Ren Mori learned early that silence could be louder than noise.
The alarm rang at exactly 6:00 a.m., slicing through the dimness of the room like a thin blade. He opened his eyes but did not move. The ceiling above him was cracked—one long fracture running diagonally from the corner, like a scar that never healed. He counted the seconds instead of breathing properly. One. Two. Three. By the time he reached ten, the alarm had already stopped on its own.
He lay there, staring, as if waiting for the ceiling to collapse.
It didn't.
Nothing ever did. Not in a way that ended things. Everything only pressed down slowly, relentlessly, until breathing itself felt like labor.
Ren sat up. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper. The curtains were half drawn, letting in a weak, gray morning light that made everything look unfinished. He swung his legs over the bed and sat there for a while, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging uselessly between them.
His head felt heavy, like it had been stuffed with wet cotton.
There were thoughts—too many of them—but none fully formed. They hovered at the edges of his mind, whispering, overlapping, refusing to line up. He reached for one, any one, but it slipped away, replaced by another, then another, until frustration settled in his chest like a dull ache.
"Get up," he muttered to himself.
His voice sounded strange in the quiet room, like it didn't belong there.
The bathroom mirror reflected a man who looked functional enough. Black hair slightly unkempt, dark circles beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep ever erased. His face was sharp, but not in a striking way—more like it had been carved by exhaustion rather than intention.
He splashed water on his face. The cold stung, grounding him for a brief second. He looked up again, meeting his own gaze, and for a moment he felt… detached. As if the person staring back was someone he vaguely recognized but didn't fully know.
Ren looked away first.
Breakfast was a piece of toast he didn't finish and tea that went cold untouched. The television in the living room murmured with morning news—voices talking about things that felt irrelevant, distant, unreal. He didn't listen. He never did.
His father sat at the small table, hunched over paperwork, glasses sliding down his nose. The man looked older than his age, shoulders permanently curved under an invisible weight. There was a crease between his brows that never smoothed out, even in sleep.
"You're late," his father said without looking up.
"I know."
"You always say that."
Ren didn't reply. He tied his shoes slowly, deliberately, as if delaying the moment he had to step outside. The air in the apartment felt thick, heavy with unspoken words and unpaid debts.
A phone buzzed on the table.
Once. Twice.
His father's hand froze.
Ren noticed that. He always noticed things like that.
"Answer it," Ren said quietly.
His father shook his head. "It's nothing."
The phone buzzed again, more insistently this time. Ren felt something tighten in his chest—not surprise, not fear, but a tired recognition. He knew who it was. He knew without asking.
"Answer it," he repeated, firmer now.
His father's jaw clenched. Slowly, reluctantly, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear. Ren turned away, pretending not to listen, but the walls were thin and the voices on the other end were never quiet.
The call ended abruptly.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
"They want the money by the end of the month," his father said finally. His voice was flat, stripped of emotion. "Otherwise… they'll come."
Ren nodded. He didn't ask who "they" were. He already knew.
"I'll take more shifts," Ren said.
"You already work too much."
Ren almost laughed at that. Instead, he picked up his bag. "I'll manage."
His father looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a fleeting second Ren saw something close to guilt in his eyes. Or maybe it was just exhaustion mirrored back at him.
"Don't push yourself," the man said.
Ren didn't answer. He stepped out of the apartment before the words could settle into him, before they could become another weight he had to carry.
Outside, the city was already awake. People moved with purpose—talking, laughing, rushing, living. Ren walked among them like a shadow, present but unseen. The noise felt too sharp, every sound amplified: the screech of brakes, overlapping conversations, footsteps pounding against concrete.
His chest tightened.
He slowed his pace, breathing shallowly, counting again. One. Two. Three. He kept his eyes on the ground, afraid that if he looked up, the world would tilt and spill over him.
At work, time blurred. He moved automatically, hands performing tasks his mind barely registered. His supervisor spoke to him once, twice—Ren nodded at the appropriate moments without retaining a single word.
"Are you even listening?" the man snapped at one point.
"Yes," Ren replied immediately.
A lie. But an efficient one.
During his break, he sat alone on the back steps, staring at his phone without unlocking it. No messages. No missed calls. A strange relief washed over him, followed by something colder, emptier.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to simply disappear. Not die—he wasn't brave enough for that. Just… step out of everything. Let the noise fade. Let the pressure dissolve.
But the world didn't allow people like him that kind of mercy.
By evening, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His head throbbed faintly, a constant reminder that something inside him was misaligned. He passed a convenience store, a train station, familiar streets that all felt equally meaningless.
Without consciously deciding to, his feet carried him somewhere else.
The library stood quietly at the end of the street, its old stone façade untouched by the rush of the city. The lights inside glowed warmly through tall windows, inviting in a way nothing else ever did.
Ren stopped across the street, staring.
He didn't know why he came here so often. He rarely read. He rarely borrowed books. Yet the library pulled at him, a silent promise of something he couldn't name.
Stillness, maybe.
Or escape.
He crossed the street and pushed the heavy door open. The familiar scent of paper and time wrapped around him instantly, calming his racing thoughts just a little. The noise of the city dulled, replaced by the soft rustle of pages and distant footsteps.
Ren exhaled.
For the first time that day, his shoulders relaxed.
He didn't know it yet, but this place—this quiet, forgotten corner of the world—would soon become the threshold between what was real and what his mind would create to survive it.
And once crossed, nothing would ever be the same.
End Of The Chapter…