The city exhaled around him.
Ryunosuke walked with the bag nestled against his side, careful not to jostle the pork belly as he moved through streets slowly surrendering to night. The heat had finally let go of the pavement, replaced by a gentle breeze that rustled tree branches and swept up old flyers from weathered street poles.
He took the long way back—not because he had to, but because the quiet asked him to.
Neon signs blinked to life one by one, casting shifting pinks and oranges across shopfront windows. A cat darted through an alley, pausing to stare at him with glowing eyes before vanishing beneath a parked van. Above, strings of lanterns swayed in the high air like distant prayers.
He passed a laundromat with machines still spinning, a couple arguing softly outside a noodle shop, and an old woman sweeping her doorway with a bundle of bamboo sticks. Everyone moved within their own small orbits, but the city didn't feel lonely—not tonight. It felt like it was watching. Like it remembered him.
At a red light, Ryunosuke paused.
The bag in his hand felt heavier than it should. Not from the weight, but from something else. A sense of responsibility without a name. He thought of his mother—apron tied tight, commanding the kitchen like a war general. He thought of his father—what little he remembered—mostly from photos, and the way Amelia still touched the stove with quiet reverence, as if it still carried his voice.
The light changed.
He crossed.
The final stretch of his walk took him past shuttered storefronts and graffiti-tagged dumpsters, past the flickering glow of corner bodegas and the faint echo of corridos drifting from a second-story window.
At last, he reached the narrow brick building where the restaurant lived—the corner spot, quiet now, resting between shifts.
The lights were dim inside. A soft glow spilled from the front windows, whatever lamp Amelia had left burning for him. The sign above the door was still blank.
Still perfect.
Ryunosuke lingered outside for a moment.
Not because he didn't want to go in, but because this was always his favorite part—the moment before. The in-between. When the noise hadn't returned yet, and he could still feel the hum of the city in his bones.
Then he stepped forward, opened the door, and let the quiet welcome him home.