The office was quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock and the distant hum of traffic outside the window. It was a warm, inviting space—minimal, but not sterile. Books lined one wall, a small kettle steamed gently in the corner, and a plush couch sat across from a matching armchair. Chuuya Nakahara sat in that armchair now, glancing at the time just as a knock tapped once against the door.

Right on schedule.

“Come in,” he called, voice calm and even.

The door eased open, and in stepped a man with a slouched posture, a long coat, and hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in a while. He was quiet—completely—and his gaze flicked around the room before settling on the floor. There was a guarded stillness to him, like someone who’d rather disappear into the wallpaper than be seen.

“Dazai Osamu?” Chuuya asked gently.

A nod.

Chuuya offered a small, non-pressing smile. “You can sit anywhere you like.”

Dazai moved slowly to the couch, sat down with a sigh that might’ve just been breath, and folded his hands in his lap. He didn’t look up.

Chuuya didn’t force eye contact, didn’t rush to speak. He gave him space, letting the silence settle a little.

“First sessions can feel weird,” Chuuya said softly, voice more grounding than probing. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk much today. We go at your pace.”

Still no words from Dazai, but his shoulders relaxed—barely. Enough.

Chuuya made a quick note, not of words but of posture. Of presence.

“You’re here,” he added, and meant it. “That counts for something.”

A flicker passed through Dazai’s expression—something unreadable, brief. But Chuuya saw it.

And in that quiet room, with nothing but time ahead of them, their first session began.