November 2009.
I don't remember the day I was born, but the world has never let me forget what I was born into.
They say my first cries echoed loudly, louder than any child in that ward. I wonder now—was it joy? Or was I already mourning something I hadn't yet lost?
My name is Haruki Senzaki. I was born into a middle-class family in a small town wrapped in dust, neon, and borrowed dreams. My father was a gambler. My mother, a housewife with hands cracked from kitchen water and quiet prayers.
We weren't rich.
We weren't poor.
We were… fine.
At least, that's what people said.
My father, Shunji Senzaki, had this way about him—a crooked grin, the stench of cigarettes that never really left his shirt, and a pocket that emptied and filled as quickly as his temper. One day he'd lose everything at the poker table; the next, he'd come home with crisp bills and a bottle of something strong in hand.
"Luck swings," he'd say, flipping a coin in his fingers.
My mother never answered. Just nodded, folded laundry, and prayed under her breath.
But in those days, life still felt warm.
The nights were filled with local radio music and the buzz of our creaky ceiling fan. The TV barely worked. Our walls were thin. But my father would lift me onto his shoulders, laugh at his own jokes, and say—
"Look at him, Keiko. Our little emperor."
I didn't know what that meant. I only knew warmth. Smiles. The way Mom would comb my hair and hum lullabies in a voice that always sounded like it was remembering something painful.
My first birthday came like a storm.
We didn't have much, but Father turned the house into a palace that day.
Balloons. Lights. Music blaring from a borrowed speaker. The neighbors came. Children clapped. Plates were full.
It was the only time I ever saw my father… dance.
He spun around, cheeks flushed red from drink, shouting,
"One year! My boy's one year old!"
Mother stood to the side, arms folded but smiling, eyes fixed on me like I was all she had left to believe in.
I wore a tiny blue suit. I remember that from the pictures. In every photo, I'm smiling—unaware of the fractures hiding behind the paper decorations.
And yet… I think I sensed it. Even then.
As the months passed, the cracks began to whisper.
I began to hear arguments muffled behind doors.
Bottles clinking late at night.
Silence growing heavier.
Sometimes, I'd wake up in the middle of the night and hear my father muttering to himself, pacing the room.
"Damn game… damn luck…"
Other nights, he wouldn't come home at all.
Mother would sit on the bed, still in her sari, eyes hollow and distant. When I touched her hand once, she just said,
"Sleep, Haruki."
Two words. But they felt like her soul had folded itself shut.
Still, I had no real sadness.
I had toys. I had warm food. I had a mother who tucked me in even when her world was crumbling.
In 2010, life still had rhythm.
Father was a flickering bulb—on one day, gone the next. But when he was there, he brought laughter, stories from the streets, and kisses on my forehead that reeked of rum but felt real.
I didn't yet understand what gambling meant.
I didn't know the smell of alcohol meant something ugly.
I thought bruises on Mom's wrist were from bumping into tables.
I thought this was how homes were supposed to be.
Then came 2011.
And the shadows stretched longer.
Father lost again—big, this time. I remember the night clearly.
The door slammed.
He staggered in.
Mother asked, softly, "How much?"
He didn't answer. Just picked up the ashtray and flung it against the wall.
"You want to know? Everything!"
Her silence enraged him. He lunged forward.
I screamed.
Just two words.
"Stop, Papa!"
Everything froze.
His eyes met mine. Drunk. Red. Tired.
And for a second, just a second, I saw shame.
He stormed out that night.
Didn't come home for two days.
I joined play school in 2012.
Tiny uniform. Tiny bag. Tiny smile.
Sometimes Father dropped me off. He'd be silent during the ride, reeking of lost nights, the stink of cheap tobacco clinging to his breath. But he'd pat my head and say,
"Be smart, boy."
Other times, Mother took me, her hands shaking as she held mine, her eyes always searching—like danger might be hiding behind every rickshaw.
School was the only place untouched.
There, I laughed.
Sang songs.
Made a friend named Kenta.
We used to trade biscuits and talk about toy cars.
In those moments, I forgot.
In 2013, I joined nursery.
It felt bigger, scarier.
The world outside our home felt safer than the one inside.
Private transport took me to school. Mom waved at me from the gate every morning. She never missed a day, even when her lips were bruised or her saree sleeves tried to hide something.
I noticed.
I said nothing.
Children learn to stay silent.
That year, I stopped waiting for Father to come home happy.
When I heard keys jingle at night, my heart would pound—not with excitement, but fear.
Would tonight be okay?
Would he eat in silence, or shout about money?
Would he hit the wall… or something else?
I kept quiet.
I studied hard.
I made paper boats and floated them in the gutter outside, watching as the current swept them away.
I used to imagine they were me—drifting far from here. Somewhere quieter.
But through it all…
Through every crack in the wall, every shattered dish, every sob muffled behind locked doors…
There was Mother.
Her name was Keiko Senzaki.
And she never let go of me.
She taught me how to write my name.
How to say "Thank you."
How to hide pain in polite smiles.
And every night, she'd whisper,
"You're my light."
Three words.
They were enough to keep me alive.
This was the beginning.
Before the accident.
Before the blood.
Before the real darkness.
Back when I still believed that love alone could hold a family together.
Back when I didn't know that some cradles don't rock—they crack.