Chapter 8: Beneath the Winter Sunlight
The pale light of late winter spilled into the room, casting long, silent streaks across the tatami floor. Takumi lay in bed, eyes open, watching the faint particles of dust drift in the morning sun.
He hadn't slept much the night before, but for once, it wasn't because of the familiar weight of dread pressing on his chest.
Rather, it was the warmth of Saeko's presence that still lingered in the air, in the quiet, in the spaces between his thoughts.
He could still see her smile—the way it had bloomed softly as they shared dinner and talked for longer than they ever had.
Something had changed. The distance between their apartments felt smaller now, as though some invisible door had opened between them.
As he sat up, brushing a hand through his disheveled hair, Takumi realized that he wasn't dreading the day.
There was no lecture to attend, no assignment due, and for once, he didn't feel like he was running from something. The echo of last night's warmth still carried him.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Saeko.
"Good morning. I have some miso soup left. Come over if you're hungry."
It was so simple, but it held a strange intimacy. Not an obligation or a favor, but a quiet invitation—an extension of something tender.
Takumi dressed quickly. A warm shirt, jeans, socks that didn't have holes. He checked his reflection briefly in the mirror. The same tired eyes, but maybe, just maybe, a little less hollow.
He stepped out and knocked once. Saeko's door opened almost immediately.
She looked the same as always—sweater, relaxed pants, hair pulled into a low bun—but something about her made his heart skip. Maybe it was the way she looked at him. Not through him. Not past him. At him.
"You're up early," she said, stepping aside.
"I didn't sleep much," he admitted.
She smiled gently. "Me neither."
The miso soup was warm, the tofu soft, the broth comforting. They ate in silence for a while, the sound of the TV murmuring an old drama in the background. Her apartment smelled faintly of green tea and lemon.
"I was thinking," Saeko said after a while, her chopsticks pausing midair, "would you… like to go out with me today?"
Takumi blinked. "Go out?"
She nodded. "Not far. Just… a walk, maybe. It's sunny. And there's a small bookstore I like."
He felt the answer form in his chest before it reached his lips. "I'd like that."
...
The streets were quiet. Snow had fallen a few days ago, but most of it had melted, leaving behind slushy patches and puddles that reflected the winter sun.
Takumi walked beside her, matching her pace. She wore a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck, and her coat flared slightly at the waist.
They didn't speak much at first. It wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it was the most at peace Takumi had felt outside in a long time.
The bookstore was tucked into a side street, its windows fogged slightly, old paperbacks and hardcovers stacked in displays that seemed more sentimental than strategic. A small bell chimed as they entered.
The scent inside was earthy—dust, ink, and something like sandalwood.
Saeko moved immediately toward the fiction section. Takumi watched her fingers brush spines gently as if greeting old friends. He drifted toward the back, scanning titles without much focus.
"You like poetry?" she asked from behind him.
He turned. "I've never really read any."
She smiled. "I think you'd like Tanikawa."
She handed him a slim volume. He opened it randomly.
"I am not lonely. But I am alone.
In this moment, the light sits beside me,
and I ask it no questions."
Something in it made his throat tighten.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She didn't reply, just watched him with soft eyes.
They left with two books. Hers was a collection of short essays. His, the poetry.
"I'll make tea," she said once they returned.
He sat on the couch, book in hand, but he didn't open it. He just watched her move around the kitchen—graceful, unhurried. The light caught in her hair. When she turned and smiled at him, it was without pretense.
She joined him with two mugs and a plate of dried fruits and nuts.
"Here," she said, placing a blanket over both of their laps. "You looked cold."
They read together in silence, pages turning in a rhythm that was almost like breathing.
Later, she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. He didn't move. He didn't need to.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For making today feel… not like the others."
She reached for his hand under the blanket. Her fingers were cool, but steady.
"You're allowed to have good days too, Takumi."
...
Evening fell slowly. The golden light outside dimmed into shades of indigo and silver. Saeko lit a candle in the kitchen, then turned on a single lamp in the living room. The apartment felt like a small world of its own—separated from everything outside.
"I'll cook tonight," Takumi offered suddenly.
Saeko raised a brow. "You sure?"
He nodded. "I can try."
She didn't stop him.
It was simple—stir-fried vegetables, rice, miso soup he tried to recreate. It wasn't perfect, but it was warm.
They ate together. Talked more. Laughed, even. He found himself telling her about childhood memories—not all painful. She listened, not with pity, but with genuine attention.
"Your eyes change when you talk like this," she said quietly.
"How?"
"They look… alive."
He didn't know what to say to that. But he felt it too.
That night, when he returned to his apartment, it felt less empty.
He opened the poetry book again, rereading the verse she had shown him. Then he sat at his desk and, for the first time in months, wrote a journal entry.
Not about pain. Not about loneliness. But about warmth, and tea, and a woman whose kindness was slowly undoing the years of silence in his chest.
As he lay down to sleep, Takumi whispered into the dark:
"Please let tomorrow be just like today."