The television hums, its glow stretching across the quiet living room, flickering against low-set furniture. The news anchor’s voice cuts through the hush, calm and detached.
“Breaking news: a recall has been issued for Ken dolls due to safety concerns involving their plastic hair…”
Manami exhales a soft laugh, fleeting as steam curling from her matcha. Ken dolls. The absurdity lingers, a ripple in the vast tide of existence. She lets the words dissolve into the white noise, yet something tugs at her, subtle but insistent—like a thread catching on the frayed edges of memory.
Beyond the window, snow drapes the city in a hush, each flake a whisper, a thought unspoken. The cold stays distant, held at bay by the room’s golden glow, the rhythmic sigh of the kettle. She cups her mug, warmth seeping into her palms, grounding her.
Ken dolls.
The thought drifts back, unbidden, trailing the faint scent of nostalgia. And then—Kenshi Watanabe. His name surfaces like an old melody. As a boy, he had been enamored with those dolls, their plastic perfection a childhood fascination as fleeting as fireflies in summer. But he outgrew them, as all children do, trading bright-eyed toys for a world of neon and music.
The Velvet Lotus.
His lounge. His empire of low-lit indulgence and velvet-lined ambition.
A familiar warmth stirs in her chest—the memory of him, of his relentless energy, of the way he had coaxed her into an online forum for small business owners, insisting it would change her life. Guilt prickles beneath the surface. She had let it slip away, like so many things left unfinished.
The stillness presses close, thick with the weight of unspoken things. Before she can second-guess herself, she moves, fingers brushing over the cordless phone.
Impulse. A thread tugged taut.
She dials.
The ringing hums in her ear, tethering her to something familiar, something warm. Thoughts scatter—Concha’s letter, abandoned projects, an endless to-do list. But for now, none of it matters. Only the need to hear his voice.
The line clicks.
“Good evening. Thank you for calling The Velvet Lotus. How may I assist you?”
The voice—smooth, practiced, wrapped in the crisp elegance of a British accent.
Manami’s lips curve. “It’s Manami. I was hoping to speak with Kenshi.”
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A pause, brief but charged. Then, a soft chuckle. Recognition.
“Ah, Ms. Enomoto! One moment, please. I’ll let Mr. Watanabe know you’re on the line.”
She exhales, eyes drifting shut. The silence that follows isn’t empty but full—of late-night conversations laced with laughter, of dreams built brick by brick, of a thread between them that time never quite unraveled.
Then—another click.
“Manami!”
His voice, warm, edged with humor. “Burning the midnight oil, I see…”
She huffs a laugh, self-deprecating. “I was just thinking about you—your forum, my terrible memory. How could I forget to reply to my pen-pal?”
His laughter spills through the receiver, light, easy. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Don’t worry, Manami. I’ll always have time for you.”
Something inside her loosens, the tightness in her chest unwinding, warmth unfurling in its place.
“Kenshi, I need to thank you—for the forum. And for leading me to Concha.”
His laugh returns, teasing. “And how is our dear Consuelo?”
“She’s well. Bubbly and as warm as ever.”
The memory lingers between them, a quiet understanding unspoken.
“Funny thing,” she muses, “I thought of you because of a recall on Ken dolls.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“What?” His mock outrage is immediate, theatrical. “A recall?”
She savors the moment, drawing it out. “Apparently, they found traces of lead in the hair barnacles.”
A dramatic gasp. “No… not Ken!”
“Yes.” Her smile deepens.
“Those bloody bastards!” he exclaims, laughter threading through his words. “I thought Ken was supposed to be perfection incarnate, not toxic waste wrapped in plastic!”
She can almost see him—shaking his head, hands thrown up in exaggerated despair. The ease of it, the rhythm of their banter, is a balm.
Curiosity flickers. “Wait… Kenshi, earlier—was that you who picked up the phone?”
A pause. Then, unmistakable mischief.
“Guilty as charged, my lady.” His voice shifts, slipping effortlessly back into the British accent. “You see, here at the lounge, I take on the persona of… Ken Yamamoto.” A beat. Then, his voice returns to its usual cadence. “But for you, my dear, I am Kenshi Watanabe.”
Manami hums, amused. “I see. And if I had asked for Mr. Yamamoto instead?”
“Then, love,” he answers smoothly, “Yamamoto is what you’d get.”
Her smile lingers, soft and knowing. “Good to know your time abroad has expanded your artistic horizons.”
The words come lightly, but beneath them, something deeper stirs—a memory of her own time abroad. A young woman with a thick French accent, navigating a world that demanded perfection. Where retreat had often felt easier than pressing forward. She had pushed through, stubborn, unyielding. The experience had shaped her, carved strength into her bones in ways she hadn’t understood until much later.
Her voice steadies. “Keep at it, Kenshi. You’re doing something great.”
A breath. A hesitation.
Then, his voice, quieter now, threaded with something raw.
“Thank you, Manami. You’ve looked after me ever since my mother passed.”
The weight of it lands between them, sudden, unexpected. Her heart stumbles. He had never needed to say it. But here it is, laid bare.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It is full, aching, alive with things unspoken.
She swallows, then speaks, steady, unwavering. “Of course, Kenshi. You’ll always have me. You’re never alone, even when it feels like you are.”
The quiet hums between them, warm as lamplight against the winter-dark window.
And for tonight, that is enough.