The office is too bright. Not in a warm way, like sunlight filtering through tree branches, but in a cold, artificial way that leaves no room for shadows. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, their steady drone blending with the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. Somewhere in the distance, a printer whirs, its mechanical arms shifting paper from one tray to another.
Ayato blinks at his screen. The numbers blur together. He exhales slowly, rubbing his temples, but the dull ache behind his eyes remains. He's been at this for hours, yet the pile of work never seems to shrink. The same reports, the same emails, the same cycle repeating itself day after day.
A message pops up on his screen. A deadline reminder.
He clicks it away without reading.
To his left, his coworker—Tanaka, or maybe it was Takeda—leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The kind of sigh that sinks into the air and lingers, filling the space between them like something unspoken.
"Ever feel like just... disappearing?"
His voice is quiet, but the words cut through the low hum of the office like a drop of ink in water.
Ayato doesn't answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard, but whatever he was about to type slips from his mind.
The office is too cold. The air conditioning hums, sending a faint draft across the back of his neck. Outside, through the tinted windows, the city stretches endlessly, a maze of steel and glass. Cars crawl along the streets far below, their headlights flickering like fireflies trapped in a box.
A life with no pauses. No gaps. No stillness.
Tanaka—or was it Takeda?—laughs under his breath. A tired sound. He swivels his chair away, returning to his screen. The moment passes. The hum of the office fills the silence again, steady and unchanging.
Ayato looks down at his hands.
He used to dream of something else. A place where time moved slower, where mornings weren't rushed, and nights didn't disappear in an instant. Maybe a small café in the countryside, where the smell of coffee mixed with the scent of rain on old wood. He used to think about it all the time.
But that was a long time ago.
He types another line into his report.
By the time Ayato leaves the office, the world outside has blurred into something distant and unreal.
The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of rain that hasn't yet fallen. Above, neon lights flicker against the black sky, their colors reflecting in the puddles left from earlier showers. The streets are still alive—cars honking, footsteps echoing, conversations blending into a low, ceaseless hum. People move past him in waves, eyes fixed on their phones, their lives flowing forward as if pulled by an invisible current.
Ayato doesn't rush. He never does.
The weight of the day lingers in his body like something physical, pressing against his shoulders, slowing his steps. His mind drifts, thoughts unraveling like loose thread. What was it Tanaka—or maybe Takeda—had said earlier?
"Ever feel like just… disappearing?"
Ayato exhales. The thought lingers, clinging to him like the city's neon glow, impossible to shake off.
The pedestrian light flicks to green. He steps onto the crosswalk.
And then—
A sound. Sharp, raw. The screech of tires fighting against asphalt.
His body moves before his mind catches up. A car is coming, too fast, too close. The headlights flare in his vision, bright enough to erase everything else. There's no time to react.
The world slows.
He sees the driver's face—wide-eyed, frozen in terror. The front bumper looms, inches away, glinting under the streetlights.
And in that moment, a thought surfaces.
"So this is it."
No fear. No desperation. Just quiet certainty.
He is going to die.
A hand grips his wrist—strong, steady.
Before Ayato can process what's happening, his body is yanked backward. The air rushes past him, the cold bite of wind against his face sharp enough to jolt his senses. His feet leave the ground for the briefest of moments, weightless, suspended between life and death.
And then—solid pavement.
The car barrels through the intersection, its tires screeching against wet asphalt. A blur of motion. The rush of displaced air. The sharp scent of burning rubber. Then it's gone, vanishing into the city like it had never been there at all.
Ayato's chest heaves. His pulse pounds in his ears, loud enough to drown out the world. He should be dead. He was going to die.
But he isn't.
Slowly, he turns his head.
She stands beneath the streetlight, bathed in its pale glow.
A woman.
Her kimono flows like mist, soft folds of white fabric shifting gently in the night breeze. Long, dark hair cascades down her back, strands catching the artificial light like silk. There's a faint scent in the air—something delicate, fleeting. Cherry blossoms.
She meets his gaze, calm and steady.
"You should be more careful," she says softly, as if she has seen this happen before.
Her voice is low, gentle. Not scolding. Not pitying. Just… knowing.
Ayato opens his mouth, but no words come out. The city moves around them, unchanged, indifferent to what just happened. Cars still pass. People still walk. Someone laughs in the distance. Life continues, unshaken.
But he feels different.
Something has shifted.
And it all started the moment she reached out and pulled him back.
The woman watches him with an unreadable expression, untouched by the restless city around them. Amidst the flickering neon, the impatient footsteps, the distant wail of sirens—she is stillness itself.
And somehow, without realizing how it happens, they are walking together.
Ayato doesn't ask where they are going. He only follows.
The city moves past them in a blur of streetlights and narrow alleyways, of vending machines humming softly in the dark and rain-streaked signs advertising things he doesn't care to read. There is something dreamlike about it, as if they are slipping through the cracks of the waking world into a place just adjacent to reality.
Eventually, they stop. A small café, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. A warm glow spills from its windows, painting soft halos on the pavement. Inside, the scent of fresh coffee mingles with something sweet—cinnamon, maybe vanilla. The quiet murmur of conversation wraps around them like a gentle current.
They sit by the window. The woman orders tea. Ayato orders coffee, though he barely tastes it.
The conversation flows with surprising ease, drifting between small pleasantries and something deeper, something unspoken. Her voice is soft, deliberate. She speaks as if she is in no rush to reach the end of a sentence, as if time stretches longer when she speaks.
At some point, she tilts her head, watching him closely.
"You're looking for something, aren't you?"
Ayato blinks.
The question lingers between them, settling into the spaces untouched by words.
Before he can ask what she means, she reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a bundle of photographs. She places them on the table with careful precision, her fingers brushing over the edges as if the images themselves are something precious.
Ayato leans forward.
The photos show a wooden teahouse, nestled within a village cradled by mountains. The kind of place where mist lingers in the mornings and fireflies dance in the summer air. The kind of place where time moves at its own pace.
"This place has been in my family for generations," she says.
She looks at him then, dark eyes steady. There is something knowing in them, something that sees beyond the moment they are sharing.
"I think it's waiting for someone like you."
Ayato stares at the photographs.
The wooden veranda, dark with age, looks out over a garden bathed in golden light. A narrow stone path winds through clusters of hydrangeas, leading to a quiet road that disappears into the misty forest beyond. In the distance, the outline of mountains rises against a pale sky, their peaks fading into soft blue.
It feels like a memory.
The air—he can almost feel it, crisp and untouched by exhaust fumes. The faint scent of tea, the whisper of leaves shifting in the wind.
He's never been here. And yet…
"Have I?"
His fingers tighten around the edge of a photograph. The edges are slightly worn, as if handled many times before.
"How much?" he asks, half-joking.
She names a price.
The number is so absurdly low that he nearly laughs, expecting her to correct herself. But she doesn't. She only watches him, calm, patient.
"Why so cheap?" he asks.
Her lips curve into a small smile. Not quite amused. Not quite anything.
"Because I want to get rid of it quickly."
A vague answer. A deflection. But the way she says it—the softness of her tone, the way her fingers rest lightly on the table, as if waiting—makes it feel less like a warning and more like an invitation.
The café hums quietly around them. The city moves outside the window, unchanged, uncaring. But Ayato doesn't hear it anymore.
Only the wind. Only her voice.
The papers appear before him. When did she take them out? When did he pick up the pen?
He doesn't think. He doesn't question it.
The ink glides across the page. His signature takes shape.
There is no weight to it. No hesitation. Just a quiet certainty.
As if the choice had already been made long before this moment.