The dishes were washed. The lights dimmed.
A fan buzzed quietly from the corner of the room, stirring the air just enough to carry the fading scent of garlic and rice through the apartment. Outside the window, the city pulsed in soft neon—streetlights blinking, signs humming, headlights streaking past like echoes of a dream someone else was having.
Ryunosuke stepped into his room, peeled off his hoodie, and folded it at the foot of his bed. The room was small, but not cramped. Just enough space for his sketchbooks, a low shelf of well-worn manga, and the soft glow of moonlight spilling across the hardwood floor.
He lay down, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly across his chest.
No music.No phone.Just quiet.
A dog barked somewhere far off. Someone yelled in Spanish two streets down. A train rolled in the distance like thunder in a bottle.
But none of it felt intrusive.
It was the language of the city—the lullaby of sidewalks and rooftop vents, of people still moving, still living. He'd grown up inside that rhythm. Learned how to fall asleep to its murmur.
He glanced toward his sketchbook on the nightstand.
Didn't reach for it.
Not tonight.
Instead, he let his eyes close slowly.
His mother was still awake—probably folding laundry or cleaning something that didn't need cleaning. She did that when she was thinking. He'd hear her footsteps later, soft and steady in the hallway.
But for now, the world narrowed to the slow rise and fall of his breath.
He thought of the cat in the alley.Of the butcher's joke.Of steam rising from a bowl across from someone who had carried everything—and still found time to ask if he was okay.
And then, gently, without resistance, the day let go of him.
And Ryunosuke slept.