The clock ticked.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Each second struck the silence like a pebble in still water, barely audible, yet undeniable. The narrow room was bathed in dim gray light seeping through a thin curtain, casting soft shadows across the floor and walls. There was barely anything in the room—just a mattress, a small table, a plastic drawer, and a man sitting on the edge of the bed.
He didn't blink. He didn't move. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but his mind was elsewhere—quiet, still, alert.
Arai Masaki was awake.
Not because he had nightmares. Not because he was restless. But because that's simply what his body had grown used to—waking before the world did.
He sat upright, knees bent, hands resting on his lap. After a minute, he stood and walked to the wardrobe, pulling out a set of familiar clothes: gray hoodie, black running pants, a plain black shirt.
His movements were clean. No rush, no hesitation. He changed in silence, stepped into worn-out running shoes, and opened the front door.
The air outside was cold.
He didn't flinch.
The streets were empty, soaked in pre-dawn blue. Streetlamps buzzed quietly overhead. No cars. No pedestrians. No distractions.
Just his breathing.
Inhale four steps.
Exhale two.
Inhale—one, two, three, four.
Exhale—one, two.
Rhythmic. Grounding.
He ran not for glory, nor for health. He ran because it was the one thing that still made sense.
"Life is like clean glass," he once thought while running. "If you're not careful, you'll see straight through it and forget you're even there."
After an hour, he returned to his tiny apartment. His shirt clung to his back. The breath in his chest was steady, measured. He boiled water for a basic cup of instant coffee—he didn't love the taste, but the ritual brought comfort.
He checked his phone. A family group message blinked on the screen.
His mom had sent a photo: breakfast at home. His two younger sisters smiling in their school uniforms. His dad reading the newspaper in the background.
Masaki stared at the image for a moment, then typed:"Eat slowly. Watch the road."
He didn't add an emoji.
By 7 a.m., he was dressed in his work uniform—plain green and white, the logo of a local convenience store stitched at the collar. He pedaled to the store. The streets were starting to wake.
Same route.
Same timing.
He even knew which traffic lights would change and when.
"Morning, Masaki," called out the guy unloading crates near the back door.
"Morning," Arai replied.
Not rude. Just simple.
He wasn't unfriendly. He just didn't like wasting words.
He clocked in, went to his cashier station, and started another shift.
Scan. Beep. Bag. Change. Smile. Repeat.
Over and over.
A high schooler with dark circles under his eyes came to the register with instant noodles and strawberry milk.
"Can I get the strong bag today?" the boy said, grinning. "Last time it ripped halfway."
Masaki barely looked up. He recognized the kid—he came often, almost every night.
"¥924," he said. "Do you have a membership card?"
"Nah, I'm too lazy to sign up. But thanks for asking!"
The boy laughed at his own joke.
Masaki handed him the bag without a word.
He didn't know that boy's name.
He didn't know that boy would one day become a turning point in his life.
He didn't know that was Natsuki Subaru.
That night, Masaki returned home, took a quick stretch, and sat at his tiny table.
He opened an old notebook and wrote the same line he wrote every night.
"Another day done. Body moved. Nothing broke. Still standing."
He closed the book, placed the pen carefully beside it, and switched off the light.
He sat on the edge of the bed again.
Listened to the clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
And in that quiet, Masaki remained—unmoving, unnoticed, but alive.