The fourth spring of their university life brought with it an abrupt, sobering transformation of their wardrobe.
In early March, the shop windows along the main railway concourses began displaying long rows of identical, charcoal-black recruit suits, crisp white cotton dress shirts, stiff black leather briefcases, and polished plain-toe oxfords. Across Japan, more than four hundred thousand college seniors were preparing to enter the synchronized, relentless ritual of corporate job hunting known as shukatsu.
For three years, Ren and Shiori had lived in soft, textured clothing: oversized wool cardigans, paint-dusted work coveralls, flannel shirts, and comfortable denim.
Stepping into the tailored suit section of the grand department store near Yokohama Station felt like entering a different dimension altogether.
"Do you really think I look all right?" Shiori asked, emerging from behind the velvet curtains of the fitting room with hesitant, self-conscious steps.
Ren, who was standing by the three-way mirror in his own newly fitted two-button black jacket, turned to look at her.
His breath hitched in his throat.
Shiori was wearing a tailored black single-breasted suit jacket over a spotless white spread-collar blouse, paired with a matching knee-length pleated pencil skirt and sheer black stockings. Her long dark hair, which she usually wore loose around her shoulders or in a messy bun, was gathered into a smooth, low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
Gone was the fragile, frightened high school girl who had walked with her chin buried in a green plaid scarf to avoid being seen. In the bright halogen lights of the department store, standing tall in her modest three-centimeter black leather pumps, she looked dignified, graceful, and quietly formidable: an intelligent, observant young woman prepared to step into the world of literature and letters.
Ren walked toward her, his gaze filled with that familiar, reverent warmth that never failed to make her heart beat faster.
"You look stunning, Shiori," he murmured. "Like a real editor who is about to discover the next great novelist."
Shiori lowered her chin, a soft blush spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, though her lips curved with proud pleasure.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Suzuki-kun," she countered, stepping closer to inspect him in the mirror.
She reached out with both hands, gently straightening the collar of his white shirt. Rising slightly on her tiptoes, her fingers moved with practiced grace over the silk knot of his navy-blue necktie, centering it perfectly between the lapels of his jacket. She smoothed the heavy wool over his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, dependable frame beneath the fabric.
"Very dignified," she whispered, her fingers resting lightly against his chest. "Like an architect who builds bridges that last for centuries."
An elderly saleswoman with silver hair styled in an elegant bob walked over, carrying two dust-proof garment bags. A warm, perceptive smile touched the woman's eyes as she watched Shiori adjusting Ren's tie.
"Are you two hunting for jobs together?" the saleswoman asked gently.
"Yes," Ren answered, smiling down at Shiori. "We are keeping each other brave."
"That is the best way," the woman said, nodding with deep approval. "Corporate job hunting in Tokyo can be a cold and noisy affair. Having someone who waits for you at the end of the day makes all the difference in the world."
* * *
By April, the reality of the saleswoman's words became acutely apparent.
The Tokyo metropolitan railway network became an endless, surging river of identical black suits. Thousands of students rode the packed morning expresses with grim, stoic expressions, clutching their black portfolio cases, reading corporate aptitude manuals, and practicing self-introduction speeches under their breath.
The schedule was grueling.
Shiori was pursuing entry-level editorial roles at mid-sized independent publishing houses that specialized in literary fiction, poetry, and cultural criticism. She had firmly refused to apply to the massive entertainment conglomerates that treated literature like disposable commercial product. She wanted to work where books were respected as living art. But independent publishers hired very few graduates, often taking only one or two candidates from pools of hundreds of applicants.
Ren, meanwhile, had advanced through three rigorous portfolio rounds at Tanabe & Partners Landscape Atelier, while simultaneously interviewing for urban design positions at regional public infrastructure consultancies.
By five in the afternoon, after three consecutive interviews in the glass towers of Otemachi and Shinjuku, their bodies were completely drained of energy.
The stiff new leather shoes were the worst offenders. The rigid heel counters pressed relentlessly against their heels, turning every step on the concrete platforms into sharp, burning torture.
On a rainy Wednesday evening in mid-April, they met at the central platform of Yokohama Station to take the coastal train home together.
They stood side by side on the rumbling train, their damp black umbrellas dripping onto the floor between their shiny black briefcases. Ren looked at Shiori's profile. Her face was pale from fatigue, and she was shifting her weight cautiously from one foot to the other to relieve the pressure on her heels.
Without a word, Ren shifted his position, placing his body between her and the jostling commuter crowd, creating a solid, protective shield that absorbed the jolts of the train. He reached down into the narrow space between their bags, finding her gloved hand and squeezing it tightly.
Shiori looked up at him through her eyelashes, letting out a soft, trembling breath of relief, leaning her shoulder lightly against his chest.
"Rough day?" he whispered.
"The panel at Bungeisha asked me why I wanted to work in paper books when the entire publishing industry is moving to digital screens," she murmured, her voice tight with strain.
"And what did you say?"
"I told them that a screen only shows you words," Shiori said softly, her fingers tightening around his. "A book gives you a physical weight to hold in the dark. I told them that when a person is lonely, holding paper that someone else touched sixty years ago proves that solitude can be shared."
Ren smiled, a deep, radiant pride shining in his eyes.
"They would be fools not to hire you, Shiori."
"They looked at me like I was from another century," she confessed, letting out a tiny, weary laugh.
"Then you belong to the century that had heart," Ren said. "And that is where I want to live."
* * *
When they finally climbed the four flights of stairs to Apartment 402 at seven o'clock, they collapsed onto the genkan step with collective, breathless groans of relief.
They unbuttoned their stiff jackets, pulled off their ties and scarves, and unbuckled the offending black leather shoes. Both of Shiori's heels were rubbed raw, red and inflamed beneath her stockings, while Ren's toes were cramped from eight hours on concrete.
Kohaku trotted to the doorway on his white paws, sniffed the two black briefcases with profound suspicion, sneezed once, and then immediately began butting his forehead against Shiori's ankles, purring with comforting sympathy.
"Kohaku," Shiori laughed weakly, scooping the heavy cat into her lap as she sat on the entryway floor. "You are the only sane creature in the entire Kanto region."
"Do not move," Ren ordered gently, stepping into his fleece slippers.
He went into the kitchen and returned carrying a wide wooden cedar washbasin filled with steaming hot water. He had dissolved two cups of coarse sea salt and three drops of pure Japanese cedar oil into the water, filling the entryway with a rich, therapeutic forest fragrance.
Ren knelt on the floorboards before her.
He gently lifted Shiori's feet, peeled off her nylon stockings, and lowered her bare feet into the hot water.
A soft, theatrical gasp of sheer ecstasy escaped her lips. The heat and salt penetrated the inflamed skin of her heels, instantly drawing out the throbbing ache that had plagued her all day.
"Oh, Ren..." she breathed, leaning her head back against the shoe cabinet, her eyes rolling shut. "That is heaven. That is absolute heaven."
"Wait, there is room for two," Ren said.
He rolled up the cuffs of his trousers and slipped his own tired feet into the basin beside hers. The water was hot and fragrant, wrapping their cramped arches and heels in soothing, restorative warmth.
Under the water, their toes brushed together, familiar and comforting.
For twenty minutes, they sat side by side on the genkan step, their feet submerged in the fragrant steam, listening to the gentle rain tapping against the kitchen window. The stress of corporate Tokyo, the cold scrutiny of interview panels, and the anxiety of the future completely evaporated into the cedar-scented mist.
Ren reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small flat package: two hot meat buns he had bought from the station bakery before they boarded the train.
"Dinner while our feet soak," he said, handing one to her.
Shiori broke the warm bun in half, the fragrant steam rising between their faces, smelling of savory pork, ginger, and sweet onions. She took a bite, chewed slowly, and looked at Ren, who was eating his own with boyish gusto, his tie undone, his collar open, his hair delightfully ruffled.
She thought of all the thousands of students who had returned to empty, dark apartments that evening, eating cold convenience store meals alone while dreading tomorrow's rejection emails.
She looked at their matching black suits hanging on the coat rack, at their feet resting together in the warm cedar water, and at the purring cat curled between their knees.
"Ren," she said softly.
He looked over, swallowing his mouthful. "Yes?"
"I don't care if I have to interview twenty more times," she said, her voice clear, calm, and filled with unshakable peace. "As long as I can come home to this water and your face, nothing out there can hurt me."
Ren smiled, reaching over to wipe a crumb from the corner of her chin, his brown eyes deep with an eternal, protective devotion.
"Nothing will ever hurt you as long as I am here, Shiori," he said softly. "Eat your bun. Tomorrow, we go out and conquer the city again."
Shiori smiled, resting her forehead against his shoulder, letting the warmth of their shared home heal every bruise the world had given them.