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Chapter 4 - Golden Hours

Amelia handed him the order slip and a reusable shopping bag.

"They're holding the pork belly until six," she said. "Take your time, but not too much time. And don't forget to say hi to Mrs. Nakano. She's nosy, but she means well."

Ryunosuke nodded, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

The butcher shop was up in Japantown, past the metro line and the rows of old storefronts with hand-painted kanji signs. It was a longer walk than usual—but Ryunosuke didn't mind. The light was soft, the air cooler now, and the streets were starting to glow with that golden pre-evening shimmer that made the whole city feel like memory.

As he turned onto 1st Street, the soundscape shifted.

Wind chimes danced in open doorways. A small taiko drum circle practiced outside the cultural center, their rhythm steady and grounding. He passed rows of restaurants—yakitori smoke curling into the air, red lanterns swaying gently above the sidewalk.

People noticed him.

"Ryu-kun!" a voice called. Mrs. Tanaka, still wearing gardening gloves, waved from behind a flower cart. "You've gotten taller again, haven't you?"

He smiled and waved back. "Maybe a little."

Farther down, two old men playing shōgi outside the tea shop looked up and nodded. One raised a white paper fan in greeting.

"Your mother still making that ginger miso broth?" the other asked. "Tell her to bottle it."

"She'll pretend she doesn't hear you," Ryunosuke replied, earning a dry laugh.

Even the woman at the bookstore barely looked up from her register as he passed, simply calling, "Your sketch is still in the window, y'know. You should sign it this time."

Ryunosuke ducked his head, but the smile lingered longer this time.

There was comfort in this part of the city. A rhythm that moved at its own pace. No one rushed. People looked you in the eye here. And even if they didn't say much, they remembered your name.

They remembered your father, too.

That part was always a little heavier.

Outside the butcher shop, a wind sock fluttered lazily beside the doorframe. The building was narrow, painted in soft blue, with wooden trim that hadn't been refinished in decades. Ryunosuke knocked once, then stepped inside.

The shop was cool and quiet, lined with metal counters and pale pink cuts of meat behind glass.

Behind the counter, a stocky man in a butcher's coat looked up and grinned wide.

"Ayyy, it's Ryu-chan!" he boomed. "I almost gave your order away. You're lucky you're pretty."

Ryunosuke rolled his eyes and held out the slip. "Amelia said no bone this time."

"She always says that," the butcher muttered, grabbing a wrapped tray from the cooler. "And I still always leave a little. Tell her it's for flavor. She never believes me."

He handed over the package with exaggerated care, like it was treasure.

"How's school? You surviving?"

"Barely graduated," Ryunosuke said.

"You drawing still?"

"Sometimes."

"You're quiet, kid. But you walk like someone thinking five things at once. That's how I know you're dangerous."

Ryunosuke laughed under his breath and thanked him.

As he stepped back onto the street, dusk had deepened. Paper lanterns were beginning to glow above the walkways. A breeze carried the scent of grilled mochi and old incense. He adjusted the bag over his shoulder and turned toward home.

This part of the city made him feel something he couldn't quite name. Not peace, exactly. Not nostalgia, either. Something between belonging and distance. Like he was a thread woven through a tapestry older than him.

Like he was part of something—even if he didn't always know what.

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