Stillwater

Day 15

The first thing she noticed was the stillness.

No wind through the windowpanes, no birdsong, not even the rustling of her own breath. For a moment, Sayo wasn’t sure if she’d woken up or simply floated up from some half-dream into another. Or into some liminal space between the two.

The ceiling was slightly warped with age, the wood bowed just enough to catch light in uneven ways. She stared at it without blinking, eyes tracing the grain like cracks in ice. Her blanket was still tangled around her legs. Her limbs ached, not from any injury or exertion, just the weight of existing a little too long in one position.

It was already afternoon. She only knew because the light falling across the sheets wasn’t white—it was gold, honey-thick and quiet. The hour had slipped past her without apology. She should’ve felt guilty, maybe. But that kind of feeling took energy, and guilt was too tired to rise to the surface. It sank back down again, untouched.

But really—what was there to be guilty for? Wasn’t this the dream? Going off the grid, finding yourself? That’s what everyone always said. That it was brave, enviable even, to go off on your own. To disappear into the mountains and write vague blog posts about personal growth. As if that’s what this was.

Eventually, she dragged herself to the small restaurant tucked into the cabin’s lower floor. Her steps were soft, the wood beneath her socks creaking with each shift in weight. The place groaned gently around her, like an old friend sighing in its sleep. The air got cooler the farther she descended. The mountains really were something. Even the chill felt old and kind.

The lobby was cozy in that unintentional way—clearly family-owned, with mismatched chairs and hand-stitched cushions that had seen better years. There were wildflowers on every table, placed in little glass jars that used to hold jam. The scent of miso and something fried drifted gently through the space.

She ordered a bowl of hot soba and pickled radish, then sat by the window where the light fell softly on her tray. She watched the steam rise from the bowl, curling like breath.

At the table nearest hers, an elderly couple sat shoulder-to-shoulder, trading bites of tempura like a ritual. Across the room, a man in hiking gear scrolled endlessly through a cracked screen, thumb moving with mechanical precision. A child at the far end tapped their spoon against a glass until their mother quietly confiscated it. No yelling. Just a glance and a practiced motion.

Her food was warm, quiet, and satisfying. The broth was clear, not too salty. The soba noodles soft but springy between her teeth. The radish added sharpness, grounding her in her body for the first time all day. It was simple. Gentle. The kind that didn’t demand much. But halfway through the bowl, Sayo began to count the days, mentally checking the balance in her account. She thought about how much she’d spent getting here. How much more she might spend just... floating like this. It was stupid, wasn’t it? To treat this like retirement. Like a curtain call.

She was acting like someone who had reached the end already. A person who was only here to waste away gently, until time came to collect what was left.

She smiled at the thought. It didn’t reach her eyes.

Back in her room, she changed into softer clothes—an oversized shirt that clung to her skin in places and loose shorts she only wore indoors. She curled up in the window seat, knees drawn to her chest, and stared out into the grey-blue afternoon. The peaks stood still. Regal. Indifferent. There was a faint mist rolling through the trees, like a sigh caught in the forest’s throat.

She searched her bag and found the book she’d taken from that little bookstore a few towns back. It had no cover, no title. Just the initials "TB" penciled into the spine—pressed in with too much pressure, the paper torn slightly where the pencil had dug in.

Her phone buzzed once, low in her bag. She didn’t check it, probably some news headline updating how close the moon is. But her hand lingered there, fingers brushing the edge of the screen. She could send something to Rika. A photo, maybe. Or just: “I’m here.” But the thought flickered and dimmed. Her hand slipped away.

She flipped it open. Some of the pages were warped, like they’d been left in rain or cried over too often. The ink smudged in places. A few margin notes from a previous reader. Someone who underlined whole sentences without context. Someone who, maybe, had needed this book as much as she did.

She read slowly, tasting the words like mouthfuls of something rich and sad.

“Did it help?” he asked quietly.

She blinked. “What?”

“The sewing,” he said, eyes never leaving hers. “Did it help?”

She wanted to say yes. Wanted to pretend the neat little stitches had held her together, even if only for a little while. But the thread always came loose too soon. Her hands always shook when she held the scissors.

“No,” she whispered.

Sayo paused. She held the book to her chest for a moment, pressing it like a comfort object, even though it hurt. Then she picked up a pen—just a pencil, really—and began writing small notes in the margins. Observations. Reactions. A quiet conversation with a story long finished.

The book wasn’t good, technically. Written by some no-name author. Probably self-published. But it carried emotion. And that made it feel alive. And it made her feel a little less dead.

For the rest of the evening, she didn’t move much. The sky outside shifted through shades of iron, lavender, dusky blue. Her reflection disappeared as the light faded, and all that remained in the glass was the outline of the mountains—unyielding and unknowable.

Sayo stayed like that. Not healed. Not unraveling. Just… still.

And maybe, she thought, just maybe, she could stay like this for a little longer.