The sound of my mother's voice was the first thing that pulled me out of sleep.
Not the birds, not the alarm I had ignored for the third time this week—just her.
"Kenji, are you planning to sleep through your whole life?"
Her words came from the kitchen, sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the electric fan.
I groaned, rolling onto my side and pulling the blanket over my head. Morning light leaked through the curtains, turning my room into a pale orange blur.
It was summer break, and I had mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing. No school, no part-time job, no plans—just endless days of aimless scrolling and sleeping in.
At least, that's how I preferred it.
I finally sat up when I heard the familiar sigh—the one that meant she was done being patient.
She stood by the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that same expression she used whenever she looked at my report cards.
"You're seventeen now. You can't just waste your days lying around," she said.
"I'm just… taking a break," I mumbled.
"From what? Breathing?"
I didn't answer. She exhaled again, softer this time.
"Your Grandma Yoshie hasn't been doing too well lately," she said, her tone shifting. "Your uncle's busy, and I can't go there myself because of work. I was hoping you could stay with her for a while."
That got my attention.
"Me?" I asked. "Why me?"
"Because you have nothing else to do," she replied simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I wanted to argue—to say something about how I wasn't good at taking care of people, how I didn't know the first thing about medicines or hospitals—but the look in her eyes stopped me.
It wasn't anger this time. Just worry.
"She needs someone around. Just to help with small things—groceries, cleaning, company," my mom continued. "It's been a while since anyone visited her properly."
I looked away. I hadn't seen Grandma Yoshie in years—not since the last New Year's gathering when she still seemed strong enough to chase my cousins out of the kitchen.
"Fine," I said finally, scratching the back of my neck. "Just for a while."
She smiled faintly. "Thank you, Kenji."
I didn't realize it then, but that simple decision—to step away from the comfort of doing nothing—would be the start of everything that changed my life.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the bus was how still the air felt.
It wasn't heavy or suffocating—just quiet, like the world had forgotten to breathe for a moment.
The road that led to my grandmother's house was lined with hydrangeas that had started to wilt in the late summer heat. Their colors had faded into a pale blue-gray, the kind that looks almost nostalgic. The countryside had its own rhythm, slower than the city, like even time itself moved carefully here.
Grandma Yoshie's house sat at the end of the slope—a small, old wooden home with wind chimes that sang when the breeze dared to pass by. I could already hear the faint sound of her coughing inside, followed by the gentle clatter of dishes.
I tightened my grip on the bag slung over my shoulder. It wasn't heavy, but for some reason, it felt like it carried more than just clothes and books.
When I slid open the door, the familiar scent of tatami and green tea greeted me.
Then came her voice—soft but steady.
"Kenji? You're here already?"
Her smile appeared before I could answer, wrinkled and warm, like a memory that hadn't aged.
That was the day the air between us began to change.
"Good morning, Grandma." I said with a smile.
"You've gotten taller," Grandma said, eyeing me from head to toe.
"You've gotten smaller," I teased, and she laughed—the same laugh I remembered from summers long ago.
She quickly walked outside and insisted on helping me carry my things, but of course I couldn't allow her to do that. Then a voice came from behind me—gentle, almost hesitant. I turned, and there she was… our neighbor. Gorgeous, in a way that made me forget how to speak for a second. She looks like a girl my age.
"Let me help you with that." the girl said softly.
Her voice carried a gentleness that instantly warmed me. In her hands was a small bag of tangerines—probably something she brought for Grandma Yoshie.
"O-Okay, well… you can take these bags. They're not that heavy," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm Kenji—Grandma Yoshie's grandson."
It had been years since I'd talked to a girl this beautiful. The last time I tried, it ended with a middle school confession and a polite rejection I still remember too well.
"I'm Ami," she said, her voice light and warm. "I'm good friends with your Grandma Yoshie."
She smiled, the kind of smile that makes you forget where you are for a moment.
I regained my composure and stepped inside the house.
The moment I entered, nostalgia hit me. I remembered the countless times my cousins and I would run around this house during family gatherings, accidentally bumping into furniture or knocking over vases. We were very clumsy and hard-headed back then, yet Grandma Yoshie always forgave us with that same gentle smile.
By the time night fell, we had already finished unpacking my things.
Dinner was simple—miso soup, grilled mackerel, and a bowl of rice.
Grandma Yoshie still cooked the same way she used to, carefully and without rush, like every meal was a small ritual of its own.
"Sit down, Kenji. I made your favorite," she said with a small grin.
I smiled back. "You still remember?"
"Of course. You were the only one who ate three bowls of rice back then."
Her laugh was soft, but it broke into a brief cough halfway through. I froze for a second, unsure whether to say anything. She waved a hand, smiling as if to brush it off, but the sound lingered in my head longer than I wanted it to.
Across the table, Ami helped set the dishes. She moved with quiet grace… careful and deliberate—like she'd done this a hundred times before.
"You come here often?" I asked.
She nodded. "Your grandma and I get along well. She tells me stories about you all the time."
I raised a brow. "Stories?"
"Mostly about how much you hated vegetables as a kid."
Grandma Yoshie chuckled. "He still does, I bet."
I tried to laugh it off, but it felt strange—hearing them talk about me like I was part of some old, shared memory I didn't remember creating.
After dinner, Ami said goodbye and promised to visit again in the morning. I watched her disappear down the narrow path beside the hydrangeas, the sound of cicadas filling the air where her voice had been.
Inside, the house grew quiet again. The wooden floors creaked softly as Grandma Yoshie moved around, humming an old tune I didn't recognize.
When I went to my room, I noticed a folded blanket already waiting on the futon. She'd prepared everything for me, just like she always used to.
Lying there, I stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.
The air smelled faintly of tatami and summer dust. And for the first time in a long while, I felt something I couldn't name—like the silence around me was asking me to listen.