It was Saturday morning, and for once, the house felt lived in.

  A soft breeze slipped in through the half-open window in the kitchen, carrying with it the distant smell of damp grass and falling leaves. Kun stood by the stove, barefoot, stirring a small pot of ramen as steam curled around his face like mist. The warmth of the broth, the rhythm of the ladle scraping gently against the sides—these were the things he liked. They made the world quieter.

  In the living room, his mother sat cross-legged on the old floral couch, one hand holding a can of beer, the other absently flicking ash into the tray on the windowsill. Her eyes were tired, and her dark roots had started to show under her dyed chestnut hair, but she looked more at ease than usual. Maybe it was the smell of ramen, or maybe it was the rare comfort of a weekend spent at home.

  “Have you made any friends at school?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence like a dropped dish. Her voice was casual, but it carried a weight beneath it.

  Kun stirred the broth slowly. “Yeah. I made some,” he replied after a pause. “One of them’s named Sai. He’s kind. But... kind of lonely too, I think.”

  “Hm?” his mother said, not looking up. “Lonely, huh?”

  Kun nodded, tossing a few more sliced vegetables into the pot. “People don’t really talk to him. They just sort of... look past him. Like he’s not there. But he smiles a lot. And he talks to me.”

  His mother leaned her head back against the couch and took a drag from her cigarette. Smoke coiled from her lips and drifted toward the ceiling fan. “Ramen again?” she teased, sniffing the air. “Why do you keep making that every time I come home?”

  Kun smiled faintly, his eyes still on the soup. “Because it’s your favorite. And mine too.”

  She chuckled in defeat. “I swear, you’re gonna turn into a noodle one day.”

  There was another pause, then her voice softened into something more careful. “Kun… does anyone at school bother you?”

  Kun’s hand hesitated just a fraction of a second before stirring again. The water in the pot shimmered, and in the reflection he caught a glimpse of his own eyes—eyes younger than his current self, red and puffy, rimmed with tears. A boy clutching his bruised arm in a cold hallway. Laughter echoing. Shadows jeering. The Tokyo school.

  “We moved here to get away from all that,” she continued, voice just above a whisper now.

  “You remember?”

  “I do,” Kun replied, his voice low.

  “Are they kind to you now? The kids in that countryside school?”

  Kun nodded, though his lips were tight. “They’re... different. Not like the ones in Tokyo.”

  “Good,” his mother muttered, tipping back another swig of beer.

  Silence thickened in the room again. The ramen boiled softly.

  Kun’s mother glanced toward him. “And this Sai kid… He’s really okay? I don’t need to worry about anything?”

  Kun turned to look at her, then back to the soup. “He’s nice. Says his family’s always busy. He never eats with anyone, but he said it felt good when I gave him food.” Kun hesitated, then added, “He said he’s glad I can see him. That I remember him.”

  His mother blinked at that. “Remember him?”

  “I think he meant it metaphorically,” Kun replied quickly, brushing it off. “Like, I noticed him when others didn’t.”

  “Hmm…” she murmured, her brow furrowing faintly. “You know, your grandparents always said the countryside isn’t as quiet as it looks. Yokai live in places like this.”

  Kun groaned playfully. “Mom… How old are you? You still believe in that?”

  She shrugged, taking another drag. “There’s nothing wrong with being cautious. I can’t have you going missing on me, silly boy.”

  Kun rolled his eyes and pouted. “Will you stop drinking? It’s still morning.”

  “Then hurry up and finish cooking, little chef,” she teased.

  He cracked a smile—small, but real. It had been a long time since his mother was home like this. And despite the cigarette smoke, the beer, and the creeping cold of autumn outside, something about the house felt warmer than usual.

  Still, somewhere at the edge of Kun’s mind, a chill lingered. A shadow of a boy with quiet eyes, who smiled when no one else looked.

  A boy who once said, “As long as you see me… that’s enough.”

  Kun shook the thought off and reached for two bowls.