Chapter 7: Rainfall in Early Spring
The quiet patter of rain was the first thing Takumi heard that morning. Soft, measured, and persistent, it tapped against the glass of his bedroom window like fingers gently nudging him awake.
He blinked slowly, the dim gray of the overcast sky leaking through the curtains, bathing the room in a cool, muted light.
It was early spring, that peculiar moment when the world seemed to hesitate between seasons—when winter had not fully left and spring hadn't yet taken its full place.
He lay still beneath the warmth of his blanket, staring up at the ceiling, not yet ready to rise. The past few days felt like a series of fragile moments, moments he didn't want to disturb.
Every glance, every word exchanged with Saeko seemed to linger just a little longer in his thoughts. He was scared to admit it, even to himself, but the way she had entered his life had shifted something in him. Something quiet, something painful, but undeniably real.
Their conversation two nights ago still echoed in his mind—when she had told him, in her gentle, soothing tone, that he didn't need to carry everything alone.
It was such a simple sentence, and yet, no one had ever said something like that to him before. Not with that kind of warmth. Not with that kind of sincerity.
The apartment was quiet when he finally stepped out of bed. He moved through his morning rituals half-aware, brushing his teeth, washing his face, running a comb through his still-damp hair. When he stepped into the living room, the scent of breakfast hit him before anything else.
He paused.
There it was again. That quiet domestic hum that only happened when she was around. The faint sizzling of something being cooked, the muffled sound of the kettle just finishing its boil.
Takumi stepped toward the door connecting their apartments and opened it without knocking—something that had started to become a habit, though he always felt a little strange doing it.
Saeko was in the kitchen, her silver hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing a pale beige sweater and a soft blue apron over it.
Her back was to him, but even from here, he could sense the calmness in her movements—the practiced grace of someone who had done this hundreds of times.
Cooking not just for herself, but for someone else. Perhaps, once upon a time, for someone she loved.
"Morning," he said, his voice rough from sleep.
She turned slightly, giving him a warm smile that tugged at the corners of her eyes. "Good morning. I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," he said, stepping inside. "The rain did."
She nodded thoughtfully. "It's been falling since last night. A spring drizzle. I thought I'd make something warm today—miso soup, grilled fish, a bit of tamagoyaki. Sit down, it's almost ready."
Takumi obeyed, taking his usual seat at the counter. The smell was intoxicating—rich, savory, deeply comforting.
"Do you always cook like this?" he asked after a while.
Saeko looked over her shoulder. "Every day, yes. Cooking keeps my hands busy. It helps me think. It also helps me not to think too much."
He understood that.
There was a short pause before she added, almost hesitantly, "It's been a long time since I cooked for someone else. I'm… glad I can do that again."
He glanced up, catching the subtle look in her eyes—nostalgia mixed with something more guarded. A memory she hadn't shared. A wound still healing.
Breakfast was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The sound of the rain filled the silences, and occasionally they would exchange small words about the food, the weather, or what his day at university might look like.
When he stood to leave, Saeko pressed a neatly folded umbrella into his hands.
"Don't forget this," she said. "You'll catch a cold."
He hesitated. "You're like someone's mom, you know that?"
She laughed softly. "Well, I suppose I did spend many years being one."
It was the first time she had mentioned it so plainly. He didn't ask further. Not yet. But he tucked that information away gently, as though it were something precious he had been entrusted with.
...
University felt strangely disjointed in comparison. The gray light that had seemed peaceful at home now made the campus look cold and indifferent.
His classmates moved through the halls with their usual energy, but Takumi felt slightly removed, like he was watching the world through a pane of glass.
He went to his lectures, took notes, spoke when spoken to, and otherwise kept his head down.
But all the while, Saeko's face lingered in his mind. Her smile. Her voice. The way she turned toward him just slightly when she talked. The way her fingers moved when she prepared food.
It was becoming difficult to pretend that she hadn't taken root somewhere inside him.
He stayed on campus late, mostly to avoid the growing ache in his chest. He didn't know what it was exactly. Guilt, maybe. Longing. Confusion.
He wasn't sure how to process the idea that someone like her—a woman who seemed so composed, so kind, and so much older in experience—would even care about him in the way she did.
When he returned to the apartment, the sky was dark and the rain had slowed to a mist. The hallway smelled faintly of wet concrete.
He dried his umbrella carefully by the door and stood there for a long moment, staring at the thin wooden panel that separated his apartment from hers.
He wanted to see her. Just to talk. To hear her voice again.
Before he could stop himself, he knocked.
It took a moment before she opened it, dressed now in soft loungewear and cardigan, her hair down and slightly tousled. She blinked in surprise.
"Takumi?"
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just…"
Saeko tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"…I just didn't want to be alone tonight."
She opened the door wider. "Come in."
The apartment was warm, the air tinged with the scent of chamomile tea and something faintly floral.
He stepped inside and sank onto the couch while she poured him a cup of tea without asking. It was always like that with her. She just knew what he needed.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The TV was on, volume low, tuned to some late-night program that neither of them watched.
Eventually, he spoke.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About how I don't have to carry everything alone."
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she sipped her tea and waited.
"I've spent so long convincing myself that needing people was a weakness," he continued.
"That the only way to survive was to build a wall so high no one could reach me. But then… you showed up."
Saeko's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened.
"I'm not sure I know how to let anyone in," he admitted.
She placed her cup down gently, then reached out and touched his hand—just lightly, fingers barely brushing his.
"You already have."
The weight of those words pressed against him like a tide. He felt something in his chest unravel—tight threads of loneliness and fear beginning to loosen.
He looked up, meeting her eyes.
"Why me?" he asked.
Saeko smiled, but it was a little sad. "Because I saw myself in you. And because… you needed someone. Just like I did."
The room was quiet again, but the silence was rich with meaning. When she moved closer, he didn't pull away. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, and they sat like that, the two of them, listening to the hum of the rain, to the sound of the world outside moving past them.
Together, they were learning—slowly, quietly—how to live again.