"Room 201, Morning Light"
The first thing Allen felt was the softness of light brushing against his face — the pale, gentle glow that slipped past the curtains like liquid gold. It painted thin lines across the floorboards, across the old coffee table, and finally onto his cheek where he lay half-asleep on the sofa.
He blinked, the dim blur of the ceiling coming into focus. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment, steady and low, a familiar heartbeat in the silence.
For a few seconds, Allen didn't move. His mind floated somewhere between dream and waking — the warmth of the blanket still clinging to him, the faint chill of the early morning air touching his hands. He could hear the faint rhythm of the city below: a bus engine, the whistle of wind through narrow streets, the rustle of newspapers at a corner stand.
He sat up slowly. His wristwatch glinted faintly on the table beside the half-empty mug of last night's coffee — 6:12 a.m.
Allen rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling softly. A quiet groan escaped his throat as he stretched his arms. The blanket slipped from his shoulders to his lap, and he folded it neatly, setting it on the armrest beside him.
The living room — their "Room Cemter," as the landlord liked to call it — was modest but warm. A low grey sofa, a small round table, and a potted plant sitting near the window that caught the morning light just right. In the air lingered the faint scent of detergent, coffee grounds, and the sweet trace of maple syrup from yesterday's breakfast.
From beyond the thin sliding door, Allen could hear faint movement — the rustle of blankets, a soft sigh. He smiled faintly.
"...You're awake, aren't you?" he said, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
A muffled groan came from the other side of the partition.
"No... five more minutes…"
He chuckled quietly. "You said that yesterday too."
The door slid open halfway, revealing Erika Rainsfeld — hair a soft mess of silver strands, eyes barely open, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like armor. She stood in the doorway, looking entirely unwilling to face the day.
"Morning," Allen greeted.
"...No," she muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not yet morning until I say so."
"That's not how it works," he said lightly, standing up and walking past her toward the kitchen. "If you don't wake up now, you'll be late again."
Erika followed, dragging her blanket behind her. "I wasn't late yesterday."
"You arrived exactly one minute before the bell," Allen replied, pulling open the refrigerator. "That's not early — that's survival."
She pouted, leaning against the kitchen counter. "It still counts."
He smiled without turning around. "I suppose it does."
The kitchen was small, but everything was in its place — two ceramic cups hanging above the counter, a toaster humming faintly, the frying pan waiting on the stove. The air was cool, still heavy with morning quiet.
Allen reached for a carton of eggs and some bread, placing them neatly beside the stove. The electric burner clicked softly when he turned it on. A low hum filled the silence.
"Want breakfast?" he asked over his shoulder.
Erika yawned. "If it's edible, yes."
He gave her a look — amused, not offended. "Then you'll have to trust your brother's culinary genius."
"Your what?" she teased, half-smiling now.
He cracked two eggs into the pan, the sizzle answering for him. The smell of butter and salt filled the room almost instantly, warm and comforting. Erika's eyelids lifted slightly as she leaned closer, watching him move with the ease of habit — turning the eggs, toasting the bread, pouring milk into a small pan to warm.
She settled into one of the wooden chairs at the small table by the window, resting her chin on her arms. "You always wake up early."
Allen shrugged. "Old habit."
"From when you were still in the military division?" she asked quietly.
There was a short pause — the kind that hung in the air just long enough to be felt.
"Something like that," he said finally. His tone was calm, but there was a shadow in it — not dark, just distant.
The eggs were ready. He plated them neatly, sliding them beside the toasted bread, and set the plate before her. "Here."
Erika blinked at the food, her expression softening. "Thanks."
"Eat while it's hot," he said simply, sitting across from her.
They ate quietly at first — the only sound the clink of forks and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Morning sunlight crept higher through the window, painting the table in gold. Dust motes danced in the light.
Erika watched him for a moment between bites. "You're going to the café again today?"
Allen nodded. "The morning shift. Reina's off, so I'll cover the counter."
"Snowdrop Café always has customers even early in the morning, right?"
"Mm. Mostly regulars," he replied. "The kind who don't like change."
She smiled faintly. "Like you."
He glanced at her — pretending to look unimpressed, but his eyes softened. "I just like things to be in order."
"Or maybe you just like peace and quiet," she teased.
"That too."
The corner of her lips curved upward as she took another bite. "You sound like an old man sometimes."
Allen chuckled quietly. "Better an old man than a late student."
Her cheeks puffed in mock protest. "Hey!"
He laughed softly, standing to rinse his empty glass. The warm light made his features gentler — silver hair catching faint glimmers of gold, eyes calm like still water.
Behind him, Erika finished her meal, pushing her plate slightly forward. "That was good."
"Glad to hear it," he said, drying his hands with a towel. "Now go get ready. I'll walk you to the station."
"Eh? You don't have to—"
"You'll fall asleep on the train again," he said, cutting her off. "And then text me from the wrong station like last time."
Erika turned red. "That was one time!"
"And I had to come pick you up in the rain."
"That's— okay, okay!" she said quickly, standing from her chair and pointing at him. "Fine. I'll hurry."
"Good." He smiled faintly, crossing his arms.
She disappeared into her room, grumbling softly to herself. The sound of running water and the faint click of the hair dryer followed soon after.
Allen cleaned up the dishes, moving with practiced precision — wiping the counter, stacking plates, putting away the remaining bread. By the time Erika returned, dressed neatly in her school uniform, the apartment already looked spotless again.
She slipped on her shoes by the door, her satchel hanging from her shoulder. "Okay, ready."
Allen put on his coat, locking the inner pocket where his wallet rested. "Let's go."
As they stepped out into the hallway, the faint hum of morning life surrounded them. The elevator at the end of the corridor flickered with a soft amber glow. Somewhere above, wind brushed against the rooftop railing, carrying the scent of wet concrete and blooming flowers from the small garden above.
The elevator doors opened with a chime. Inside, their reflections stood side by side — his tall, composed figure beside her smaller, youthful one.
Erika broke the silence first. "Do you ever get tired of routine?"
Allen glanced down at her. "No," he said quietly. "Routine keeps the noise away."
She tilted her head, curious. "The noise?"
He smiled faintly. "You'll understand someday."
The elevator chimed again, and the doors opened to the lobby. Morning light spilled through the glass entrance, soft and golden.
The janitor greeted them with a nod, and Allen returned it politely. The smell of lilies and fresh soap lingered in the air — someone had cleaned earlier.
Outside, the city was already alive. The sound of footsteps, bicycles, and vendors setting up their stalls filled the street. The wind was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of roasted beans — the familiar sign that the day was beginning.
Erika pulled her scarf a little higher. "The air's cold."
"Winter's coming early this year," Allen replied, hands in his coat pockets. "Don't forget your gloves."
"Yeah, yeah." She smiled, her breath turning to mist.
They walked together in silence for a while — the rhythm of their steps blending with the hum of the city. At the next intersection, their paths split. The road ahead led to the station; the one to the left, toward Snowdrop Café.
Erika stopped, turning to him. "You'll be fine alone?"
Allen smiled faintly. "Always am."
She puffed her cheeks slightly. "You're not funny."
"I wasn't trying to be."
"Still not funny."
That earned a quiet chuckle from him. "Go on. You'll be late."
She nodded, adjusting her satchel strap. "See you later, Allen."
He raised a hand in farewell. "Have a good day, Erika."
As she disappeared into the crowd, Allen stood still for a moment, watching until her figure vanished into the flow of morning commuters.
Then, with a quiet breath, he turned toward the opposite street — where the faint bell of a café door rang in the distance, and the sign "Snowdrop Café" gleamed softly under the rising sun.