We all live in a soft fog of uncertainty, don’t we? Not quite sure if those beings from beyond the stars are bedtime tales spun by children or truthThe office was breathing in hush.

From the 27th floor of a glass tower in Marunouchi, Shinji leaned quietly against the window, a paper cup of coffee warming both his palms and his pause. His tie was loosened like a sigh. He had twenty minutes—maybe less—before the second wave of work began, the kind that stretched its arms late into the night.

Below him, Tokyo was brushing on its evening colors. The buildings were no longer just steel and glass. They were soft mirrors, drinking the sunset like thirsty giants. Orange melted into lavender, and lavender into a shade that didn’t quite have a name—part sky, part tired hope.

Somewhere in Ebisu, lights flicked on in a high-rise apartment—first one, then another. In Roppongi, an office across the way began to glow like a lantern. From every direction, rectangles of warmth appeared, blinking to life like sleepy eyes.

It was his favorite part of the day—not the work, not the commute, but this tiny slice of stillness, right when the city exhaled and the sky changed its clothes.

The coffee had gone lukewarm, but the bitterness was perfect. Just enough to hold him in place.

And then—ding.

A microwave. Someone had warmed up dinner. Maybe curry from FamilyMart. Maybe leftover omurice. The sound rang across the office floor, soft but clear. A gentle reminder: time was moving.

The sky kept changing, but the spell was broken.

Shinji smiled, a tired kind of fondness curling at the corners of his mouth. He crumpled the cup and dropped it into the bin, the way a magician disappears the last puff of smoke.

Then he returned to his desk, the lights brighter now, colder too.