The hallway stretched longer than it should have—not because the house was large, but because it had learned the trick of holding its breath. Every step he took landed softer than it ought to, swallowed by the kind of quiet that comes from too many nights of tiptoeing around ghosts. Nothing creaked anymore. Not out of repair, but resignation.
By the time he reached the kitchen, Nayumi moved in quick, unpolished bursts—rinsing her hands with the clumsy precision of a child who'd only recently learned how to do it without splashing water everywhere.
He didn't greet her.
She didn't expect him to
The lights were too warm. The air smelled of yesterday's instant noodles and the faint, metallic tang of the tap left running just a second too long. Plates clattered onto the counter, cups set down with a little more force than necessary. A spoon clinked twice against a cereal bowl—once by accident, once on purpose, testing the sound.
He watched all of it without watching her.
Her presence filled the room like steam from a kettle—warm, but not quite reaching the corners. She was a blur of mismatched socks and flyaway hair, a creature of half-heard sounds and almost-caught motions. Familiar. Not comforting.
His feet stopped at the threshold of the kitchen.
Her voice cut through the quiet.
"Coffee's there," she said, already sitting, already pretending not to look at whether he would drink it or not.
He didn't answer. Just moved.
Two mugs sat on the counter. The darker one was his—the one with the handle chipped near the base, the one she always filled first, though she'd never admit to noticing the difference. Steam curled lazily from the rim, twisting into shapes that dissolved before he could name them.
His hands moved before his brain did. Fridge open. Eggs, butter, bread—simple things, light in his grip, as if the house had hollowed them out when he wasn't looking.
The pan hissed as it heated. In that pause, he finally pulled out a chair and sat. The wood groaned under his weight, a sound so ordinary it felt like an accusation.
Across from him, Nayumi swung her legs beneath the table. Not wildly, not like she used to—just a steady, absentminded rhythm, the heels of her socks brushing the floor with every pass.
"Did you dream again?" she asked lightly.
He blinked. The question drifted past his ears like background noise.
"Didn't sleep," he murmured after a pause.
"Oh."
That was all she said. But her smile flickered—just for a breath, just enough for someone who wasn't looking to miss it entirely.
Then she reached across the table, snatched his mug, and dumped a splash of milk into it without asking. Pushed it back toward him with the solemnity of a priest offering communion.
"Too bitter makes you more bitter," she declared, wrinkling her nose like she'd heard it from somewhere else.
He didn't react. His fingers tapped the edge of the table—once, twice—a staccato beat without a song.
In the pan, the eggs began to hiss.
He stood again. His joints cracked like gunshots in a quiet church. The fridge's weak light flickered as he reached back in for something — maybe cheese, maybe nothing. He forgot what he was doing halfway through, eyes locking onto the bottle of soy sauce tucked in the corner. Unopened.
He stared at it like it might speak.
Behind him, Nayumi said something—a joke, probably, or a nonsense rhyme. He didn't catch it. His head tilted slightly, but his body stayed frozen, shoulders tense as the spatula clacked against the pan.
The spatula clacked against the pan.
The yolk broke too soon. He didn't curse, but his jaw tightened, his movements turning sharp and methodical as he scraped the eggs into something edible.
Nayumi leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"You're making the frowny face again," she informed him, chin propped on her palm.
He didn't turn.
The eggs were done. He plated them with the precision of a man assembling a bomb—neat, deliberate. The toast was singed at the edges, but he trimmed the blackened bits before sliding it onto her plate. One careful spoonful of jelly, smeared across the center in a haphazard heart shape.
Her plate.
Not his.
She grabbed it with both hands, grinning like he'd handed her a trophy instead of yesterday's reheated grief.
"Still the best cook!" she announced through a mouthful, kicking her feet harder now, as if joy had to go somewhere. "Even if you're a little grumpy."
He sat back down. His plate stayed empty. His coffee untouched. His gaze drifted—not to her, but to the way the sunlight caught the rim of her glass, the smear of jelly at the corner of her lip, the way her shoulders hunched slightly when she chewed, like she was trying to make herself smaller.
He didn't comment. Didn't smile. Just watched.
Or endured.
She ate like she hadn't in months. Not messy, not anymore—she was nine now, old enough to know better, though some habits lingered. The little "mm!" after the first bite. The way she hooked one foot around the chair leg, as if anchoring herself to the moment.
He took none of it personally.
Joy like that—bright, unguarded—it never reached him. Not really.
Then she noticed his empty plate.
"Your stomach's gonna get lonely," she said, voice light but eyes darting to his hands, checking for tremors he hadn't had in years.
"I'll write it a letter later," he muttered.
She snorted, apple juice nearly escaping her nose.
But he didn't move.
Her gaze lingered. Then, with the solemnity of a peace offering, she broke off a corner of her toast—the part with the most jelly—and nudged it toward him. No words. Just a glance that said, See? It's not for you. It's just extra.
He stared at it.
The toast sat there, innocuous as a landmine.
A dull pressure built behind his eyes. Familiar. Annoying.
He could refuse.
She wouldn't push.
But the silence stretched, thin and brittle.
He picked it up. Slow. Studied the jelly like it might hold answers.
He opened his mouth to say thanks and found nothing there.
So instead—
"...Tastes like floor," he grumbled after a bite, thumb swiping the corner of his mouth, wiping away nothing.
She gasped, half-laughing, and smacked his arm with the back of her fork. "You liar! I wiped the table!"
He almost smiled. Almost.
But his hand shifted back to his lips, thumb pressing lightly against the edge, as if holding something back — not a grin, not really. Just… aslip.
She noticed.
But didn't name it.
He watched her from across the table, still chewing with a smile that didn't need a reason. Like just having breakfast with him was the high point of her day. Like he didn't still check the locks four times before bed just in case something he couldn't name slipped through the cracks.
She looked so proud of herself, legs swinging, crumbs on her lips, amber eyes bright.
And him?
He was sitting here with toast he didn't want, in a house too quiet to call home—staring at a child who deserved someone.
("I'm lucky,") he thought, like a reflex.
He repeated it again, quieter.
("I'm lucky.")
As if saying it enough times could bury the truth—
That the real problem wasn't what he lacked,
But how easily he could rot in something good,
And still call it survival.