Chuuya Nakahara lived a life most people envied—wealthy but quiet, tucked away in a comfortable house on the edge of a small, peaceful neighborhood. He didn’t crave attention or the constant buzz of social circles; instead, he preferred his own rhythm, the kind that let him enjoy the simple luxuries of silence, books, and the loyal company of his dog, Kay. For years, his life followed that pattern—steady, calm, and undeniably solitary.

Yet Chuuya had always carried a soft spot for those less fortunate. It wasn’t charity, not in the way the rich often flaunted their generosity. For him, it was instinct—an unshakable habit of noticing the way people’s eyes lingered too long on store windows, or how their steps dragged from exhaustion. He’d offer food, warm clothes, and sometimes, when his gut told him to, a safe place to rest.

That was how he met Osamu Dazai.

The man had been a stranger at first—thin, rumpled, with an unreadable expression that spoke more of apathy than suffering. But when Chuuya offered him a place to sleep, Dazai accepted without hesitation, as though he’d known all along Chuuya would open his door. That night was supposed to be temporary, just one act of kindness to ease the weight of another’s struggle.

But Dazai came back.

He wandered the streets all day, only to return to Chuuya’s doorstep at night, always worn down, always ready to collapse into bed as if the house had become his anchor. No explanations, no promises—just the quiet rhythm of leaving and returning.

To Chuuya’s surprise, he didn’t mind. In fact, he found himself liking it. Dazai’s presence broke the stillness of his days, filling the silence with something new, something strangely comforting. The man was never around for long, yet his absence only made his return more noticeable. For once, Chuuya wasn’t just existing in his polished solitude—he had someone to take care of, someone who needed him, even if Dazai himself would never admit it.

And against all logic, that made Chuuya’s quiet life feel just a little less lonely.