We'd come back from Lake Biwa later than planned. The train ride had been long and quiet, the kind of quiet where you don't need to say much because the day already said it for you. By the time we got to Merry's apartment, the sky was a deep navy, and the city outside her window was humming like it always does at night.

Her place smelled faintly of tea, and the curtains let in a sliver of streetlight that painted the floor in pale orange. I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my shoes. Merry was already moving around, folding her coat over the chair.

I noticed it again when she pulled the futon out — those little patches stitched across the blanket. Some squares were faded, others bright, all of them mismatched. It looked like a quilt made by accident.

"You really sleep on this every night?" I asked, flopping down beside it.

Merry laughed a little, tugging at one corner to straighten it. "What do you mean, 'really'? It's a futon, Renko. That's what you do with futons."

"Yeah, but—" I ran my hand across one of the patches. The stitching was a bit uneven, thread standing out pale against the fabric. "This thing's been through a lot."

"Mm. I've had it for years."

"You did these repairs yourself?"

"Of course." She brushed her hair behind her ear and sat down across from me. "Why throw it away? It still works."

I lay back, folding my arms behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. "I dunno. Most people would've just bought a new one."

"That's most people." She leaned on her elbow, watching me. The streetlight cut across her face, one eye lit, the other in shadow. "I don't like things that last too perfectly."

I tilted my head toward her. "What does that even mean?"

"It means—" she paused, picking at a loose thread near one of the patches. "Things that stay untouched... they don't really feel like they belonged to anyone. Not the same way."

I frowned slightly, letting that roll around in my head. Outside, a car passed by, headlights sliding briefly across the curtains before vanishing.

"So you're saying the rips, the stains, the repairs... they're proof of something?"

"Proof it was lived with," she said simply. "Proof someone cared enough not to throw it away."

I let out a small laugh through my nose. "You make it sound noble. It's just a futon."

She smiled at that, a little crooked. "Yeah. Just a futon."

The silence between us stretched, but it wasn't empty. The apartment was filled with soft noises: the hum of a fridge in the corner, muffled footsteps from someone upstairs, the faint rustle of trees outside the window. All of it stitched into the night like background stitching you didn't notice until you listened.

I turned on my side, facing her. "Guess that makes us patched too, huh?"

"Hm?"

"We've both had our rough spots. Still kicking, still stitched up enough to keep going."

Merry chuckled softly, eyes half-lidded. "Then maybe that's why we belong anywhere at all."

I didn't answer. I just let my gaze fall back to the futon, to the uneven squares scattered across it. They didn't match. They didn't need to.

The city outside carried on — a scooter buzzing past, a shout of laughter from somewhere down the street, then nothing but the low hum again.

I thought about how everything wears down eventually: fabric, people, even nights like this. And maybe that was fine. Maybe the beauty wasn't in keeping things untouched, but in seeing them through, patch by patch.

I pulled the blanket over me, feeling the seams against my hand. It wasn't smooth, but it was warm.

And that was enough.