(Yuuta Apartment).
The afternoon light slanted through the windows of the small apartment, painting golden rectangles across the wooden floor. Dust motes drifted in the warm beams, lazy and indifferent, bearing witness to the quiet scene within.
Yuuta slept on the sofa, his black hair spread across the pillow, his chest rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of genuine rest. The nightmares had released him. The shadows had retreated. For this single, fleeting moment, he was at peace.
Then he rolled over.
The sofa was not built for rolling. It was barely built for sleeping, a secondhand piece with sagging cushions and a frame that creaked under any sudden movement. Yuuta's body shifted, his arm slipped off the edge, and gravity, patient and merciless, did the rest.
He fell.
