The rain fell in a steady patter, a soft curtain over Setagaya's neon-lit streets, as Kazuki Harada drifted through the evening, a shadow slipping between the living. The city throbbed around him—salarymen ducking into izakayas with raucous laughter, students giggling under shared umbrellas, the clatter of shutters as shops sealed themselves for the night—but he was a ghost, untethered, his world unraveling like a threadbare scarf. His sweater clung to his skin, heavy with rain, and his glasses were useless, streaked with droplets and fogged by his ragged breath. The pain in his chest was relentless now, a vise clamping tighter with each step, its fire shooting down his left arm, curling into his jaw, a blaze he could no longer shrug off as stress or a bruise. He thought of the medical pamphlets from his desk at the publishing house—angina pectoris, myocardial infarction—words once distant, now etched into his body as deeply as he'd carved 佳樹 and 恵美子 into the Hibiya Park bridge, a vow now broken.
He didn't know how far he'd walked, only that his feet had carried him in circles, drawn back to the apartment like a moth to a flame. The courtyard cherry tree loomed in his mind, its glistening leaves a silent witness to the moment he'd pushed open the ajar door, heard the air conditioner's drone, and caught Emiko's laughter—wild, sharp, not his. The memory was a shard of glass, slicing deeper each time it surfaced, her silhouette astride Riku Sano, his silver watch glinting like a taunt, her moan carefree and shining. Kazuki's ankle throbbed from the morning's stairwell fall, his ribs ached from the bruise, but they were nothing compared to the vacuum in his soul, where love had crumbled to ash, and the fire in his chest, burning with betrayal.
He found himself at the apartment building again, the rain soaking his shoes as he climbed the stairs, each step a creak of protest, heavier than the last. The hallway was dim, the air cool and thick with the scent of wet tatami drifting from an open window. Their door was still ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling out, but the sounds were gone—no giggles, no slap of skin, only the air conditioner's low hum, a mechanical heartbeat mocking his own. Kazuki paused, his hand hovering over the knob, the crushed macaron bag still on the floor inside, a relic of the joy he'd carried home. He didn't want to enter, didn't want to face the emptiness of their life, but his body moved anyway, drawn to the place where he'd last felt whole.
He stepped into the genkan, the door creaking softly, and caught his reflection in the small, oval mirror by the foyer. The man staring back was a stranger—smile erased, pupils wide as black wells, face pale and streaked with rain. His thick-framed glasses sat crooked, one lens fogged, the other speckled, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, dripping onto his sweater. He was no longer Kazuki Harada, the man who'd left fox-faced notes under Emiko's teacup, carved secret kana on a bridge, rehearsed a proposal under lanterns. He willed tears to come, to blur the image of her silhouette, her head flung back, her moan a blade through his heart. But none came. Only numbness remained, a cold fog settling in his bones, heavier than grief, quieter than rage.
His hand pressed to his chest, fingers digging into the soaked wool, as if he could hold his heart together. The pain was a storm now, a searing thump that pulsed with each breath, radiating to his arm, his jaw, his temples. The pamphlets' warnings echoed—chest pain, shortness of breath, radiating discomfort—seek medical attention immediately. He'd translated those words with clinical detachment, never imagining they'd name his reality, never thinking his heart could break so literally. The cruelty was unbearable: Emiko's betrayal a wound as real as the fire in his chest. He thought of Satsuki, his sister, her voicemail urging him to see a doctor, but the thought dissolved in the fog, as if her care belonged to another man's life.
The apartment was silent, save for the air conditioner's drone, the bedroom door now closed, its frosted glass a blank wall hiding her silhouette. The living room was unchanged—tatami mats sun-faded, the low table holding Emiko's chipped teacup and her phone, face-down, its screen a dark void. He didn't touch it, didn't want to see the messages, the secrets she'd kept. The macaron bag lay in the genkan, its green crumbs a wreckage of their ritual, and Kazuki stared at it, the sight twisting the shard deeper. Those macarons were for her squeal, their shared joy, now dust like their love.
He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, his ankle twinging as he drew his knees up. The pain in his chest surged, each wave stealing his breath, blurring his vision. He thought of the notebook under their bed, its navy cover worn, its pages filled with love letters he'd never sent, each one a dream now dead. He thought of the Hibiya bridge, the kana—佳樹 and 恵美子—etched in secret, a vow she'd broken. He thought of her laughter, once his home, now a stranger's song, vibrant with someone else. Even wolves know loyalty, he'd thought in the courtyard, and the bitterness returned, sharp but fleeting, swallowed by the fog.
He wanted to cry, to scream, to shatter the mirror and its stranger's face, but the vacuum held him fast. His heart was in freefall, plummeting through a void where love and pain were one, where the past and present collided in a wreckage he couldn't navigate. He remembered their first meeting under Waseda's sakura, her hand catching his arm, her laugh like spring rain. He remembered nights on the balcony, sharing an Asahi, her bare feet tapping on the tatami as they swayed to Utada Hikaru. He remembered the proposal he'd rehearsed, words held back for fear of breaking their harmony. Now, those memories were shards, each one cutting deeper, and he wondered how he'd missed the signs—her phone face-down, her late nights at nomikai, the distance in her "I love you."
The rain tapped against the window, a soft counterpoint to the air conditioner's hum, and Kazuki closed his eyes, the stranger in the mirror fading. The pain surged, a fire burning through the fog, and he gasped, clutching his chest, as if he could anchor himself to the world. He thought of the cherry tree, its leaves trembling in the rain, a witness to his unraveling. He thought of the shrine he'd passed, its torii gate glowing, offering no solace. He thought of Satsuki, her voice an echo, and wished he could call her, but the vacuum was too vast.
He stood, unsteady, his glasses slipping as he pushed them up. The apartment was a museum now, filled with ghosts of a life that no longer existed. He moved to the bedroom door, not to open it but to retrieve the notebook, his last anchor. He knelt, wincing as his ankle cracked, and pulled the box from under the bed, its contents rattling—Emiko's tin of fox notes, his navy notebook. He opened it, the pages yellowed, and traced the first entry: April 5, 2016. Under the sakura, I tripped, and she caught me. Her name is Emiko. Her laugh is like spring itself. The words blurred, not from tears but from the pain clouding his vision, and he closed the notebook, clutching it like a lifeline.
He couldn't stay. The pain was too much, the fog too heavy, the apartment too full of ghosts. He stood, tucking the notebook into his bag, and stepped into the genkan, avoiding the mirror, the macarons, the teacup. The rain had slowed, the city's lights brighter, casting a cold glow through the window. He opened the door, its creak a final farewell, and stepped into the hallway, his heart still plummeting, falling toward a future he couldn't see.
The stairs groaned under his weight, each step a descent into the unknown. Outside, the cherry tree stood silent, its leaves glistening under streetlights, indifferent to his pain. He walked, the rain pattering softly now, the city alive with sounds—clinking glasses from an izakaya, splashing footsteps, a distant train's clack. He passed a convenience store, its fluorescent glow spilling onto the sidewalk, and remembered buying nikuman for Emiko on a rainy night, her smile warming him through. He passed the patisserie, its window dark now, where he'd chosen the macarons, a gift now crushed. Each place was a memory, a thread in their tapestry, now unraveled.
He stopped at a small park, its swings swaying in the breeze, the creak of their chains a lonely song. He sat on a bench, the wood cold and wet, and pulled out the notebook again. The rain had stopped, leaving only a damp chill, and he opened to a blank page, his pen scratching as he wrote: My heart is in freefall, but I will not let it break me. I will write you, Shiku, a story of pain and survival, a story that holds my truth. The words were clumsy, raw, but they were his, a spark in the fog, a way to claw back from the void.
He thought of Satsuki, her voice urging him to live, to fight. He thought of the shrine, its incense lingering in his memory, a faint promise of redemption. He thought of Emiko, her laughter now a ghost, and wondered if he could forgive her, if he could forgive himself for loving so blindly. The pain in his chest eased slightly, a dull throb now, as if the act of writing had loosened the vise. He stood, the bench creaking beneath him, and walked toward the station, the notebook in his bag a weight that grounded him.
The city's lights twinkled, a constellation of hope and sorrow, and Kazuki felt the spark grow—a story, Shiku, born from the ashes of his heart. He didn't know where it would lead, only that it was his, a way to survive the freefall, to find meaning in the pain. The train rumbled in the distance, calling him forward, and he stepped into the night, his heart still falling, but no longer alone.