The morning sun rose gently over the skyline of Tokyo, casting long shadows through the blinds of a modest two-room apartment nestled on the sixth floor of an aging building in Nerima. The scent of early summer drifted in through the open window—humid air laced with the faint aroma of street-side ramen stalls and sakura trees still lingering in bloom.
In the mirror stood a young man, 25 years old, adjusting the collar of his white shirt for the third time. His black hair was neatly combed, a slim watch strapped around his wrist. His eyes—deep, almond-shaped—carried an unusual weight. Not because of worry or lack of sleep, but the way some eyes just held stories behind them.
His name was Aarav Tanaka.
Born in India, raised in Japan. His father was a passionate Bengali professor from Kolkata, a man who could quote Tagore with the same ease he cooked ilish maach. His mother, a soft-spoken woman from Tokyo, worked as a cultural historian, someone who found beauty in ancient manuscripts and the spaces between silences.
They had met at an academic conference in Kyoto. Fell in love in the rhythm of two languages. Settled briefly in India after marriage, where Aarav was born. But by the time he was twelve, the three of them had moved to Japan for better opportunities and stability. Tokyo became home.
Life wasn't perfect—but it was good.
Aarav grew up navigating two cultures. He learned to write in Kanji and Bangla. He bowed before his teachers and touched the feet of his elders. He ate miso soup in the morning and luchi in the evening. His parents, despite small arguments and occasional homesickness, loved each other deeply. Their home was filled with a warmth that came not from things, but from togetherness.
And now, on this morning, Aarav was about to walk into adulthood.
His first real job interview awaited—a data analyst position at one of Japan's leading research corporations. It was the kind of role he had dreamed of. Years of late-night study sessions, balancing cultural expectations, and constant overachievement had led to this moment.
He left the apartment with a small prayer under his breath, a habit picked up from his father, and stepped into the busy Tokyo streets.
By noon, he stood outside the towering corporate building, clutching a sealed envelope. It was thick—the kind of thickness that usually meant only one thing: he had gotten the job.
His face split into a smile. A rare, unguarded one.
A new chapter was beginning.
He pulled out his phone to call his parents—his mother had sent him a good luck emoji that morning. But before he could dial, the phone rang.
It was an international number.
From Kyoto.
His hands stilled.
It was his grandmother, his mother's mother. She only ever called for two reasons—ceremonial holidays or emergencies.
Aarav answered.
"Hello?"
There was silence for a second. Then, a fragile voice.
"Aarav... it's Grandma..."
Her voice trembled in a way he had never heard before. Not even when his grandfather was hospitalized two years ago.
He felt something grip his chest.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice tightening.
Her words came out broken, pieced together between sobs and gasps.
"Your parents... today... there was an accident... a truck..."
Aarav stopped breathing.
He could only hear one phrase clearly, ringing louder than the Tokyo traffic behind him:
"They didn't survive."
The envelope in his hand slipped to the ground.
The city around him blurred.
He didn't cry. Not yet. His body refused to believe it. Just moments ago, he had imagined them waiting at home, asking how the interview went, preparing a small dinner to celebrate. His mother's soft eyes. His father's booming laugh echoing in the tiny kitchen.
Now, there was only silence.
The letter on the ground read:
Congratulations, Mr. Aarav Tanaka. We are pleased to inform you…
But all he could feel was the space where his parents should have been.
The weight of success and loss arrived on the same day.
And the world he knew had begun to collapse.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
It rained the day they were cremated.
Not the kind of cinematic downpour that echoed sorrow, but a quiet drizzle—barely enough to soak the ground, yet just enough to stain memory. The sky hung low, colored the shade of ash, like even the heavens were uncertain how to mourn.
The Tokyo crematorium stood in silence, a humble structure encased in stone and shadow. Rows of bamboo lined the perimeter, swaying gently as though whispering secrets to the dead. The scent of incense mingled with petrichor. Somewhere, a bell rang.
Aarav Tanaka sat in the front row of the ceremonial chamber, hands clasped together, face hollow. He wore a black suit borrowed from his grandfather. It hung loosely at the shoulders, too wide at the wrists, as if reminding the world he didn't quite fit into it yet.
Beside him sat his grandparents. His grandmother wept into a folded handkerchief, her eyes red and swollen, her back bent not just from age but from grief. His grandfather, once a proud man who recited poetry and laughed from his chest, stared ahead like a statue. As if the fire behind those eyes had extinguished alongside his daughter.
At the center of the chamber, two simple urns rested atop a low wooden altar.
One for his father.
One for his mother.
They weren't extravagant. His parents had never been people of extravagance. Simple, warm, proud—and now, gone.
Aarav didn't cry.
Not when the monks began their chants.
Not when the family pressed flowers into the coffin.
Not even when the crematorium door opened and he watched—watched as the fire consumed what little was left of the people who once called him "our world."
He sat still.
The world around him felt muffled, like he were underwater.
Murmured condolences floated around him in soft Japanese:
"Shikata ga nai."
"May their souls find peace."
"Be strong, Aarav-san."
He nodded at all the right times. He bowed when needed. He breathed when expected.
But inside, he was retreating—deeper and deeper into himself.
Not broken… not yet.
But hollowed.
Years Passed
Grief didn't roar like a storm. It settled like dust—quiet, weightless, everywhere.
Aarav continued living. If one could call it that.
He got up at six. Ate toast and miso soup. Walked to the station. Went to work. Typed reports. Sat in meetings. Nodded, listened, contributed. Came home. Ate convenience store curry. Slept. Repeated.
For years, this was his world.
He never complained. Never missed a deadline. Never raised his voice. He was the ideal employee—precise, dependable, and utterly disconnected. The kind of man whose smile never reached his eyes, because he had forgotten how to make that journey.
At work, his colleagues respected him. Admired him, even.
But no one truly knew him.
At home, the silence pressed down like fog. The walls were bare. The lights, dim. The calendar on the wall still showed the year he got the job. It was never replaced.
He didn't laugh.
Didn't cry.
Didn't love.
Even his grandparents noticed—especially his grandfather. The old man watched with growing concern as Aarav withered not physically, but spiritually. The spark his daughter had passed on to him had dimmed into embers.
One evening, as rain tapped gently against the paper windows, Aarav's grandfather made a decision.
"This isn't living," he said to his wife.
They sat across a low table, sipping green tea, watching their grandson stare out at the empty street from the veranda. He had been like that for hours. Just… watching.
"He needs someone," his grandmother whispered, voice brittle.
"He needs more than that," his grandfather replied. "He needs meaning."
So they made a call.
A Marriage Arranged
Two months after Aarav's 27th birthday, his grandfather introduced him to a woman named Roin.
She was the granddaughter of a close friend—an old man Aarav remembered vaguely from childhood gatherings. Roin had just returned from studying abroad, an art curator with sharp eyes and a soft smile. She spoke quietly but confidently, and didn't pretend to be cheerful when they met.
She looked at Aarav and saw something others didn't.
"You're like a room with the lights turned off," she told him honestly, after their third meeting. "But I don't mind sitting in the dark for a while."
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was… something.
Acceptance, perhaps. A willingness to begin again, even if the pieces were still scattered. Roin didn't try to fix him. She simply sat with him. Listened. Shared her silence. And slowly, without knowing how or when, something began to shift inside him.
So when his grandparents proposed the marriage, and Roin agreed, Aarav didn't resist.
He didn't smile either.
But he said yes.
And that was more than anyone had heard from him in years.
On the day of the wedding, the sky was cloudy—but not mourning.
Just quiet.
Like the pause before a sentence begins again.
And in that pause, perhaps, Aarav's new life was about to start.