"It's 3,499 yen, ma'am."
A young man in convenience store clerk attire said this with a polite smile to the woman standing at the register.
She nodded and checked her purse, calmly pulling out three 1,000-yen bills and a 500-yen note. She placed them on the counter without a word.
The clerk gave a slight bow, accepting the money respectfully.
After a moment, he handed back a single 1-yen coin, which the woman quietly dropped back into her purse.
She offered a small bow and said softly, "Thank you."
The young man maintained his warm smile and returned the gesture.
"You're very welcome. Thank you for shopping with us."
The woman nodded once more and turned to leave, making way for the next customer.
The clerk's tone and expression didn't falter—his practiced smile never once slipping as he continued assisting everyone who came through the door at this hour.
Time passed.
Eventually, after another steady hour of service, the young man greeted his final customer and completed the transaction with the same poise.
"Please come again," he said with gentle sincerity.
The man gave a casual nod and exited the store.
The young man glanced up at the wall clock.
Two more hours until closing.
He let out a tired sigh.
"Damn… Today's Solo Leveling episode was supposed to drop."
He groaned under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Still two damn hours to go…"
His expression darkened for a moment.
"Where the hell is that bastard? Skipping his shift on this day of all days…"
Another sigh escaped him, more out of frustration than fatigue.
Seeing that no new customers were entering, he stepped into the storage area behind the counter, grabbing a few boxes to restock the near-empty shelves.
The routine was mindless by now.
He'd been working at this store for over two years—full-time.
Not because he loved the job.
But because there wasn't anyone left to rely on.
His parents used to fight. Always about something—he never really knew what.
Screaming matches behind closed doors, broken dishes, slammed doors.
That was the background music of his childhood.
By the time he was five, his father walked out. No explanation. Just gone.
For a while, he thought he might come back. Maybe after he cooled off. Maybe after things settled.
But he never did.
Then, when he was eight, he saw him again—on a crowded street, walking beside another woman… holding hands with a child.
It took him a few seconds to even recognize the man.
But when he did, his legs moved on their own. He ran up, called out, "Dad?"
And the man stopped.
Turned.
Looked at him.
Like he was a stranger.
Like he was no one.
That look stung more than anything. It left something behind—something hollow and cold.
When he told his mother what happened, she didn't comfort him. She got angry. Furious, even.
"You went near him?!" she snapped, eyes blazing. "Don't ever go to that man again! Ever!"
He didn't understand why she was angry. But it didn't matter.
Their relationship wasn't warm to begin with. His mother, always stressed, always struggling, often took it out on him.
Not with fists—but with words.
Words like:
"You're a burden."
"I can't do this anymore."
"Why did I even have you?"
She never apologized for saying them. Maybe she didn't even realize she did.
Those wounds didn't bleed anymore, but the scars—they stayed. Closed, but not forgotten.
He sighed.
Even now, thinking about it still hurt.
But if those scars ever healed at all… it was thanks to his grandfather.
By the time he was ten, his mother gave up too.
She packed her things one day, dropped him off at her father's house, and never looked back.
And just like that, he was left with his grandfather.
The old man wasn't the affectionate type. No warm hugs. No bedtime stories. No "I'm proud of you" moments.
But he wasn't cruel either.
He never once called him a burden.
Instead, he taught him. Quietly, sternly, but consistently.
How to grow up.
How the world works.
How to survive without losing yourself.
And, strangely enough, how to escape when life becomes too much.
It was only years later that he realized something funny.
The gruff old man who barked orders and scolded him over minor mistakes… was actually just a massive nerd.
That stern persona? Just a mask.
Beneath it, his grandfather was a man who devoured manga, binge-watched anime, and collected dusty old light novels like they were treasure.
He was the one who introduced him to anime in the first place.
And once he got hooked, there was no turning back.
Anime after school. Manga before bed. A normal rhythm. A life that, for once, felt steady.
In that quiet, quirky little home—between school, studies, and episodes—things were finally okay.
Not perfect.
But okay.
And for a boy who had known nothing but chaos, that was more than enough.
Everything was going fine…
Until he turned sixteen.
Just as he'd entered his first year of high school, the news came.
His grandfather was gone.
A car accident.
The other driver had been drunk—charged later with DUI and manslaughter. But none of that mattered.
Because the only person he could rely on… was dead.
Just like that, his world fell quiet again.
At the funeral, he saw her—his mother.
But she wasn't alone.
She stood beside a man he didn't know, holding the hand of a small boy. Her son. Four years old, maybe five.
Her new family.
He could've gone up to her. Could've said something.
But he didn't.
Because when he looked at her, memories came rushing back.
That moment with his father on the street. The way he'd looked at him like a stranger.
The way his mother had exploded when he tried to talk about it.
And this… this felt exactly the same.
So he kept his distance.
And maybe that was the right choice.
Because she didn't even glance at him—not once.
She attended the funeral like a guest—distant, composed—not as the daughter of the man lying in the casket, nor the mother of the boy who stood silently beside it
Then she left.
No words. No goodbye.
Nothing.
Just like before.