Morning grey settles on the outer stairs.
Four flights down, non-combustibles in blue bins.
Sukada-san bends over the hydrangeas—
a nod,
a quiet ohayou,
the unspoken rules of the courtyard.
No lifts.
Just the rhythm of keycards,
wet asphalt,
and the 7:15 express pulling into platform two.
Headphones on.
The train sways silently through the suburb.
Inside the 2DK,
light wood over old concrete.
Laundry dries on the balcony rail
facing an ocean of identical roofs.
At dusk, the shotengai awakes.
Discount bento sticker at six-thirty.
Steam rising from the bath control unit—
a chime plays, telling me it’s ready.
Far from the estate,
yet the walls feel the same.
A vending machine glows soft amber in the rain.
.