The family room was still. Too still. A clock ticked somewhere, slow and hollow, as if marking time that no longer mattered. Ren stood in the doorway, heart pounding, eyes tracing the contours of the room he used to know—a room now warped by the haze of memory and nightmare.
The table loomed large in the center, its polished wood gleaming unnaturally under the dim light. People sat around it, their bodies stiff, their postures familiar. But their faces—those faces—were nothing but smeared scribbles, jagged lines where features should be, like someone had tried to erase them and failed. The sight made Ren's stomach twist. They were people he knew once, people who mattered. Or maybe people who never did.
Ren stood at the edge, small and weightless, hands slack at his sides. He knew this place, knew this scene, but everything in him wanted to flee from it.
A voice cut through the silence, calm but edged with steel:
"Look, we all have our own families, our own responsibilities. I've got two kids. Do you think I can just bring another mouth to feed into my home?"
A murmur of agreement rippled around the table, dark and low like distant thunder.
"Exactly," a clipped female voice added, sharp as glass. "It's not our fault this happened. The boy's old enough to fend for himself. What is he—sixteen? Seventeen? Kids grow up fast these days."
Ren's eyes dropped to his lap. He was seated now—he wasn't sure when that had happened. His fingers lay limp on his knees, unmoving. His shadow stretched long and thin across the floor, swallowing the light. The words fell around him like ash, bitter and dry.
"He's always been trouble," another voice said, this one harder, brimming with quiet disdain. "Difficult, rude, selfish. Always thinking about himself. No surprise things turned out this way. God works in mysterious ways, doesn't He?"
The room seemed to constrict, pressing down on his chest. Ren's fingers twitched, curling in slightly. He didn't speak. He couldn't.
"Doesn't he have a sensei?" a new voice mused, cold and detached. "Someone who… associates with the yakuza? Couldn't they handle him? Seems fitting, doesn't it?"
A ripple of laughter—mean, hollow—echoed in the dim space. Ren's shoulders flinched, just barely, as though the heat of their stares burned into his skin.
Then, lower, colder, a man's voice:
"What about the house?"
The question hung, heavy and thick like smoke.
"It's too big for him," the woman said, her rings flashing as she leaned forward, her face a smear of shadow and gleam. "It'll fall apart under his care. He's just a child. Selling it is the responsible thing to do."
"And the money?" another chimed in, greedy, eager.
The first man's shadow stretched farther now, long fingers crawling across the table. "It should go to someone responsible. Someone who can put it to good use. It's what Kazuhiro would've wanted."
Ren's breath caught, sharp and ragged. His father's name—spoken like that, empty and cold—stabbed deep into his chest. His fists clenched tighter, nails biting down into his palms, the pain a small tether to something real.
"Please," someone scoffed, the sound thick with mockery. "Kazuhiro could barely keep things together as it was. The boy's lucky we're even discussing this. Honestly, none of it should be his."
The words swarmed around him, sharp and suffocating, tearing into him like invisible claws. He bowed his head lower, his shoulders starting to shake—not from tears, but from holding it all in. He wouldn't break. He refused.
"Sell it. Split the money. It's the logical thing to do."
A beat of silence.
"What about the mother?" a softer voice asked, almost gentle—but not really. "She's still alive, isn't she?"
"Barely," the woman laughed, cruel and cold. "And if she doesn't wake up… well, that simplifies things, doesn't it?"
The room twisted. The walls seemed to warp and pulse, and the air grew thick, choking. Ren's vision blurred, edges dissolving as if the world itself were coming apart at the seams. He wanted to scream, to force them to see him, to hear him—but his voice was gone, stolen by the weight of their judgment.
And then the eyes.
One by one, the scribbled faces melted away, replaced by grotesque, smooth masks—featureless except for huge, bloodshot eyes that bulged and burned with loathing.
They turned toward him. All of them. Staring. Piercing. Their gaze was a blade, carving him open, stripping him bare.
"He should never have been born," a voice snarled, deep and dripping with hate. "A child like that—selfish, ungrateful, always causing trouble. He'll never amount to anything."
"No one wants him," another whispered, insidious and sharp, its words slithering into his ears. "Not now. Not ever."
The voices grew louder, rising and rising, overlapping, echoing, pressing in like a tidal wave.
He'll never amount to anything.
No one wants him.
It's his fault.
Sell the house.
Never wanted.
Never enough.
Ren gasped, clutching his ears, pressing his palms hard against his head. But it didn't stop. The words were inside him, rattling his bones, shaking his skull. Louder. Louder.
"STOP!"
His scream tore through the nightmare, ripping the fabric of the dream apart—
—and he woke with a jolt, sitting bolt upright in his bed, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. His breath came in ragged, panicked bursts, the echo of the voices still faint in his ears. He stared into the dark, fists clenched tight around his sheets, his heart thundering.
The silence of the room pressed in, thick and empty. He was alone. He had been for a while now.
Ren sat frozen for a moment, swallowing down the dry knot in his throat. His eyes darted to the water glass on the small nightstand. He pushed the covers off, legs swinging to the floor, and stumbled toward it. His hands trembled as he grabbed the glass, tipping it back too fast—water spilled down his chin, cold and jarring, but he barely noticed.
He set the glass down with a soft clatter, wiping his mouth. His body ached, his chest still tight, as though the nightmare had sunk its claws in and refused to let go.
Needing to move, needing something, he pushed himself up and paced a few slow steps across the room. But the air felt heavy, the shadows clung too tightly, and no matter how many times he blinked, the echoes of the dream pressed in—loneliness, despair, guilt. A suffocating weight. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm his breathing, but the familiar ache wouldn't budge.
His eyes scanned the room—the new room Sensei Yujiro had given him when he'd taken Ren in. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal: a bed, a desk, a small dresser. The window was cracked open slightly, the night air cool against his damp skin. It was clean, quiet, safe.
But it wasn't home.
Ren's gaze drifted down—and that's when he noticed it. A slip of paper, poking out from under the door.
Frowning, he padded over and crouched down, fingers hesitating for a beat before curiosity overrode everything else. He pulled the paper free, its edges crumpled slightly from the door's pressure. The handwriting, neat but hurried, was unmistakable. Yujiro's.
Ren,
Get some rest. You've been through a lot, and it's okay to take time to heal. Kiyomi made dinner for you—don't forget to eat, and drink plenty of water. We're here for you.
–Your Sensei
Ren stared at the note, reading it once, then again. The words blurred, shimmering as tears gathered in his eyes. Yujiro had never been one for long talks—direct, always—but there was a softness here that hit Ren in a way he wasn't ready for.
His breath hitched as he folded the note gently, setting it aside. He opened the door, and warm light from the hallway spilled into his room. There, on the floor, a tray waited. A bowl of rice, miso soup, grilled fish. A glass of water.
The smell hit him—a quiet comfort, a thread of something familiar and kind. His stomach clenched with a sudden, sharp hunger he hadn't even realized was there.
He picked up the tray, his hands shaking, and carried it to the desk. Sitting down, he placed the note beside him, eyes flicking between it and the food.
He took a deep breath, picked up the chopsticks, and brought a bite of rice to his mouth. The taste was simple—warm, filling—but it hit him like a wave. His chopsticks froze midair. He chewed slowly, the lump in his throat growing tighter, harder to swallow.
A soft, strangled sound escaped him. Not a sob, exactly, but close—raw and unfamiliar.
"It's… good," he whispered, voice cracking on the words. He squeezed his eyes shut, like that might hold everything in. But it was too late. The dam was breaking.
Another bite. Then another. The miso soup followed, warm and soothing, like a hand on his back. The grilled fish melted in his mouth, each bite pulling something loose inside him, something jagged and hidden.
His hands began to tremble. He set the chopsticks down carefully and pressed both palms against his face. His shoulders shook, breath catching in broken gasps as the tears finally came—first slow, then uncontrollable.
He didn't wipe them away. Didn't try to stop.
He just sat there, letting it all spill out, the quiet clink of the chopsticks on the tray and the steady hum of the night the only sounds in the room.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ren let himself cry.
The room was still, holding him gently in its silence. The food before him had gone slightly cold, but Ren didn't care. Every bite, every breath, chipped away at the wall he'd built inside himself—grief bricked with guilt, sealed by silence.
"Why now?" he wondered. "Why this moment?"
Because it wasn't just the food. It was the note. The tray left without a word. The quiet care of someone who didn't owe him anything.
Yujiro didn't speak in flourishes. He wasn't warm in the way most people would recognize. But Ren saw it now—in the way he gave him space, in the unspoken acts. A roof. A bed. A second chance.
And Kiyomi—his aunt, who once looked at him with that clipped voice and cold eyes—still cooked for him.
"Maybe she didn't want me here. Maybe she still doesn't."
But she'd made him dinner. She had seasoned the soup, grilled the fish, left the tray outside his door.
That mattered.
His tears slowed, breath evening out as he sat back and stared at the tray. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes red and heavy, but clearer somehow.
There was no dramatic shift inside him. No sudden revelation or healing. Just a small ember—something quiet and persistent—that hadn't been there before.
A thought stirred in him, hesitant at first, like a muscle not used in years:
"You're not alone."
It didn't erase the pain. It didn't undo the words from the dream, or make the world any less cruel. But it gave him something. A thread to hold onto.
Ren glanced at the folded note again, its creased edges soft in the low light.
"You're here for me…" he whispered, voice hoarse, cracked raw by tears. "So maybe… maybe I can try."
Ren looked down at the food again, at the last few bites still untouched. He finished them slowly, deliberately—each bite a promise to himself.
When he was done, he set the tray aside and stood up. He walked to the small dresser and pulled out a fresh shirt. Then he reached into his backpack and took out his school uniform—wrinkled, half-folded, buried under layers of neglect.
He stared at it for a moment, fingers running along the edge of the blazer.
"I'm going back."
Not because he was ready. Not because everything was fixed. But because he owed it to the people who hadn't given up on him. And maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself too.
He laid the uniform on the chair beside his bed, his movements steady now. Then he climbed under the blanket again, letting the weight of it pull him into the mattress.
Tomorrow, he would return to school.
Tomorrow, he would begin again.