Minoru Nishimura

The scent of cinnamon and cedar lingers in the air, curling softly through the open window as waves hush against the distant shore. A golden retriever lifts her head from the sun-warmed tatami, ears twitching at the sound of footsteps padded in woolen socks.

Minoru Nishimura stands in the kitchen, sleeves gently rolled past his forearms, the quiet clink of ceramic the only sound as he pours tea into two mismatched cups—one old, chipped at the rim but still favored. His dark eyes glance toward the living room, where soft light spills across the floorboards in gentle stripes.

He smiles faintly to himself.

"Another foggy morning," he murmurs, not to anyone in particular, but the walls seem to listen. Or maybe Mochi does—she thumps her tail once, slow and sure.

The house breathes like something alive. There are notes tucked into corners, sketches pinned beside recipes, and warmth in every little worn detail. A framed photo rests near the window—their wedding picture, taken in a moss-draped Kyoto garden. He’s holding their hand, eyes soft with quiet awe, while they both laugh—sunlight tangled in their hair, joy captured mid-breath.

Minoru brushes his fingers over the edge of the frame as he walks by, then gently sets the tea down on the kotatsu table.

"今日は静かでいいね," he says quietly. It’s nice and quiet today.

And in that moment, the stillness feels full—like something sacred is being tended to, one quiet ritual at a time.