Rain had washed the dust from the streets overnight, leaving the city cleaner than it had any right to be.
Haruto noticed these things more now. Small changes. Temporary kindnesses from an environment that usually took without asking. Puddles reflected the grey buildings like broken mirrors, distorting straight lines into something softer.
He walked beside Riku, their shoes splashing lightly with each step.
"You ever notice," Riku said, "how the city smells different after rain?"
Haruto nodded. "Like it's pretending to be new."
Riku grinned. "Exactly."
They took a detour that morning, cutting through a narrow residential block Riku liked. The buildings were older here, lower, their paint chipped but their windows decorated with plants and wind chimes. Someone was always sweeping, always repairing something small.
"This is my aunt's place," Riku said, pointing to a corner house. "Not rich or anything. Just… stable."
Haruto didn't miss the emphasis.
Inside, warmth hit them immediately. Not heat—presence. The smell of soup, the sound of a radio murmuring softly in another room.
Riku's aunt greeted them with a tired smile and handed them bowls without asking questions. Haruto ate slowly, aware of how long it had been since he'd had something this full.
"Your hands are cold," she said to Haruto casually, pressing the bowl closer to him. "Eat more."
He obeyed.
For a moment—just a moment—the world felt balanced.
They left with full stomachs and lighter steps.
"See?" Riku said. "Places like this still exist."
Haruto looked back once at the house. The way the curtains moved. The way it felt alive.
"Not everywhere," he said.
Riku didn't argue.
School was uneventful again, but uneventful had begun to feel unnatural.
During afternoon free study, a loud crash echoed from another classroom. Shouting followed. A desk overturned.
Teachers moved fast. Too fast.
Students were told to stay seated. Doors were closed.
Haruto sat still, hands folded. His heartbeat never changed.
When it was over, they were told it had been a "medical episode." Nothing more.
Riku leaned over. "That's the third one this month."
Haruto wrote that down mentally.
On the walk home, they separated at the usual corner.
Riku hesitated. "You can come over anytime, you know."
"I know."
"And if things get bad—"
"They won't," Haruto said gently.
Riku studied him, then nodded. "Okay. But still."
Haruto watched him go.
At home, his mother was asleep on the couch, still in her work clothes. Haruto covered her with a blanket and moved quietly.
He washed dishes. Swept. Sorted laundry.
Routine was a language he spoke fluently.
Later, standing by the window, he watched the river from a distance. The water caught the fading light, briefly turning red before dark swallowed it again.
He touched his wrist through the fabric.
The mark was steady. Waiting.
Somewhere between hunger and comfort, between silence and warmth, Haruto understood something without naming it:
Places that still breathed were becoming rare.
And when they vanished, people like him would be expected to adapt.
He closed the curtain.
Tomorrow would come, whether he was ready or not.
.