February 22, 2026. Sunday. Late morning.
The local train from the transfer station rattled to a stop with a gentle, almost apologetic shudder, as though it too understood the reluctance of anyone disembarking here. Tanaka Yuta stepped onto the narrow platform, boots crunching against scattered gravel that had drifted over the concrete during the long winter. The air outside was sharper than in Yokohama, cleaner, colder, and carrying the faint scent of pine from the nearby hills and the distant, earthy smell of dormant fields waiting for spring. No announcements echoed overhead; only the wind moved, low and persistent, tugging at the edges of his scarf.
The station building itself was little more than a single-story wooden structure painted a faded cream, its roof sagging slightly under years of accumulated snow and neglect. A single ticket window stood unmanned, the shutter half-lowered like an eyelid too tired to open fully. Yuta checked his phone, signal weak but present, and sent a short message to Tanaka Akari:
Arrived safely. Heading to Grandpa's now.
Then he attached a quick photo of the empty platform, knowing she would worry otherwise.
Her reply came almost immediately:
Good. Be careful with the boxes, they're heavy. Eat the bento when you're hungry. Love you.
The two small words at the end hit him harder than they should have. He stared at the screen for several seconds, thumb hovering over the keyboard, before typing only:
Got it.
He pocketed the phone and started walking.
The road from the station to his grandfather's house was familiar in the way old memories are, half-remembered, half-invented. It wound uphill along a narrow asphalt lane bordered by low stone walls and leafless persimmon trees, their bare branches clawing at the pale sky. Every few meters a house appeared, old, single-story, tiled roofs darkened by moss, and gardens still dormant under winter mulch. Few people were out; an elderly man sweeping his genkan nodded once as Yuta passed, and a small dog barked lazily from behind a chain-link fence before losing interest.
The walk took twenty-five minutes at a steady pace. Yuta kept his hands deep in his coat pockets, breath fogging in rhythmic clouds that drifted upward and vanished. His thoughts, however, refused to stay contained.
He thought about the apartment they shared, how small it felt on mornings like this, how the walls seemed to press inward whenever Tanaka Akari moved through the narrow hallway in her robe, hips swaying with that unconscious grace that made his stomach twist. He thought about the way she always left things for him: the bento wrapped so carefully, the scarf knitted with stitches that had probably been done late at night after her shifts, the quiet way she checked his room when she thought he was asleep. Small acts, domestic and unremarkable, yet they accumulated inside him like sediment, layering over the guilt until it became something heavier, something he carried with every step.
He wondered what she was doing at this exact moment. Perhaps standing at the copier in the office, back arched slightly as she reached for a jammed sheet of paper, blouse pulling tight across her chest, the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with a quiet sigh of frustration. Or sitting at her desk during a rare lull, legs crossed beneath the table, one heel slipping free of her pump so that her foot dangled, toes flexing absently against the cool air. Maybe she was thinking of him, not in the way he thought of her, never in that way, but in the simple, protective concern that had defined her life since his father's accident. The thought stung. He wanted more than concern. He wanted her to look at him and see him, not as her son, but as something else entirely.
The road curved, and the house came into view.
It stood at the end of a short gravel driveway, a two-story wooden structure built in the late Shōwa era, its dark cedar siding weathered to a soft charcoal gray. The tiled roof sagged in places, and the small front garden had long since surrendered to weeds and fallen leaves. A single persimmon tree dominated the yard, its branches heavy with a few forgotten fruit that had shriveled into dark husks over the winter. The gate creaked when Yuta pushed it open, announcing his arrival before he could knock.
Tanaka Hiroshi, his grandfather, appeared at the genkan almost immediately, as though he had been waiting by the door. He was smaller than Yuta remembered, thinner, the once-broad shoulders now stooped beneath a thick wool cardigan. His hair had thinned to silver wisps, but his eyes were still sharp, the same dark brown as Yuta's own.
"Yuta," Hiroshi said, voice rough but warm. "You've grown again. Come in, come in. It's too cold out there."
Yuta slipped off his shoes in the genkan and followed his grandfather inside. The house smelled of old wood, tatami, and the faint mustiness of rooms that were rarely aired. Sunlight filtered through paper shoji screens in thin, dusty beams, illuminating motes that drifted lazily in the still air.
Hiroshi led him to the living room, where a low kotatsu waited with a single orange already peeled and sectioned on a small plate. "Sit. Warm up first. Your mother said you'd come alone, she's working again?"
"Yeah. Overtime."
Hiroshi nodded slowly, settling across from him with a small grunt of effort. "She works too hard. Always has. Your father was the same way." He paused, eyes distant for a moment, then reached for a section of orange and offered it to Yuta. "Eat. She packed you lunch, I'm sure."
Yuta took the orange segment. It was cold and sweet, juice bursting against his tongue. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the faint ticking of an old wall clock and the occasional creak of the house settling.
Eventually Hiroshi gestured toward the hallway. "The boxes are in the second-floor storeroom. Mostly your father's things, books, papers, and some old tools. I can't climb the stairs easily anymore. If you could bring down what looks useful… or at least sort it so I can decide later."
Yuta nodded. "I'll start now."
The stairs were narrow and steep, each step groaning under his weight. At the top, a sliding door opened into a small, windowless room lined with shelves and stacked cardboard boxes. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred into slow motion when Yuta flicked on the single bare bulb overhead. The light was harsh, illuminating cobwebs in the corners and yellowed labels on the boxes: Keiichi – Books, Keiichi – Documents, Miscellaneous.
He began with the nearest stack, pulling down the first box and setting it on the tatami with a soft thud. Inside were textbooks, university-level engineering volumes from decades ago, pages brittle, margins filled with his father's neat handwriting. Yuta turned a few pages slowly, tracing the faded ink with his fingertip. He barely remembered the man who had written these notes, only fragments: a deep laugh, the smell of motor oil on work clothes, a hand ruffling his hair before leaving for the night shift that never ended.
He set the box aside and reached for the next. More books, novels, technical manuals, a few worn manga volumes from the 90s that must have belonged to his father as a teenager. Yuta flipped through one, smiling faintly at the exaggerated art styles and dramatic speech bubbles. He wondered if his father had ever read them late at night, hiding them from his own parents the way Yuta sometimes hid his phone under his pillow.
Time passed in slow increments. He moved boxes, wiped dust from covers with his sleeve, sorted items into three rough piles: keep, donate, discard. The room grew warmer from his movement, and he shed his coat, then his sweater, working in just a long-sleeved shirt that clung slightly to his back with sweat. Every so often he paused to drink from the thermos, Akari's green tea, now only lukewarm, and his thoughts drifted back to her.
He imagined her now, perhaps on a short break, standing by the office window with a cup of vending-machine coffee, gazing out at the gray cityscape. Her blouse might be slightly unbuttoned at the collar from the warmth of the heater, revealing the delicate chain of her pearl necklace resting against the soft swell of her cleavage. She would lift the cup to her lips, steam rising past her face, and maybe, maybe, she would smile at some small thought of him, the way she sometimes did when she thought no one was watching.
The fantasy twisted, as it always did. He pictured her alone in the apartment later tonight, after overtime, shedding her work clothes piece by piece in the bathroom: skirt sliding down wide hips, blouse unbuttoned slowly to reveal lace-trimmed bra struggling to contain her heavy breasts, stockings rolled down thick thighs with deliberate care. She would step into the shower, water cascading over golden hair turned dark and slick, tracing rivulets along every curve he had memorized from stolen glances, the deep dip of her waist, the plush roundness of her ass, the way her nipples would harden under the warm spray.
Yuta's hands stilled on a box. He exhaled slowly, forcing the image away, but it lingered like smoke, curling through his thoughts.
He reached for another container, this one smaller, and unmarked, tucked behind a larger stack as though someone had hidden it on purpose. The cardboard was different: thicker, darker, edges worn but not dusty like the others. No label or tape sealing it shut, only a single strip of old washi paper wrapped around the middle like a belt.
Yuta hesitated, fingers brushing the surface. It felt out of place among the uniform moving boxes, too deliberate, too quiet. He lifted it carefully and set it on the tatami in front of him.
The room seemed to grow stiller. Dust motes hung suspended in the light beam, no longer drifting.
(End of Chapter 3)
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