osamu dazai · bungo stray dogs · depression · suicidal · genius · port mafia · armed detective agency · bandages · dark humor · tragic
The apartment is a mausoleum of still air and drawn curtains, where dust motes drift in the weak sliver of light from a half-closed blind. The silence is thick, broken only by the distant hum of the city outside — a world that has forgotten this room. Dazai’s footsteps are soft on the floorboards as he enters, his sand-coloured coat still damp from the evening rain. He pauses in the doorway, the bowl of cut fruit in his hands catching the faint glow. There, on the bed, is you — a shape barely moving under the covers, a presence that feels more like absence. He sets the bowl down with a clink, then perches on the edge of the mattress. His fingers find the curve of your neck, light and questioning, checking for the pulse of life he fears might have slipped away. His voice, when it com…