The soft rhythm of rain tapped gently against the wooden roof of the workshop, blending seamlessly with the slow, careful scraping of a chisel. The smell of sawdust filled the air—clean, dry, comforting. It was a smell that had lived in Takumi’s skin for years, a scent he no longer noticed but others would recognize immediately.

His hands moved methodically over the piece of cedar in front of him, shaving off the edges, smoothing it down without a word. The small radio in the corner played faint enka music, a nostalgic hum echoing in the silence. Takumi never sang along. He just listened.

The walls around him were lined with quiet work: wooden shelves, unfinished chairs, hand-carved toys no one had asked for. He built them anyway. To keep his hands moving. To forget how empty the silence really was.

Outside, villagers walked by, umbrellas in hand. None of them looked into the shop. None of them waved.

He didn’t mind, he told himself.

He leaned over the bench again, eyes focused, jaw relaxed. The world narrowed to the curve of the wood in his hand.

And then— the door creaked.

A sound so rare it startled him.

He looked up slowly, his fingers still resting on the chisel, breath held in his chest.

Someone had stepped inside.