Two days later, Ken woke before his alarm this time, not because he was rested but because his body had given up on fighting the schedule. The faint gray light leaking through his curtains told him it was too early, yet also somehow not early enough. He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember if he'd actually slept or just closed his eyes and waited for morning to show up.
Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed with a sigh that sounded older than he was.
The apartment had that Monday stillness – quiet, stale, faintly dusty. His slippers kicked aside a loose receipt on the floor. The bathroom mirror greeted him with a brutally honest reflection: hair sticking up like he'd been electrocuted, half-open eyes, and what could generously be called "faint signs of life." He splashed icy water onto his face until the shock forced his brain to wake up properly.
He fixed his hair, straightened his shirt, knotted his tie, and then stared at himself for a second longer than usual. He didn't look miserable, but he didn't look thrilled either. Somewhere in between – a man who'd learned to run on momentum instead of energy.
He grabbed his work bag and headed out, locking the door behind him with that familiar click that announced the start of another routine day.
The air outside was cool, a soft breeze sliding through the narrow apartment corridor. The world felt half-asleep. Even the vending machine at the corner hummed quietly, as if respecting the early morning mood. Ken took a slow breath, letting the outside air wash away the indoor haze. He tightened the strap of his bag and began walking.
The alleyway toward the main street was still mostly empty. It was a slender path between older buildings, the concrete walls slightly stained with age. Overhead, laundry lines swayed lightly. A few bicycles leaned against fences. Someone's cat sat on a windowsill, lazily judging the world as cats do.
The ground wasn't perfectly level – a little dip here, a crack there – but Ken knew the path by memory. His shoes tapped gently across it, the sound echoing faintly.
A small delivery truck passed slowly at the far end, dropping off produce for the early shops. The air carried traces of morning food, miso soup, rice, grilled fish, drifting from the homes above. It all blended into a peaceful, almost homely scent.
His mind wandered again, uninvited but not unwelcome, toward the eatery he had visited on Saturday. The warm brown counter. The gentle lighting. Haruo's quiet concentration behind the stove. Sachiko's soft smile and steady way of speaking. Even the oolong tea – simple, warm, calming – lingered in his memory like an aftertaste he couldn't quite forget.
He hadn't planned on stopping by this morning. It wasn't like he had time. But as he approached the familiar wooden sign at the end of the alley, his steps slowed without him meaning to. The shop wasn't open yet, but the front door was already cracked open, letting out a faint warm scent of broth.
He glanced inside.
Haruo was there. The old man stood behind the counter with a cloth in hand, wiping it down with slow, methodical strokes. But something about him looked different from the weekend – a small stiffness in his shoulders, the way he paused halfway through wiping as though his breath caught somewhere in his chest.
For a brief moment, Haruo rested his weight on one hand against the counter, shoulders slanted slightly. Not dramatic. Not alarming. Just… tired. A kind of tired that didn't come from waking up early.
Ken watched quietly.
Sachiko appeared from the back room a moment later, carrying a small woven basket filled with fresh ingredients – green onions, daikon, a few wrapped packets of tofu. The basket seemed light enough for most people, but when she set it down, she exhaled like someone who had used more effort than she expected. Her hand brushed against her stomach for a second – subtle, instinctive, before she straightened again.
Even that motion, small as it was, felt heavier than it should've been.
Her face carried its usual warmth, but there were faint shadows under her eyes that didn't match the brightness of her smile. She exchanged a few soft words with Haruo, quiet enough that Ken couldn't hear, but their tone carried familiarity, routine, and a hint of shared concern buried underneath.
Haruo gave her a tiny nod – almost an "I'm fine" gesture. Sachiko responded with an expression somewhere between acceptance and worry. The tiny exchange lasted barely two seconds, but it said more than words could.
Ken didn't stop. He didn't think he should. He kept walking past the doorway, his footsteps quieter now, like he didn't want to disturb something fragile.
As he reached the end of the alleyway, he blended into the flow of office workers moving toward train stations and tall buildings. Conversations floated past him – weekend stories, complaints about humidity, talks about meetings – but Ken's mind was still lingering behind in the calm little shop.
He took one last glance over his shoulder before turning the corner. The shop was still there, still warm, still peaceful… but no longer as effortlessly steady as it seemed before.
The morning felt heavier now, a quiet weight pressing gently against his thoughts. Not alarming. Not tragic. Just real.
A small, soft crack in a world he thought was unshakeable. And as he stepped onto the main street toward his office, Ken felt something shift inside him – barely noticeable, but enough that he didn't just feel like he was walking to work anymore.
He felt like he started to care.