The Sound of the Refrigerator

After 11:00 PM, the city begins to reveal its true self just a little.

During the day, everyone wears a proper face. Convenience store clerks say "Thank you," train announcements state the exact time, and office workers talk about the future in meeting rooms. But late at night, the world gets a little tired. Ties loosen, makeup fades, and words become shorter.

I liked that time of day.

Living on the fourth floor of a thirty-year-old apartment building, I drink instant coffee while listening to the low hum of an old refrigerator. Every now and then, the refrigerator gives a small shudder, a "hum." It sounded like the cough of an old man supporting the world in a place where no one could hear him.

That night, I went out to the balcony and looked at the sky. The clouds were thin, and the moon was half-waning.

In the apartment building across the street, someone was still awake. A single light from a small window was floating in the dark. I don't know who is there. But knowing that someone I don't know is spending a sleepless night made me feel strangely at ease.

People hate being lonely, yet they are also afraid of being completely understood by others.

That is probably why the city lights shine in the distance like that.

Three days ago, I made a small mistake at work. I got one digit wrong in a document. That was all it was, but my manager sighed, and my junior colleague quietly looked away.

No one yelled at me.

But a failure that isn't yelled at sometimes leaves a deeper mark than one that is.

On my way home, I bought a cream bun at the bakery in front of the station. The woman at the register asked, "Would you like me to warm that up?" I replied, "Yes, please."

It was just that simple conversation.

But the moment I held the warmed bun, for some reason, I almost cried.

Sometimes, humans are saved not by grand kindness, but by the warmth of everyday life.

Back in my room, eating the warm cream bun, I thought of my father.

My father was a man of few words. He didn't teach me anything about life, nor was he the type to drink and preach. He simply woke up at the same time every morning, took the same train, and worked for his family.

When I was a child, I thought of him as a "boring person."

But after I turned forty, I began to realize it little by little.

Continuing to live every day without breaking is, in fact, a talent.

There are flashy people in the world. There are people who talk about dreams. There are people who start revolutions. But most people quietly greet the morning, get on the train, come home tired, and yet start the next day all over again.

In that repetition, people are fighting battles that no one else knows about.

The refrigerator hummed low again.

I sat on the sofa and drank the rest of my coffee. It had gone a little cold.

When I was young, I thought life required "something special." A movie-like romance, a job that changes the world, or scenery no one had ever seen before.

But lately, it's a little different.

Life might actually be a journey to protect the "ordinary."

Waking up in the morning and being able to say "Good morning" to someone. Having a place to return to when you're tired. Buying milk at a convenience store. Hearing the sound of children laughing. Laundry swaying in the wind.

Those small things only get their names after you've lost them.

Outside the window, I heard the sound of the last train running.

The world is ending again today, and it is about to begin once more.

I suddenly remembered the people I had met in my life so far. Friends I had parted ways with. Colleagues I would never see again. Someone I used to love. Someone whose voice I can no longer even remember.

Everyone is carrying their own life, getting through the night somewhere.

Perhaps life is not about searching for an "answer."

It is about continuing to think of someone, even while unable to put it into words.

I looked at the clock; it was past midnight.

I closed the curtains and turned off the room light. In the darkness, only the refrigerator was quietly making its sound.

That sound was just like life itself.

It isn't flashy. No one praises it. But if it were to stop, something important would surely break.

Just before falling asleep, I thought to myself:

"Life isn't made of special days.
Life is made of days where nothing happened."