Insomnia

3:47 a.m.

Takumi stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows of tree branches sway in the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The night was almost oppressively silent—only the steady ticking of the hallway clock and the faint rustle of leaves outside.

He wasn’t asleep.

That wasn’t new. Ever since Naomi’s death, insomnia had become a familiar companion. Some nights were better than others. But tonight…

Tonight was different.

Because it wasn’t Naomi who filled his thoughts. Not regret. Not grief.

It was her.

Ayaka.

Takumi sighed, running a tired hand over his face.

What exactly am I feeling?

Attraction? Affection? Or just human connection after five years of emotional solitude?

He thought back to last week—the kitchen, the flour on her nose, her laugh—spontaneous, unfiltered, unperformed. The way she had looked at him when he caught her to steady her after the oil splashed.

Just a second.

But something in her eyes at that moment…

Stop.

He turned on his side, trying to chase the thoughts away.

She was his client. Thirteen years younger than him. She had a career, a public life, millions of people watching her. And him? He was a single father in a modest house in Setagaya.

Ridiculous.

So why had his heart sped up when she smiled at Hana’s drawing? Why had he wanted to prolong dinner, to find any excuse for her to stay a little longer?

Why—

A sound.

Faint. From Hana’s room.

Takumi froze, listening.

A muffled whimper. Then an incoherent murmur.

He quietly pushed back the blanket and rose from bed. His bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor. Hana’s door was slightly ajar—he always left it that way, just in case.

He pushed it open gently.

Moonlight filled the small room, bathing everything in a silver glow. Hana lay curled on her side, clutching her rabbit plush tight. But her face was tense, brows furrowed, breathing uneven.

A nightmare.

Takumi approached softly and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. He placed his hand on Hana’s forehead, stroking her hair gently with his thumb.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Papa’s here.”

He began to whistle—a soft, almost inaudible melody. A lullaby Naomi used to sing. He couldn’t remember the lyrics anymore, but the tune was engraved in his memory.

Hana stirred a bit, then gradually her face relaxed. Her breathing slowed, became steady.

Takumi kept stroking her hair, still whistling quietly.

Then, in the moonlight, he saw something glimmer at the corner of Hana’s eye.

A tear.

His heart tightened.

And in a voice barely above a breath, Hana murmured:

“Mama…”

The word hit Takumi like a punch to the chest.

He closed his eyes, fighting the surge of pain and guilt that threatened to drown him.

She still remembers. Of course she does.

Hana had been only three when Naomi died. Takumi had often wondered whether she truly remembered her mother, or if it was just the photos and the stories he told that formed a ghostly image.

But she remembered.

In her dreams. In her nightmares. In those moments when she was too young to understand why Mama wasn’t there anymore.

Takumi sat there a long time, his hand resting on Hana’s forehead until her breathing became deep and peaceful again.

He leaned down and kissed her temple.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Then he rose quietly and returned to his room.

But sleep never came.

***

He ended up in the kitchen, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, sitting in the dark.

The memory came uninvited.

Eight years earlier.

Takumi had come home late that night—nearly ten. A meeting with producers that had dragged on endlessly. He was exhausted, hungry, irritable.

But Naomi was waiting for him on the couch.

No reproach in her eyes. Just… something. A strange smile. Her hands folded neatly on her knees.

“You’re home,” she said simply.

“Sorry. The meeting ran—”

“Takumi.” She interrupted gently. “Sit down.”

Her tone made him stop instantly. Not angry. Not sad. Just… serious.

He sat beside her, uneasy.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? Did the doctors—”

“I’m fine.” She smiled—that smile that had made him fall in love with her back in university. “Better than fine, actually.”

She took his hand and placed it on her flat stomach.

“You’re going to be a dad.”

The world stopped.

“What?”

“Eight weeks,” she said, smiling wider. “I took three tests just to be sure. And I saw the doctor yesterday.”

Takumi stared at his hand on her belly, unable to speak. Unable to think.

A baby.

Their baby.

Then panic hit.

“I… I don’t know how to be a father.” The words escaped in a whisper. “I don’t know if I can—if I’ll be good enough—”

Naomi cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“You don’t need to be perfect,” she said firmly. “You just need to be present.”

“But my job—”

“Your job will kill you at this rate.” Her voice hardened slightly. “Sixteen hours a day, Takumi. Seven days a week. When was the last time you slept more than five hours?”

He didn’t answer.

She brought his hand back to her stomach, holding it there.

“This little one,” she murmured, “will only need their dad. Not your money. Not your status. Just… you.”

Takumi’s throat tightened. His eyes burned.

“And if I’m not enough?”

“You will be. Because you’ll be there.” She smiled through her own tears. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He had cried that night.

From fear. From wonder. From love.

Naomi had held him close as he wept, stroking his hair, whispering that everything would be all right.

He didn’t know then—couldn’t know—that she wouldn’t keep that promise.

That she wouldn’t be there.
That “together” would become “alone.”

***

Takumi took a sip of his tea, now lukewarm.

The kitchen remained in darkness. Dawn was still far away.

You just need to be present.

He had kept that promise. For Hana. He had resigned. He had left that toxic industry behind. He had woken up beside his daughter every morning, walked her to school, attended every play.

He had been there.

But now…

Now Hana had nightmares about a mother she could barely remember.

And him?

He was thinking about a woman with tired eyes and flour on her nose.

Is that wrong?

He didn’t know.

***

Morning came slowly.

Takumi prepared breakfast on autopilot—fluffy tamagoyaki, perfectly cooked white rice, light miso soup. The familiar rhythm of his hands helped quiet the storm in his mind.

Hana appeared around 7:30, still in pajamas, hair messy, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

“Ohayou, Papa,” she yawned.

“Ohayou, sweetie. Sleep well?”

“Mm-hmm.” She climbed onto her chair and picked up her chopsticks.

Takumi watched her discreetly. No sign that she remembered her nightmare. Good.

They ate in silence for a few minutes—the comfortable kind that didn’t need filling.

Then, with her mouth full of tamagoyaki, Hana asked suddenly:
“Papa, is it Thursday today?”

Takumi looked up from his bowl.
“No. Wednesday.”

Her face fell immediately.
“Oh.”

Silence.

“It’s tomorrow,” Takumi added softly. “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

Hana nodded, but her disappointment was obvious. She poked at her rice absentmindedly.

“I like Thursdays,” she murmured after a while. “Because Ayaka-san comes.”

Something tightened in Takumi’s chest.
“I know.”

“She’s nice. And she likes my drawings. And she laughs for real when something’s funny—not like on TV.” Hana looked up at him seriously. “Do you think she’ll always come?”

Takumi set down his chopsticks.

A trap of a question. One that deserved honesty—but that he couldn’t answer.

Because I don’t know.

“She comes for work, Hana-chan,” he said gently. “So Papa can help her.”

“But she likes coming, right? Not just for work?”

Yes. I think so. I hope so.

“I think she likes our house,” he replied carefully.

Hana smiled—that innocent smile that reminded him so much of Naomi.

“I like it too when she’s here. It feels…” She searched for the word. “Less empty.”

The words hit Takumi like a blow he didn’t see coming.

Less empty.

Was their house empty? He did everything to make Hana happy, loved, surrounded. But maybe a part of her—the part that cried “Mama” in her dreams—still felt the emptiness.

The emptiness of a missing presence.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said softly, unable to find another answer. “You’ll be late for school.”

Hana obeyed, appetite returning.

But Takumi had lost his.

***

After dropping Hana off at school, Takumi returned to the silent house.

He had work to do—reports to write for other clients, emails to answer—but instead he found himself standing in the living room, staring at the photo on the shelf.

Naomi, smiling, holding baby Hana in her arms.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he murmured to the picture.

In his mind, he heard her voice—clear, firm, loving.

You just need to be present. For you. For Hana.
And if someone makes you happy… don’t be afraid.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow was Thursday.

Tomorrow, Ayaka would come.

And Takumi didn’t know whether he was afraid or looking forward to it.

Maybe both.

He just hoped—for himself, for Hana, for her—that he wasn’t wrong.

That what he felt wasn’t just loneliness disguised as something more.

Because if Hana grew too attached…
If he grew too attached…
And Ayaka disappeared—back to her world of lights and cameras—

It wouldn’t just feel “less empty.”

It would feel emptier than ever.

And that thought terrified him more than anything.