if something might change again. It's not hope exactly — more like the ghost of it. A faint noise in the static.
But mostly, it's quiet.
And I'm learning that quiet isn't peace.
It's just the sound of nothing left.