The soft hum of night settled over the house, warm lights glowing from ceiling lamps and kitchen corners. Outside, the city exhaled in silence. Inside, the dinner table sat quietly occupied—three plates, half-filled with food gone lukewarm.
Saro sat between his mother and father, hands resting beside untouched rice. He didn't look up much. His hoodie hung beside his chair, his posture straight but stiff.
Across from him, Haru—his father—sliced through his food with slow precision, a thin smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"So, Saro…" Haru began, voice calm, but lined with weight. "I heard you're studying properly again?"
Saro forced a smile that barely touched his face.
"Ah—yes, Dad," he replied. "That's right…"
His eyes dropped to his plate. His voice lowered with them.
"I don't want you to look down on me anymore."
Naomi, his mother, reached across gently and placed her hand over his. Her smile was soft, warm with belief.
"I knew he'd try," she said. "He just needed time… and dedication."
Haru scoffed—low and sharp.
"Of course. Fifteen years of looking for dedication."
Saro's spoon clinked quietly against the bowl. His fingers trembled just slightly.
Haru leaned in, expression sharpening.
"If he had focused even a little, he'd be in high school by now," he continued, tone colder now. "But no. Goofing off all day."
Saro didn't lift his head. Shadows cast down over his eyes like they were trying to hide him from the room.
Haru shrugged, gesturing casually toward the wall.
"He might even be lying to you about the library."
Naomi slammed her palm against the table. The plates rattled.
"Can you not?!" she snapped. "Stop making a scene!"
Her voice cracked. Tears rimmed her eyes, and her next words shook from somewhere deeper.
"He's trying! That's not his fault!"
"I'm confident he'll even surpass you!"
"He won't work in a company. He'll own one!"
Haru chuckled, but it was bitter—like poison stirred into tea.
"Sure. In his afterlife, maybe," he said. "Can't even pass middle school and you talk about companies."
Saro stood up quietly. No sound—just movement.
Naomi turned to him quickly.
"Where are you going, Saro?" she asked. "Eat your dinner."
His back was to them. His voice came flat, emotionless.
"Not hungry."
Naomi's glare burned across the table.
"Look what you did…"
But Haru only leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like the weight of the world rested on his chest alone.
"You're the one spoiling him," he said, unmoved. "Toughness makes men. You don't know what I had to go through."
Naomi didn't reply. She stared at him in silence, her expression no longer angry—just tired. Just sad.
---
Upstairs, Saro sat in his room, motionless at his desk. A single pen sat in his hand, but he wasn't writing. His eyes stared ahead, hollow, detached from the space around him.
Why…
The thought floated up like smoke from a dying fire.
His gaze shifted toward the cluttered desk. Flash images in his mind: overdue bills. His cracked school notebook. Naomi coughing quietly in the kitchen last night.
What's with studies?
What's with money?
What's with knowledge?
His hand gripped the pen tighter, knuckles whitening. His jaw clenched.
Even if I couldn't do anything… I could just work at a café and still earn money.
No knowledge needed.
He slammed the pen down onto the desk. It cracked, splitting at the barrel.
What Dad thinks… is wrong.
His voice broke the silence—low, bitter, nearly a growl.
"I just wanna live a normal life just like others."
Then—without looking—he hurled the pen across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, forgotten.
He dropped onto the bed. Tears rolled down the side of his face, silent and slow. The ceiling stared back at him like a blank void, offering nothing in return.
His thoughts whispered into the darkness:
Come on, pain.
I don't want to live like this anymore.