Chapter 3 - Scars Beneath the Quiet
The weather turned colder as November settled in. Mornings came with a veil of mist, and Takumi found himself waking earlier, if only to linger a little longer by the window.
He liked the way the fog softened everything, making the world seem less defined, less harsh.
He had begun taking small walks around the neighborhood on weekends—at first, merely to stretch his legs, but lately with a quiet purpose.
He found himself buying pastries he didn't need, visiting used bookstores he didn't plan to read from, just so he had something to tell Saeko when she asked how his day had been.
It wasn't that he felt obligated to impress her.
It was just… nice, being asked.
On one such afternoon, he stood in front of his mirror, combing his hair. The reflection that stared back still felt unfamiliar sometimes—tired eyes, always, but something else had shifted lately.
A faint color had returned to his face. He didn't look happy exactly, but maybe a little less hollow.
A knock at the door startled him. Light, gentle. He already knew who it was.
When he opened it, Saeko stood there with a scarf around her neck and two takeout cups of coffee in hand.
"Felt like a cold afternoon," she said, offering one.
"Thanks." He took it carefully, the warmth soaking into his hands.
"Walk with me?" she asked.
And so they walked—no destination, just the rhythm of their steps echoing across narrow sidewalks.
They talked about trivial things: a cat that always sat on the same fence, the scent of roasted sweet potatoes from a nearby vendor, the shrill cry of a distant train. And then, out of nowhere:
"Do you think you'll ever go home?" she asked.
Takumi didn't answer at first. The question lingered in the chilled air between them.
"I don't know if I have a home," he said finally.
She glanced at him, but didn't press. "Not even where you were born?"
"I left when I turned eighteen. Haven't been back since."
"Was it bad?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"It just… was," he said quietly.
They stopped by a small park, nearly empty. The swings creaked in the wind. Saeko sat on one bench, and he followed.
"My parents divorced when I was ten," he said, voice low. "They fought all the time. I used to hide in the closet with my headphones on."
Saeko remained quiet, her hands wrapped around her cup.
"My father remarried fast. My mother started drinking. I don't blame either of them now. I just didn't want to become like them."
"You didn't," she said simply.
He looked at her, surprised by her certainty.
"You're nothing like them," she added, her eyes steady on his.
He looked away, the chill in his chest starting to thaw just a little.
...
They returned just before dark. As they walked past her door, she hesitated.
"I'm making ochazuke tonight. It's not much, but…"
"I'd like that," he said before she could finish.
That night, the simple meal tasted better than anything extravagant. Green tea poured gently over rice, topped with salted salmon and pickled vegetables. She explained how her grandmother used to make it on rainy days.
"I always liked it more than I admitted," she confessed with a laugh. "Back then, I thought fancy food meant love."
"And now?"
"Now I think love is making something simple and remembering how someone likes it."
Takumi nodded, a small smile forming.
"Then this," he said, "might be the best meal I've ever had."
She laughed. It was soft, a little embarrassed.
He felt the warmth spread deeper. Later that week, something shifted. Takumi came home to a dark hallway. No light beneath Saeko's door. No sound. At first, he thought nothing of it.
She might have gone out. But when the next day passed the same way, and the day after that, worry began to claw quietly at his chest.
On the third night, he knocked.
No answer.
He hesitated, then slipped a note beneath her door. Just a small message:
"Hope you're okay. Let me know if you need anything. —Takumi."
He didn't sleep well that night.
The next evening, when he returned, her door was slightly ajar.
He knocked gently. "Saeko-san?"
A faint voice responded. "Come in."
He pushed the door open slowly.
She was sitting on the floor beside her futon, hair unbrushed, eyes red. A crumpled tissue lay on her lap. Her apartment still smelled faintly of ginger and tea, but the air felt different.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, wiping at her face. "I should've called. I didn't mean to worry you."
Takumi stepped in carefully, closing the door behind him.
"What happened?"
She shook her head. "Just… a bad day. Old ghosts."
He sat down across from her.
"My ex-husband remarried," she said after a pause. "I found out through a friend. I thought I wouldn't care. I thought I'd moved on."
Her voice broke slightly. "But when I saw the picture… it hit me. All over again."
He didn't speak. He simply sat there, letting her words hang in the air without judgement.
"I thought I was past this," she murmured. "But some days… it feels like I'm still waiting for someone to prove I'm worth staying for."
Her voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, "I'm tired of being alone."
Takumi reached out, hesitant, and placed his hand lightly over hers.
"You're not," he said.
Her eyes met his. Something unspoken passed between them—something raw, unpolished, real.
She didn't cry again. She just held his hand, tightly, as if anchoring herself.
That night, he didn't go back to his apartment.
He stayed until she fell asleep, curled under her blanket with her hand still loosely holding his.
He stayed, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, until the first light of dawn seeped through the curtains.
And when he finally slipped back into his own space, the air felt colder without her.
But his heart was warmer.