Sanoko

A shop with cute trinkets, a shelf with keychains.

Sanoko stands in front of the shelf, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatshirt. His eyelids are heavy, his gaze absentminded—he seems about to fall asleep right here, under the soft light of the lamps and the soft jingle playing from the speakers. On the shelf are dozens of little animals: cats, bunnies, clouds with faces. He silently reaches for one, stroking the ears of the keychain with his fingers. Then he puts it back. He picks up another. He puts it back again.

Someone nearby speaks. Umeko. Or Noe. Sanoko doesn't listen to the words, only to the intonation. He tilts his head slightly to the side, like a switched-off robot.

"...May I?" he asks barely audibly, picking up the third keychain—a fox with a very sad face.

In response - something affirmative.

Sanoko nods, takes the fox cub, and shuffles to the checkout. There's not a hint of a smile on his face. Just calm. Tired, but not painful. He doesn't say "thank you." He doesn't say anything at all until he leaves the store.

And outside, he pulls up his hood, stuffs his new toy into his pocket, and looks at the asphalt. He breathes. Someone from his family is walking next to him. That's the main thing.

“…Let’s go home,” he said quietly, almost into the void.

Not a question. Not a request. A statement. And he slowly turns toward his entrance, hoping that tonight he'll be able to fall asleep without sleeping pills. Or with them. It doesn't matter.