Evening in the Takamine apartment was always silent.
Not peaceful just silent.
The kind of silence that weighed on the air until even breathing sounded too loud.
Mika sat on the tatami floor beside the low table, a cup of tea untouched beside her. Outside, the city glowed in distant neon. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed. Inside, only the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the room.
Her father wasn't home yet.
He never said when he would be.
She looked at the clock...8:37 p.m.
Then at her phone. No messages. No calls.
Mika leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-closed.
Every evening was the same. Wait. Listen. Pretend not to worry.
When she was little, her father used to bring home sweets from the convenience store. He'd pat her head and say, "You're the reason I work so hard."
That was before she learned what "work" meant.
Before she learned the word debt.
Now he came home smelling of smoke and whiskey, his shoulders heavy, his eyes darker each time. She never asked questions. He never offered answers. Between them stretched an unspoken agreement: pretend life is ordinary.
The tea had gone cold by the time she heard the door slide open.
Leather shoes on the floor.
A short breath.
Then his voice, low but tired. "You're still awake, Mika?"
"Yes," she said softly, standing. "I made dinner. It's still warm."
He smiled faintly, though it looked more like an effort than a habit. "You're a good kid."
She watched him as he sat down. The man before her was still her father but also someone else. His hands were scarred. His suit always smelled faintly of iron. He carried silence the way other men carried briefcases.
They ate together quietly. He barely touched his rice.
Finally, she asked, "Was it a hard day?"
He didn't answer at first. Then he said, "Every day's the same. People owe, people pay. That's the world."
His tone was flat, practiced. Mika nodded, though she didn't really understand what kind of world worked that way.
After dinner, he lit a cigarette by the open window. The smoke curled into the night like a ghost refusing to leave.
"You shouldn't stay up for me," he said. "It's better if you sleep early."
"I can't sleep until you're home," she admitted.
He exhaled slowly. "You've got school. Don't waste your time worrying about an old fool like me."
She looked down. "You're not old."
That made him chuckle, a brief real laugh that softened the room for a heartbeat. Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen and his face changed.
The laughter vanished.
He stubbed out the cigarette, stood, and walked toward the hallway. His voice lowered. "I told you not to call this number. …No, I'll handle it tomorrow. Just keep quiet."
Mika turned away, pretending not to hear.
She always pretended.
When the call ended, her father lingered by the door, staring at nothing. His shoulders trembled slightly before he forced them still again. Then he said, "Mika, if anything ever happens, promise me you'll stay out of it."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Just promise."
She nodded slowly. "I promise."
He nodded back, but his eyes said he didn't believe her.
Later that night, Mika sat at her desk, the city lights flickering through her window. Her notebook lay open half drawings, half thoughts she couldn't say aloud.
She flipped to a blank page and began to write.
"People think strength means not crying.
But maybe strength is crying quietly so no one else has to worry."
Her hand trembled a little as she wrote. The memory of the bridge surfaced the cold wind, the water below, the sound of someone calling her name.
Manabe Yuto.
She hadn't expected to see him again, yet every day at school, there he was gentle, awkward, and strangely honest. He didn't pry. He didn't pretend to understand her. He just stayed.
Sometimes, that was enough.
She thought of the lunch he offered, the way he'd looked at her not with pity, but with something she hadn't felt in years: warmth.
Her pencil moved again.
" He doesn't know it, but he's the only color left in my world"
She stopped, staring at the words until her vision blurred. Then she closed the notebook and pressed it against her chest.
Outside, a car engine murmured below the apartment. For a moment, she thought it was one of her father's "friends." But the sound faded away, leaving only the hum of streetlights.
She lay on her futon, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the next room, her father's voice rose briefly another phone call, another whisper about money, about mistakes. She tried not to listen.
He's trying, she reminded herself. He's trying the only way he knows how.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
Before sleep took her, she thought again of Yuto the quiet boy with the tired eyes and the faint, hopeful smile.
Maybe, just maybe, not all promises end in pain.
Maybe this one could begin in color.