The TV flickered softly in the dim living room, casting pale light across the walls. Konoko sat curled on the sofa, her knees pulled close, pretending to focus on the show. Beside her, Gramps had slumped into sleep, his breathing heavy and uneven, the rise and fall of his chest steady as a metronome.
She glanced sideways. His head tilted slightly, mouth parted, arms loose at his sides. For a moment, the whole house seemed to shrink into silence around his breathing.
Konoko forced her eyes back to the screen, but her mind wandered. Why do I let myself sit here like this? She felt her stomach twist, remembering how his touch had lingered during the massage, the way her own body had shivered without permission.
Her fingers tightened on the hem of her skirt. He's just sleeping. Nothing to be afraid of… nothing at all.
And yet, every time his shoulder shifted, every low groan in his throat, her chest tightened. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin, and she hated how vivid it remained.
She sipped her tea, but the warmth didn't settle her. Instead, her thoughts spun faster, pulling her deeper. I should move. I should go to my room. But if I stand up, he might wake… he might ask why.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She sat frozen, caught between politeness and the raw unease she couldn't name out loud.
The TV murmured on. Gramps's breathing stayed slow, untroubled. And Konoko, trapped in her own restless stillness, kept her eyes fixed forward—pretending, like always, that nothing was wrong.
Konoko balanced the grocery bags carefully in her arms as she turned into the quieter street leading back to the house. The sun was lower now, throwing long shadows across the cracked pavement. That was when she froze—standing near the corner was the same ragged man from before, the one who had cornered her days ago.
His eyes lit with recognition, but not in a kind way. His shoulders squared, his jaw tight, and he stepped into her path.
"You," he growled, pointing a dirty finger at her. "Because of you, the others look at me different now. They think I'm weak. They think I lost face."
Konoko's grip on the bags tightened, her throat closing with panic. She stammered, "I-I didn't… I didn't mean—"
He cut her off, voice rising. "Doesn't matter what you meant. You made me look bad. Now there's a price to pay."
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. "P-price…?" she whispered, barely able to get the word out.
He stepped closer, the smell of unwashed clothes and street grime surrounding him. His eyes bored into hers with a strange intensity. "You're gonna work. Voluntary work. Helping us out. The homeless. That's the only way you set this straight."
Konoko swallowed, her pulse loud in her ears. The idea of being forced into anything made her skin crawl, but his tone carried no room for argument. He loomed over her, breathing heavy, as though daring her to say no.
Inside, she was screaming—why me, why again, why won't this stop—but outwardly she nodded, small and trembling. "O-okay… I understand…"
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Good girl. Remember… you owe us."
Then, just as suddenly, he backed away, leaving her standing there shaking with the weight of her groceries, the evening air pressing down like a heavy hand.
Konoko hurried the rest of the way home, her legs unsteady beneath her, every step echoing with the words "you owe us." By the time she reached the door, her palms were damp, the grocery bags nearly slipping from her grip. She pushed inside quietly, trying not to wake Gramps if he was napping, her chest tightening as though the walls themselves were leaning in on her.
She set the bags down on the counter, staring blankly at them for a long moment. Her hands trembled. The idea of telling Gramps flickered in her mind—just for an instant—but she shoved it away almost violently. No. I can't. He'd worry, or… he'd ask questions. And what if he thought less of me for it?
She forced herself to unpack the groceries, one item at a time, as though the act of putting things in their places might anchor her scattered thoughts. But the words kept repeating in her head, each time heavier: You owe us… you owe us…
Her stomach churned. The memory of the man's smell, the heat of his breath, clung to her like an invisible film. She shook her head, muttering softly to herself, "It's fine, it's fine… I'll just… I'll just do something small. Hand out food. Clean. Then it'll be over."
But a darker thought crept in—What if it's never enough?
By the time she finished, she was sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, face buried in her hands. She hadn't realized how badly her shoulders were trembling until she tried to steady her breath.
In the other room, she could hear Gramps snoring faintly on the couch, oblivious. For a moment she envied him—that easy rest, that unawareness. She pressed her lips together, whispering under her breath like a secret oath only she could hear:
He doesn't need to know. No one needs to know.