Waiting had a texture.
Haruto discovered this on Thursday afternoon as he sat on the floor of the apartment, back against the couch, homework spread neatly in front of him. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly, each second stretching thin before snapping into the next.
His mother wasn't late.
That was the problem.
She had said she would be home by five. It was already nearing six, and there had been no message, no call. Haruto told himself there were many reasons for delays—transport, overtime, exhaustion.
He believed all of them.
Still, he listened for footsteps.
Outside, the neighborhood moved at a slower pace than usual. A delivery truck idled longer than necessary. Two men in reflective jackets stood at the corner, pretending to debate directions while watching passersby with mild, unfocused attention.
Haruto closed the curtain.
He returned to his work, but the numbers refused to settle. His eyes drifted instead to the small stack of envelopes on the counter—bills sorted by urgency, by consequence. He knew the order without checking.
A sound at the door made him rise instantly.
The lock turned.
His mother stepped in, looking intact in the way that mattered most—no injuries, no visible shaking—but something about her posture was off. Straighter than usual. As if she had practiced holding herself that way.
"You're late," Haruto said quietly.
"I know," she replied. "I'm sorry."
She set her bag down with care and sat at the table without removing her coat.
"They asked more questions today," she continued. "Not about work."
Haruto stayed standing.
"About me?" he asked.
She nodded. "About your habits. Your health. Whether you've ever been… different."
The word hung between them.
"What did you say?"
"That you're normal," she said immediately. Then, softer, "That you're a good boy."
Haruto absorbed that.
"They scheduled something," she added. "For next week. They said it's optional."
Haruto met her eyes. "It isn't."
She didn't deny it this time.
Friday came and went without incident.
That alone made it heavy.
At school, Riku was unusually subdued. He joked less, watched more. During lunch, he leaned close and whispered, "My dad says his company's being audited. Again."
"For what?" Haruto asked.
Riku shrugged. "Everything."
They ate in silence after that.
In the afternoon, a substitute teacher took over their class without explanation. She didn't teach. She observed. Her tablet never left her hands.
Haruto kept his breathing steady.
After school, Riku suggested they walk.
Not home. Just walk.
They followed streets that curved away from the river, toward older districts where buildings leaned and signs creaked in the wind. Here, the city felt tired rather than tense.
"This place hasn't changed in years," Riku said. "My grandpa used to live around here."
Haruto watched an old woman water plants on a balcony three floors up. "That's why it's still standing."
They sat on a low wall near a closed tram station.
"Do you ever feel like," Riku began, then stopped. He frowned, trying again. "Like adults are preparing us for something they won't explain?"
Haruto didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," he said finally.
Riku let out a breath. "Good. Thought it was just me."
They stayed there until the sun dipped low enough to turn the buildings amber.
That night, Haruto dreamed again.
He stood in a large room filled with scales. Not the kind used for weight—these measured balance. On each, something different rested: a book, a pair of shoes, a photograph, a wristband.
Every scale tilted.
None ever leveled.
He woke before dawn, calm and alert.
Waiting, he realized, wasn't passive.
It was preparation without instruction.
The weekend arrived quietly.
On Saturday morning, a knock came at the door.
Haruto answered it before his mother could.
A woman stood outside, dressed plainly, holding a slim device against her chest. She smiled with professional ease.
"Good morning," she said. "I'm here for a follow-up survey."
Haruto didn't move aside.
"My mother didn't confirm," he said.
The woman's smile flickered, just for an instant. "It won't take long."
Haruto looked past her, down the hallway. Two more figures waited near the stairs.
"I'll tell her," he said. "You can wait."
For a moment, the woman looked like she might argue.
Then she nodded. "Of course."
Inside, Haruto relayed the message.
His mother closed her eyes briefly, then stood. "I'll speak to them."
Haruto watched her go, feeling the familiar urge to step in front of her, to become the barrier instead.
He stayed where he was.
Waiting.
The conversation lasted twelve minutes.
When his mother returned, her expression was composed.
"They'll come back," she said. "Eventually."
Haruto nodded.
That afternoon, he went to his room and sat on the bed, hands resting on his knees.
He rolled up his sleeve.
The red mark was unchanged.
Still quiet.
Still patient.
Haruto lowered his sleeve again and lay back, staring at the ceiling crack, tracing its branches as he always did.
Waiting had a shape now.
It looked like this.