July 19, 2029.
Morning came like a hangover—unwelcome and painful. Ren's phone screamed at 6 AM, the alarm he'd set months ago for classes he no longer attended. He killed it with extreme prejudice and lay staring at the ceiling, counting water stains like constellations of failure.
Memorial day. Get up, you worthless sack of meat.
The soy sauce cup noodles sat on his desk, waiting. Grandpa's favorite. The old man had lived through the post-war reconstruction, built a family from nothing, watched Japan transform from rubble to economic miracle. And his legacy was a grandson who couldn't even finish university.
Spectacular return on investment there.
He forced himself vertical, stumbled through the morning routine. Shower: hot enough to hurt. Shave: poorly. Clothes: the least wrinkled option available. By 7 AM, he almost looked human.
The train to the cemetery was packed with salarymen who'd mastered the art of sleeping while standing. Ren found a corner and tried to become invisible—a skill he'd perfected over three years of social decline. His reflection in the window looked ghostlike, superimposed over the Tokyo sprawl racing past.
His phone buzzed. News alert.
Eclipse Countdown: 6 Hours. Global Preparations Underway
Scientists: "Still Cannot Explain Simultaneous Visibility"
Neither Mist Research Team: "No Comment on Correlation"
Neither Mist. The name had haunted his dreams. Purple fog rolling through empty streets, dissolving everything it touched while he stood untouched in the center, the last person left in a world gone silent.
Just anxiety, he told himself. Too many apocalypse novels, not enough vitamin D.
The cemetery was empty this early. Grandpa's grave sat in the newer section, the stone still sharp-edged and clean. "KISARAGI JIRO - BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, GRANDFATHER." Simple. Direct. Everything the old man had been.
Ren placed the cup noodles on the stone and lit the incense. The smoke rose straight up in the still air, like prayers had a direct line this morning.
"Hey, Grandpa." His voice cracked on the first word. "Brought your favorite. Soy sauce. They changed the package design again, but it's the same fake meat and sodium bomb you loved."
The grave didn't answer. They never did.
"So, uh, update on your disappointing grandson. Failed another semester. Yui left—can't blame her, really. Mom's called forty-seven times yesterday. I've gotten really good at the delete button." He laughed, the sound bitter as old coffee. "Remember when you said I'd do great things? That my different way of seeing the world was a gift? Well, turns out it's more of a curse. Can't focus, can't connect, can't even pretend to care about the things everyone else finds important."
A crow landed on a nearby headstone, regarding him with one black eye.
"But hey, the world might end today. Scientists can't explain this eclipse thing. So maybe none of it matters. Maybe failing at life was just preparation for failing at death." He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "Miss you, old man. You're the only one who ever made me feel like being broken was okay."
The incense burned lower. Time to go.
"See you next year. If there is a next year."
He turned away, leaving the cup noodles like an offering to a god who'd believed in worthless things.