I knocked hard on the door, and after a moment, it swung open to reveal Subaru's father. The instant he saw me, his face paled, and he immediately started to speak, words tumbling out like it was second nature.

"Please… I-I’m sorry, I just need more time! I’ll find a way to—"

I held up my hand, cutting him off. "I’m not here for that," I said, trying to sound as calm as possible, though the way he flinched made me feel like I was failing. "It’s not about the debt."

Subaru’s father blinked, confusion settling in. He glanced around as if searching for something or someone else, then looked back at me. "If you’re not here to collect… then why—"

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the duffel bag, handing it over without another word. He stared at it, unsure what to make of the situation. His hands shook slightly as he opened it, and his eyes widened when he saw the stacks of cash inside.

"When the yakuza come back for the money," I said, keeping my voice firm and low, "give them this."

He just stood there, staring at the bag like it might disappear if he blinked. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to speak. "I… I don’t understand…"

"Doesn’t matter," I replied quickly, cutting him off before he could ask more questions. "Just make sure the money gets where it needs to go."

Subaru’s father looked down at the bag, then back up at me, clearly struggling to find words. He didn’t seem to know whether to thank me or question what was happening. "Why… why are you doing this?"

"Just do it," I said.

He nodded, still at a loss for words, staring down at the duffel bag in disbelief. After a moment, his face softened, and he looked up at me again, his voice trembling. "Thank you… I don’t even know how to thank you for this."

I was about to wave it off and leave, but before I could turn around, he stepped forward, his voice shaking, as if this was the only thing he could offer.

"Please," he said, his tone almost desperate. "Stay for dinner. It’s… it’s all I can give you, to show my gratitude. A small thank you for everything."

I hesitated, one foot already ready to move, but something about the way he spoke—like this meal meant more to him than just food—made me pause. I wasn’t one for heartfelt gestures, especially after everything I’d just gone through today. But the look on his face, the way his eyes pleaded with me, made it hard to turn him down.

I glanced away, trying to find a way out of it. "It’s not necessary," I mumbled, scratching the back of my head. "I don’t need anything in return."

But he didn’t back off. Instead, he stepped closer, almost like he was begging. "It would mean a lot. Please. It’s the least I can do for someone who’s done so much for us." He looked down at the floor for a moment, his shoulders hunched slightly. "We don’t have much, but what we do have… we share."

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the kind of gratitude that wasn’t about money or repayment. It was something deeper, something more human. I sighed, feeling a knot of tension in my chest loosen just a little. The thought of turning him down felt… wrong.

"Alright, fine," I finally muttered, my voice low, more to myself than to him. "I’ll stay."

The relief on his face was immediate, his eyes softening, and he nodded quickly. He motions at me to come in while stepping aside to let me in.

I stepped inside the small apartment, immediately hit by the familiar smell of home-cooked food. It wasn’t much—worn-out furniture, cluttered shelves, an old television humming in the background—but there was something familiar about it. Something that tugged at memories I hadn’t revisited in a long time.

Subaru’s father gestured for me to sit down at the table, and I hesitated again, feeling out of place. But the man’s genuine gratitude made it hard to say no. I sat down, the chair creaking slightly under me, and leaned back, trying to shake off the day’s tension.

He bustled around the small kitchen, gathering plates and utensils with nervous energy. "It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough," he said, placing a simple meal in front of me. Rice, some pickled vegetables, and a small bowl of miso soup. Nothing extravagant, but it smelled good.

I looked at the food for a moment, and then at the man across from me, who was still standing, watching my reaction like it mattered more than anything. "Thank you," I said, picking up the chopsticks. "This… this is fine."

The taste hit me like a wave of nostalgia. For a second, I was back in my own home, years ago, when life was still normal. I could almost see my mom standing at the stove, humming quietly as she cooked. My dad, tired but smiling, would sit at the table, ruffling my hair as he sat down for dinner. The simplicity of it—the warmth of the food, the soft hum of the television in the background—felt so far away now, like a dream I’d long forgotten.

I ate in silence, but my mind wasn’t in the room anymore. It was back in that tiny, worn-out apartment, at the dining table where my mom would fuss over me to eat more. "You’re too skinny," she’d say, smiling as she piled more rice into my bowl. I’d laugh and push it away, telling her I was full, while my dad would just shake his head, amused by the whole scene.

Back then, everything seemed so… simple. So safe. Where did it go all wrong.

I took another bite, but the warmth that had come with those memories quickly turned cold. I hadn’t thought about them in so long. After they were gone, I’d locked those memories away, burying them under years of violence and survival. Now, sitting here in this stranger’s apartment, eating a meal made with the same kind of love and care, those walls I’d built around my past started to crack.

I put my chopsticks down, staring at the food in front of me. My appetite had disappeared, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest. I thought about that last meal we had together—the night before everything fell apart. My dad had been unusually quiet, my mom’s smile had been a little too bright, but I didn’t notice. I hadn’t seen the signs. I was too caught up in my own world, too busy being a kid to realize that theirs was crumbling.

I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away. There was no use in dwelling on it now. The past was the past.

Subaru’s father watched me, not saying anything. He didn’t push for conversation, just quietly sitting at the other side watching me eat, as if he could sense I was lost in thought.

I glanced around the room again, at the worn furniture, the old wooden floors, the cluttered kitchen. It was different from my childhood home, but the feeling was the same. That feeling of scraping by, doing whatever you could to hold onto a sense of normalcy, even when life was falling apart around you.

I sighed, picking up my chopsticks again, even though the food no longer tasted the same. "The debt’s paid," I said quietly, not looking up. "Just… take care of yourself. And take care of your son. He’s gonna need you."

The words came out heavier than I intended, and as I stood to leave, I thought back to my own father. I wondered if he had felt the same way, if he had been fighting his own battles in silence, trying to protect us even as everything crumbled around him. Maybe he had wanted the same thing—just to give me every second of time he had left.

But sometimes, life isn’t fair. Sometimes, it takes the people we love before we’re ready, and all we’re left with is the weight of their absence.

As I reached for the door, I paused, glancing back at Subaru’s father. "Don’t waste your time," I added quietly. "Your son needs you. Be there for him."

He looked up at me, eyes filled with gratitude, but I didn’t wait for a response. I pushed open the door and stepped back into the cold night air, leaving the warmth of that small apartment—and the memories it had stirred—behind me.