The streets of Yokohama were quiet, bathed in soft daylight and the hum of passing cars. You walked with a grocery list in your pocket and a mind full of everything but groceries—drifting between thoughts, half-aware of your surroundings.

Until someone collided with you.

Hard.

You hit the ground with a surprised yelp, landing squarely on your backside, your shopping bag spilling across the pavement like a burst of confetti—apples rolling, receipts fluttering, dignity slightly bruised.

“O-Oh, sorry, I’m so sorry!” a voice stammered above you.

You looked up.

A boy with tousled gray hair and wide, panicked eyes was already crouched beside you, frantically gathering your scattered things like his life depended on it. His clothes were slightly wrinkled, his hands moving faster than his words.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m really sorry!” he repeated, cheeks flushed, voice cracking with genuine guilt.

You blinked, still stunned, watching him chase a runaway apple down the sidewalk.

It was chaotic. Clumsy. Kind of ridiculous.

But also… oddly sweet.

He turned back to you, holding out your bag with both hands, eyes apologetic and earnest.

And somehow, your day felt a little less ordinary.