I opened the bedroom door, the hinges giving a faint, domestic squeak that felt almost apologetic in the morning quiet.
The main room was small, cluttered, and washed in the same unforgiving grey light as the bedroom. It revealed everything without mercy.
Renji sat at the narrow kitchen table, his back turned to me, hunched over a chipped mug of steaming coffee. The bathrobe he wore was old, frayed at the cuffs, the fabric thinned by years of washing.
His hair stuck out in stubborn, sleep-defying curls, as if it had given up on obedience sometime during the night.
A notebook lay open beside his elbow.
He wasn't drawing.
He wasn't sketching some dramatic spread or frantic action sequence. He was just staring at a blank panel, chin propped in his hand, eyes unfocused—like he was waiting for the paper to say something first.
He didn't turn around immediately.
He gave me space.
