The following morning arrived not with the same golden light that had graced their shared day, but with a gray stillness that clung to the sky like a curtain drawn too tight.
Takumi stirred in bed, the sheets wrapped around him like quiet reminders of how comfortably he had slept.
Not deeply, but without interruption. It was the kind of sleep that didn't fix everything, but allowed the body to pause. To breathe.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the weight of his limbs remind him he was still here. Still in his own small room. Still next door to Saeko.
His phone lit up. Another message.
"Morning. I'm going out for groceries around ten. Want to come with me?"
It was mundane. Unimportant, in the grand scale of the world. And yet, it felt monumental.
"Yes. I'd like that."
They met just outside the building, the cold air nipping at their cheeks, steam drifting gently from their breaths.
Saeko wore a black coat this time, her scarf a muted red. Her hair was tied loosely, the ends dancing slightly with the breeze.
"I hope you don't mind a small market," she said as they walked side by side. "I like picking my vegetables myself."
"Not at all. I haven't been to a market in years."
She glanced at him. "You're kidding."
He shook his head. "I guess I forgot how to enjoy the little things."
They reached a small neighborhood market, the kind that buzzed not with chaos but with life.
Elderly vendors called out greetings, children darted between stalls, and the scent of pickled vegetables and roasted chestnuts lingered in the air.
Saeko walked with familiarity, exchanging small pleasantries with the vendors.
Takumi stayed close, watching her fingers choose eggplants and green onions with the precision of someone who knew what she was doing.
There was a quiet confidence in the way she moved—something he admired more with each passing hour.
"Here," she said, turning suddenly. "Try this."
A cube of warm yakiimo, sweet potato roasted in its skin.
He took it. The taste was rich, earthy, and comforting. He nodded, smiling.
"Good, right?" she grinned.
He nodded again. "Very."
By the time they returned, their bags were full and their cheeks red from the cold. The apartment welcomed them with the familiar scent of home—tea leaves, warmth, her presence.
Takumi helped her unpack, handing over vegetables, storing fruits, watching her work.
"You're learning," she noted.
"Trying," he replied.
When the fridge was full, she leaned against the counter and looked at him.
"Let's take it easy today," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"No plans. No chores. Just… a quiet day. Is that okay?"
He hesitated. "It's more than okay."
They spent the morning curled on the couch again, this time under a thicker blanket. She put on a quiet jazz record, and the apartment was filled with soft piano melodies that wrapped around their silences. They read. Spoke only when they wanted to.
Later, as the afternoon sun tried and failed to break through the clouds, Saeko stood and stretched.
"I'm going to take a bath," she said casually. "Want to use it after?"
He blinked. "Uh… sure."
She left him with her poetry books, and he read with the sound of water running in the background. It was strange how normal it had become.
How unguarded she was around him. How he had begun to expect nothing, yet somehow received more than he ever thought he could handle.
When she emerged, her hair wrapped in a towel, her cheeks rosy from the heat, she looked at him with a tired sort of smile.
"Your turn."
The bath was warm. Not scalding, not tepid. Just right. He sat in the stillness, letting the warmth seep into his bones. It had been so long since he had let himself feel anything other than numb. Now, even this simple act felt sacred.
When he returned to the living room, she had made tea. They drank together again, sitting close, her head leaning lightly against his shoulder.
"I've been meaning to ask," she said quietly. "Do you write?"
He hesitated. "I used to. In high school. And… sometimes now. In a journal."
"You should show me someday."
He turned toward her. "You really want to read it?"
She nodded. "Only if you want me to."
He didn't answer right away. But part of him already knew the answer was yes.
...
That evening, Saeko cooked again. Nothing extravagant. A simple tofu and vegetable stew. But it was delicious, and more than that—it was shared.
They laughed over the salt being too much, or not enough, about how she forgot the sesame seeds until the very end.
"You're very good at making mistakes feel like part of the plan," he told her.
She smiled. "That's the trick. Life never goes as planned. Might as well find flavor in the detours."
After they ate, Takumi helped with the dishes. They moved around each other like they had done it for years. Quiet. Comfortable.
"Can I stay a bit longer tonight?" he asked as she wiped the last plate.
She looked up. "Of course."
So they curled again on the couch. This time, she turned off the lights. The only glow came from the heater and the distant lights of the street below.
"Do you ever think about what you want later in life?" she asked suddenly.
He turned to her. "Like dreams?"
"Not goals. Not work. Just… moments. The kind of evenings you'd want."
He thought for a long time.
"This," he finally said. "Something like this."
She looked at him for a long while. Then nodded slowly.
"Me too."
...
It was nearly midnight when he returned to his apartment. And yet, he didn't feel tired. Not in the way he usually did.
He sat at his desk again, journal open.
"January 26th.
Today we went to the market.
She gave me half of her roasted sweet potato.
She gave me silence, and safety, and the right to not speak until I wanted to.
She gave me a reason to not dread tomorrow.
I think I'm starting to remember what it feels like to live."
He closed the journal. The room was quiet. But not lonely.
In the stillness, he thought of Saeko's hand resting lightly on his arm, of the smell of her bath soap, of the weightless quiet they shared.
And with those memories, he turned off the light.
Sleep came quickly.
And for the first time in years, he dreamed of warmth.