He woke to the sound of soft rain tapping against the window like fingers asking to be let in.
The room was dim.
The sky outside—a wet blur of silver and grey.
And his arms—aching.
A heavy kind of ache.
Muscles sore in places he hadn't felt in months.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Didn't wince.
Didn't curse.
He smiled.
The swing from yesterday had stayed with him.
Not the motion.
Not the result.
The feeling.
Like a door had opened somewhere in his chest.
And the wind had gotten in.
He stretched slowly.
Groaned.
Then laughed at the sound of his own body protesting its resurrection.
He sat up, rubbed his shoulders, rolled his neck.
This was what it meant to be real again.
To move.
To hurt.
And it felt… good.
On the table, a bento waited.
Wrapped. Neat. Patient.
He didn't know when Hana had dropped it off.
She never knocked anymore.
She didn't need to.
She just… left little warmth at his doorstep.
He opened it.
Plain rice.
Half an egg.
A square of soft potato curry that tried too hard to taste Indian — and almost made it.
A note tucked under the chopsticks.
Muscles complain when they're waking up. So do people.
— H
He chuckled.
Folded the note.
Tucked it into his journal.
Later that morning, the rain still hadn't stopped.
He stood by the door with his shoes on, hoodie up, watching it fall.
The umbrella rack outside was empty.
He stepped out anyway.
A few drops on his skin didn't scare him.
He had walked through worse.
Halfway down the street, he heard the steps.
Soft.
Even.
Familiar.
Then the voice.
"You'll get sick."
He turned.
Hana stood there, umbrella in one hand, grocery bag in the other.
He raised an eyebrow.
"So will you."
She shrugged.
"I'm more rainproof than you."
She stepped forward.
Lifted the umbrella.
He didn't move.
She didn't ask.
Just shifted it slightly to cover them both.
It wasn't big enough.
His shoulder was still getting wet.
Her sleeve soaked halfway.
But neither of them adjusted.
They walked.
Slowly.
Raindrops tapping against the thin fabric above them like applause from clouds.
"Your swing was messy," she said.
"I know."
"But the balance was better."
"You were watching again."
"I always do."
He looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because you don't."
He blinked.
Didn't reply.
She didn't push.
They passed a closed bakery, the windows fogged.
Puddles rippled under their steps.
No one spoke.
And yet, the silence was louder than the rain.
Comfortable.
Warm.
True.
They stopped near the vending machine.
He inserted a coin.
Selected lemon soda.
Then paused.
Looked at her.
She tilted her head.
"Sweet tea."
He pressed a different button.
The can clinked down.
He handed it to her.
She nodded once.
No thank you.
Just understanding.
"Do you miss the noise?" she asked.
He sipped.
Let the citrus sting his sore throat.
"Sometimes," he said. "But only the kind I could walk away from."
"And now?"
He looked up at the umbrella.
Then at her.
"I like this quiet."
She didn't answer.
She just smiled — barely.
But he caught it.
By the time they returned, the rain had faded.
Only drizzle now.
The kind that stayed longer than necessary, but didn't hurt anyone.
She handed him the umbrella.
"Keep it."
"I'll return it."
"No need."
He paused.
Then asked quietly,
"What if I want to?"
She looked at him.
Eyes still unreadable.
"Then return it when it stops raining."
That night, his arms still ached.
He massaged his shoulders, lay on the futon.
But he didn't sleep immediately.
He stared at the umbrella, leaning against the wall.
Still dripping.
Still waiting.
And in his journal, he wrote—
Some pain means you're alive.
Some silences mean someone is listening.