A morning where the sunlight failed to reach the cracked walls of a town forgotten by its own country. Fog dragged itself through the alleyways like a tired stray. Rooftops bled rust, sidewalks buckled, and somewhere beneath the surface, the earth itself might've sighed.
People still moved. They always did.
Some woke beside warmth—a lover's breath on their neck, a murmured "goodmorning" that almost sounded like "i love you." Others sat across from empty chairs, sipping bitter instant coffee from chipped mugs while the news droned in the background, saying nothing new.
Then there were the night-shift ghosts, already trudging home, their faces pale as moth wings, clothes reeking of factory smoke, stale alcohol, or the metallic tang of overtime. They slipped back into their apartments without sound, as if afraid the walls might reject them.
The town didn't care who you were—only that you followed the rhythm.
Work. Eat. Repeat.
That was the rule. It didn't matter if you loved it or loathed it. If you were a sinner or a saint. If you still had dreams, or had long since given up.
The machine ground on.
Some found solace in small things: the barista who remembered your order, the way the bakery's warmth curled around you like an old friend, the neighbor who still nodded at you after all these years. Others clung to vices—cigarettes smoked in alley shadows, petty arguments with spouses they no longer recognized, the hollow comfort of a stranger's bed.
Laughter flickered and died like a match in the wind.
No one really asked if you were happy. You either kept going—or you didn't.
And if you disappeared?
Well... the fog would swallow your place, and life would carry on.
---
Somewhere among these cracked streets, where the fog hadn't lifted and the clocks ticked louder than voices, a boy sat in the dark.
"Another day goes by, huh?"
He muttered, more to the dust than the room. A frown etched itself into his face.
Unlike the others, he hadn't woken up that morning.
He'd been awake since yesterday.
The ceiling offered no answers, just water stains that mapped out constellations of neglect. His bed—a nest of tangled sheets long since kicked to the floor—stood abandoned. Rest felt like a con, something for people who still believed in renewal.
His body disagreed. Every muscle ached, his limbs leaden as if weighed down by invisible chains. With a grunt, he dragged himself upright—not to greet the day, but to glare at the clock.
7:43 AM.
He blinked.
7:46 AM.
Again.
7:50 AM.
Seven minutes gone. Dissolved like breath on glass.
Seven minutes he'd never get back, wasted on nothing worth remembering.
With a grunt, he forced himself up. No stretching. No fresh clothes. Just the same black T-shirt and sweatpants he'd worn yesterday, the blue stripes faded from too many washes.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each step on the familiar hallway felt like a stab in the soles of his feet. The smooth cold on the tiles was the only response, but for him, it was nothing compared to what he'd been used to for a long time. Not because he was a superhuman with advanced senses or a trained assassin since childhood, but the fact he was used to things. Once again, the cold was one of them. Really.
The door stood at the end of the hall like a question he'd never had the courage to ask.
He stopped. Stared.
Silence pressed against his ears, muffling the world beyond.
He sighed. His head rested against the door. His eyes stared at the handle like it was a key to something he didn't deserve.
"Should I wake her up or...?"
A mumble, half-lost to the stillness. Not that it mattered—if she was awake, she'd hear him.
It wasn't guilt, not exactly.
They rarely fought. She forgave too easily, and he'd stopped resisting long ago. This was something deeper—a weariness that made even love feel like a weight.
He didn't know what to do first on a day like this—the kind that punished you for not being ready.
"Nayumi. Can I come in?"
He waited. Unmoving. Brittle.
A statue carved from guilt.
Breathing. Barely.
A rustle of sheets. A slow creak. Then—
"Nooooo~! There's a password now, Rai-Rai!"
The nickname should've made him scowl.
Instead, something in his chest twitched—a ghost of a reflex, like a muscle remembering a forgotten motion. Her voice was a time machine, dragging him back to when mornings still had meaning.
…Because this childish game—he'd played it with a loved one before. Frame for frame.
(Since when did I get too old to be played like this?) The thought soured in his mind as he stared at his scarred hands, stiff and foreign in the dim light.
He rapped the door with his knuckles—not to be let in, but to be acknowledged. It had always been open. That was the joke.
"Nayumi. Can I come in?"
Silence.
Then giggling.
"...Please?"
He grunted out.
Before he could push the door open, Nayumi jumped out of bed and appeared like a gremlin in pajamas.
If you had to sum up the little sister of "Rai-Rai" in one word, it'd be: Bright.
Her grin was a rebellion against the gloom, her amber eyes so warm they made his own seem like smudged charcoal in comparison. Today's armor: dinosaur pajamas, the T-Rex on her shirt locked in eternal, goofy battle with a pancake.
"Second try! Not bad for a grumpy-pants!"
She said it like he was her Robin — only Nayumi was a weird kind of Batman. Dinosaur pajamas don't exactly sell brooding.
Then, without warning—
She hugged him.
Her arms barely reached around his waist, but she held on like it was effortless. Like she didn't know—or didn't care—what those arms had done.
He flinched. Tension spiderwebbed up his spine.
But then his hand found her head, ruffling her hair until she squealed.
His eyes settled on the top of her head with something close to longing.
The warmth of her felt like something already slipping away—even though it didn't have to.
"You're up for breakfast?"
His voice was softer now, sanded down by her presence.
"I'm up for anything! Except eggs. Unless they're not runny. Ew."
She marched past him like mornings had never hurt. Like the world wasn't broken.
He envied that.
But maybe—just maybe—it was okay to follow her.
He blinked as she skipped down the hall, her dinosaur-clad feet light against the floor.
Maybe the world wasn't broken. Not for her.
He trailed after her, step by step, the fog still clinging to his shoulders.
But here, in the wake of her laughter—
It felt a little thinner.