The living room hummed with soft ambient light—the kind that drifted in golden through the gauzy curtains, catching flecks of dust mid-air like a sleepy snowfall. A quiet moment, held like breath.
By the small windowsill, Maruki crouched beside a terracotta pot, his hand steady as he tilted the watering can just so. Water dripped onto the dark soil with a soft glug-glug, the smell of earth rising briefly into the air. The tag on the pot read, in his tidy handwriting:
"Evenings only – overwatering will make her grumpy!"
He smiled faintly at the memory of how fussy this particular plant had been during trial-and-error. The leaves were glossy now, proud. It liked 7PM.
On the kitchen table just behind him, a modest bag rested neatly. Beside it, a sleek cylindrical case wrapped with a red ribbon—half practical, half sentimental. Inside: a brand-new spectacle case. Durable. Lined. Custom-fitted for someone whose current one was cracked near the hinge. Maruki had noticed. Quietly. Of course he had.
He didn't announce it. Just left it there.
Morning’s door was still closed. Had been for a while. Faint clicks and muffled button taps filtered out—the kind of sound Maruki had grown used to.
He leaned a little on one hand, twisting back to glance toward the hallway.
"You've been there for a while, haven't you?" he called out lightly, not loud enough to pry, just enough to be heard if Morning was listening. Suppose it's not videogames it's something else.
No answer, but he didn’t expect one right away.
The plant’s leaves shifted gently as the last drops settled in the soil. Maruki ran a careful finger along the rim of the pot, wiping away a stray splash. His gaze drifted to the spectacle case again.
He stood up, stretching with a soft sigh, back cracking in a way that reminded him he wasn’t the age he felt in his head. Then, hands on his hips, he glanced back toward the hallway one more time.
“If you’re hungry later, I picked up that strawberry milkshake you like. The one with the weird mascot. And the spicy chips that pretend they’re not spicy.”
He said it with the casual rhythm of a routine. Like he’d say it again tomorrow, and the next day. Like nothing had to be forced.
And then, he reached for a sticky note from the drawer, scribbled something quickly in his looping handwriting, and gently stuck it to the ribboned case.
“No pressure. Just thought it might be useful. – Doc”
He went back into the kitchen to wash away the watering can in the sink.
Rank 2: back at home, 19:00
By the small windowsill, Maruki crouched beside a terracotta pot, his hand steady as he tilted the watering can just so. Water dripped onto the dark soil with a soft glug-glug, the smell of earth rising briefly into the air. The tag on the pot read, in his tidy handwriting:
He smiled faintly at the memory of how fussy this particular plant had been during trial-and-error. The leaves were glossy now, proud. It liked 7PM.
On the kitchen table just behind him, a modest bag rested neatly. Beside it, a sleek cylindrical case wrapped with a red ribbon—half practical, half sentimental. Inside: a brand-new spectacle case. Durable. Lined. Custom-fitted for someone whose current one was cracked near the hinge. Maruki had noticed. Quietly. Of course he had.
He didn't announce it. Just left it there.
Morning’s door was still closed. Had been for a while. Faint clicks and muffled button taps filtered out—the kind of sound Maruki had grown used to.
He leaned a little on one hand, twisting back to glance toward the hallway.
"You've been there for a while, haven't you?" he called out lightly, not loud enough to pry, just enough to be heard if Morning was listening. Suppose it's not videogames it's something else.
No answer, but he didn’t expect one right away.
The plant’s leaves shifted gently as the last drops settled in the soil. Maruki ran a careful finger along the rim of the pot, wiping away a stray splash. His gaze drifted to the spectacle case again.
He stood up, stretching with a soft sigh, back cracking in a way that reminded him he wasn’t the age he felt in his head. Then, hands on his hips, he glanced back toward the hallway one more time.
“If you’re hungry later, I picked up that strawberry milkshake you like. The one with the weird mascot. And the spicy chips that pretend they’re not spicy.”
He said it with the casual rhythm of a routine. Like he’d say it again tomorrow, and the next day. Like nothing had to be forced.
And then, he reached for a sticky note from the drawer, scribbled something quickly in his looping handwriting, and gently stuck it to the ribboned case.