Morning again.
The light pushes through the blinds, thin and pale. I lie there for a while, listening. The house is quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps, no voices. Maybe they went out early. Maybe they just don't bother making noise anymore.
I get up and open the window. The air is cold, sharper than I expected. For a second, I almost feel awake. The sky looks washed out, the color of an old photograph.
I make coffee — the instant kind, the one that tastes like cardboard. I drink it standing up, watching the street outside. People pass by, wrapped in coats, faces hidden. They move with purpose. I envy that.
The ceiling crack has spread halfway across the room now. There's a small pile of dust under it. I sweep it up, even though I know it'll fall again.
Around noon, I go for a walk. I don't take my phone. I just walk until my legs ache.
The town feels smaller somehow. The shop where I worked is still closed, the shutters rusting around the edges. I stand there again, staring at my reflection in the glass. I look older. Tired.
A little girl and her mother walk past. The girl is holding a balloon. She looks up at me for a second — not scared, just curious. Then she smiles, a small, clumsy smile, and keeps walking.
It stays with me longer than I expect.
I buy a canned coffee from the same vending machine as before. The can is cold, the metal biting my fingers. I sit on the curb and watch the cars roll by. The sound of their engines blends into a low hum, like white noise.
For a long time, I just sit there, watching the world move. It's not sadness exactly — more like quiet. A kind of stillness I don't know what to do with.
I think about Kenji. My family. The store. The ceiling.
I think about how everything changes, but not all at once. It just fades.
And sometimes it fades so slowly you don't realize it's gone until you reach for it and find nothing.
The sun starts to set. The light turns soft, gold bleeding into gray. I finish the coffee and toss the can into the bin. It clangs once, then settles at the bottom.
I cross the street.
Halfway through, I stop and look up at the sky.
The clouds are breaking apart — thin lines of orange showing through.
For a moment, I feel something. Not happiness. Not peace. Just… something.
Then a truck passes, wind brushing against my jacket, and the moment's gone.
When I get home, the lights are off. My family's out. The house feels bigger than usual, the silence filling every corner. I go to my room and sit on the bed.
The air smells faintly of dust and rain.
I take off my shoes, lie down, and close my eyes.
I don't know if I'm resting or waiting.
I just breathe.
In.
Out.
The crack in the ceiling watches over me.
The house creaks once, like it's exhaling too.
Outside, the rain starts again.
Soft at first. Then steady.
I think, Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
Either way, I stay still.
And the sound of the rain keeps going.
End.