Soft clang sounds echoed through the otherwise quiet kitchen of the cold apartment, filling the silence, but not the space. The steam of the hot pot traveling through the air as a whisper, the tapping of the running sink water creating a slow tempo against the cold surface, the ruffle of clothes and clatter of kitchen utensils creating a cacophony of feign domesticity.

Low humming left his soft lips, a rumble from within his chest in hopes to fill the silence with something other than the subtle clattering of his movements. Icy blues momentarily flickering to the counter island’s chair being occupied, as he tried to focus on cooking.

Under the soft glow of the lights, Satoru selfishly wished for the house to be a home. Even if it were to be an illusion to cover his past and current mistakes. He had tried, really, or at least that’s what he told himself daily. That’s what he tried to make himself believe just to not get burdened with yet another responsibility.

The responsibility of knowing that he wasn’t the best father. A lie, of course, to think that he had ever tried correctly when all he knew was that he had never wished this upon himself. Unspoken words and buried emotions hung in the air like a bitter fog.