Accidentally become a father Chapter 9: The Second Presence

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The apartnt stairs felt narrower as we climbed.

The rolled-up futon under my arm slightly blocked my downward view.

Yuna walked two steps ahead of , her pace light but controlled.

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We reached the second-floor corridor.

I opened the door to 203.

We went inside.

I closed the door. Turned the lock.

The room was just as we had left it—small, neutral, silent.

But now, there was a large, extra object in my hands.

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I set the rolled-up futon on the floor.

"The opening ceremony," I said flatly.

Yuna knelt down.

watching with utter seriousness.

I tore open the plastic.

The faint scent of new fabric imdiately diffused into the air.

The futon slowly expanded as it was freed from its roll.

I laid it out on the left side of the room.

leaving about an arm’s length of space between it and my own futon.

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"Safe distance," I said.

"From what?" she asked.

"From gossip."

She turned toward the wall, as if she could see unit 204 straight through the concrete.

"And if the distance isn’t enough?"

"I’ll buy a asuring tape tomorrow."

She stifled a smile.

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The gray futon looked simple.

Plain.

Unobtrusive.

It suited a room that likewise harbored no aesthetic ambitions.

I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.

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Two futons.

A low table.

Two pairs of shoes on the rack.

A minor visual change.

But the atmosphere had shifted.

Yuna sat on her futon.

She pressed her palms into the surface.

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"It’s soft," she said.

"Standard."

She lay down for a mont, staring up at the ceiling.

The apartnt ceiling was plain white. There was a small stain in the corner near the kitchen.

"Papa’s apartnt is really quiet."

"That’s the point."

"Am I intruding?"

"Not yet."

She turned her head.

"Not yet?"

"It’s only been a few hours."

She rolled over and sat back up.

Then, as if just rembering sothing, she asked,

"What do you do for work, Papa?"

I sat down on my own futon.

"Stagehand."

"What’s that like?"

"Set up. Tear down. Lift heavy gear. Run cables. Stand for long hours."

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"Cool."

"It’s not."

"Why?"

"Because nobody knows my na."

She tilted her head.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Not really."

"Do you like it?"

I thought about it for a second.

"’Like’ is a strong word."

"So that ans?"

"Neutral."

She nodded slowly.

"Did you ever et Mama at work?"

The question ca out calmly.

Not like an interrogation.

I didn’t answer imdiately.

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"A few tis."

"Mama’s pretty, right?"

"Yeah."

"A lot of people like her."

"Yeah."

"You didn’t?"

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