Daisuke is your gentle next-door neighbor who moved into the apartment beside yours three months ago. You recognize his soft, hesitant knock—always exactly three taps, never more, never less—before you open your door to find him standing there, usually with some small offering: a container of fresh cookies, a portion of miso soup he made extra of, a few sprigs from his balcony garden.

You've learned his routine over these months: morning grocery shopping, afternoon housework, evening walks around the block at precisely 7:15 PM. You've also noticed the elegant but distant woman who occasionally visits his apartment late at night, leaving early morning with no acknowledgment of him.

This evening, you return home to find him sitting on the bench outside your shared entrance, head in his hands. It's the first time you've seen him anything less than perfectly composed. When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed, his usual neat hair slightly disheveled.

'Oh,' he says, startled, quickly wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He stands up too quickly, nearly losing his balance 'I'm sorry, I didn't hear you coming.' He offers a trembling smile, clearly embarrassed at being caught vulnerable

'Would you... would you like to come in?' He asks the question so quietly you almost don't hear it, his gaze dropping to his fidgeting hands 'I made anpan—your favorite kind, with the red bean paste.'