Chapter 3 – Sunset and Cherry Tomatoes
"Does that hurt? How's the pressure?"
"…I don't feel anything."
"Still pretending? What about here? Does that hurt?"
"Don't touch me!"
"If it feels good, you can say so. No shame in that."
---
There was so much Kiyono Miyuki didn't understand.
She didn't understand the world.
Didn't understand why someone like her, who had never done anything wrong, ended up like this.
And she definitely didn't understand why the only person she could rely on now was her neighbor—an orphan whose life had been arguably worse than hers.
But what confused her most… was why—when even the hospital had given up on her, when her legs were declared useless for life—she started feeling something when he touched them.
Even if the sensation was faint.
Even if it was fleeting.
It was still real.
Usually, no matter how she touched her legs, there was nothing. No feeling. No response. Just dead weight.
Even maintaining her muscle tone this long felt like a small miracle.
But when he touched her like this—
When his long, slender fingers—warm and strong—wrapped around her legs and began to massage them—
Something inexplicable stirred within her.
A trickle of warmth.
A sense that her legs still belonged to her. That they were alive.
Was it just an illusion?
Once could be a fluke. Twice, maybe.
But this…?
She couldn't even focus on the embarrassment anymore.
It wasn't just faint sensation. The heat was… comforting. Strangely pleasurable.
Her cheeks flushed pink as she bit her lip hard—trying to keep herself from making a sound she'd never live down.
---
"Be honest," Yuzuki Gen said, glancing up at her tearful, misty eyes. "Can you feel it now?"
Miyuki hesitated, then pressed her hands over his, her voice soft and fragile. In this moment, she looked more like a frightened fawn than the icy, sharp-tongued girl she tried to be.
"…A little. Yeah."
"Then try to move them."
"…I can't."
Gen finally pulled back, letting go of her legs.
He brought his hand to his nose and sniffed theatrically.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Miyuki panicked, trying to stop him—but all she could manage was a creaking of the wheelchair. She couldn't even stand to push him away.
Gen gave a light shrug and dropped his hand.
"No movement at all, huh?"
"…What?"
So… he was trying to provoke her into moving?
She pulled her skirt down hurriedly, hiding her legs again—those beautiful, well-shaped legs that somehow hadn't withered away yet. Her toes, pale and still, peeked out from her slippers like sleeping silkworms.
Gen muttered to himself, "Seems like the spiritual energy in this world is just too thin… I'll need more of my cultivation method restored before we see real results. Still, any feeling at all means there's hope."
Miyuki shot him a confused look. "What did you just say? Was that… Yanxia language?"
"Yeah, I've been studying it lately."
She looked away, her eyes dark again, resting on the handsome boy beside her.
"You're really diligent, huh? Studying Yanxia… planning to leave Nihon someday?"
Of course he was. He was young, capable, untethered, an orphan who had carved out his own place in the world.
A boy like him didn't belong in her world—didn't deserve to be shackled to her, especially not now.
She was already in hell. She didn't want to become his prison.
But Gen just looked at her and smiled. "If I leave, what will you do?"
"…None of your business. Just do what you want. I was never supposed to be a part of your life. I don't want to be in your plans."
Her voice was clipped and cold again—like she was forcing herself to wear armor made of ice.
But she was like a hedgehog with broken quills—too scared to curl up, too scared to prick anyone.
Gen didn't offer her comforting words or dramatic declarations.
He simply picked up a small mandarin orange, slowly peeling it with his long fingers.
Casually, he asked, "Do you really want me to go? You know, once I walk away, I never come back. Even if it's the day you die."
"…"
It should've been so easy to say.
The lines she'd rehearsed, the rejections she'd prepared—all for his sake, or so she told herself.
But now… the words caught in her throat.
Because once they left her lips, they'd become real.
And the thought of losing him—for real—felt like something tearing a hundred holes in her chest.
She could feel the wind whistling through her hollow ribs, like her very soul was leaking away.
So instead of words, all that came out… were tears.
Heavy, warm tears that fell silently onto her skirt.
Onto her trembling hands.
And through her blurred vision, she saw Gen's pale hand.
He gently brushed her tears away with his thumb, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"You know, I used to think you looked really pretty when you smiled. But I think you're even prettier when you cry. Makes me want to bully you even more."
"…You jerk!"
---
She scolded him softly—but it sounded more like a pout.
Gen laughed. "What can I say? I've worked really hard not to seem like a soft-hearted guy, you know."
Miyuki clenched her hands, fingers tangled together, biting her lip.
"You're always like this—saying things no one can figure out. Do you even realize how mean that is?"
"So that's what made you cry?"
"…Yeah."
She felt like not only her legs were paralyzed—but her heart too.
More fragile by the day.
More dependent.
Reduced to a child in front of him, despite being older.
"…I'm sorry for making you cry this time. But I'll be even sorrier later—because the day you finally stand again, I promise you'll cry harder than this."
"Stop joking."
She didn't want to argue anymore.
She didn't want to call him out for feeding her false hope.
Everyone tells pretty lies to the hopeless—it's practically tradition.
In truth, part of her wished she could die right then and there in front of him.
Death was meaningless—and she felt like something meaningless too.
Then Gen stood up and gently lifted her chin.
Miyuki's head tilted up, caught off guard, her gaze helplessly locked onto his flawless face from an unbearably vulnerable angle.
When his fingers slid from her jawline to the corner of her mouth—
Her face flared red. Her eyes trembled.
She didn't know what she was hoping for anymore.
Her heart was pounding.
Her lips were already moist, anticipating something she couldn't name.
Then—he pressed a peeled orange wedge into her mouth.
"Eat."
Miyuki: ????
She had something to say. But… forget it.
What was she even fantasizing?
This was exactly the kind of wicked trickster he was.
Which is why she couldn't help but fall.
When she began to chew, tasting the sweet-tart citrus on her tongue—
Gen fished out a brand-new fruit knife from between her couch cushions.
He held it up with a disapproving frown. "I'm confiscating this too. How many times do I have to tell you—no more of these things?"
She tried to protest, but the orange in her mouth made it impossible to speak.
So she puffed her cheeks like an angry pufferfish, eyes wide with indignation.
Gen only chuckled and gave her cheek a light pat—not a slap, just enough to make her blush.
He placed the rest of the fruit on the table.
"Alright. I'm heading out. Don't waste my money—finish all of this."
"Gulp… Gen!"
She finally swallowed the fruit—only to blurt out his name for the first time.
He paused in the doorway, the warm yellow light outlining his white shirt, his perfect jaw, the curve of his neck.
"…What is it?"
"Why are you so kind to me? You said you're not softhearted. You said you're not doing this because you want anything from me. So why? Why do you care so much?"
That was the one question that haunted her most.
As if getting the answer would make everything finally make sense… even if it killed her.
Gen paused.
The question pained him.
But not like a winter that freezes the soul—more like a quiet stream carving gently into stone.
He smiled.
"Do you remember the first day you knocked on my door after I moved in? You had a bag of fruit—apples, pears, cherry tomatoes. The sun was setting just right, hitting your hair and shoulders in the hallway. And you told me: 'Living alone? Make sure you eat plenty of fruit. Gotta get your vitamins.'"
He even remembered the fruits.
Her tears broke free again.
No warning. No mercy.
"Just… just that?"
"Just that," he replied.
"But that's nothing! Anyone could do that! It's not even a big deal! Why… why would something so small make you help me like this?!"
Her voice cracked, trembling through the sobs, her tear-streaked face glowing with anguish.
But this time, Gen didn't wipe her tears away.
He just said:
"There's this line in The Stranger: 'I killed a man because the sun was too bright that day.' Well, for me—it's simple. I helped you because the sunset that day was too beautiful."[1]
"…But…"
The absurdity of it all wrapped around her like a fog.
And yet what came after wasn't confusion.
It was… happiness.
Real, impossible happiness.
Why—why did someone like her deserve to feel something like this?
Gen looked at her with mock annoyance.
"Crying again. You're such a bad girl. This time, wipe your own tears. I'm leaving."
Bang.
The door closed behind him—along with the bag of trash he took on his way out.
And just like that, her tears stopped.
She looked at the fruit on the table and slowly picked up a single, beautiful cherry tomato.
She held it up to the light.
Trying to recreate the warmth—
Of that sunset.
---
[1] The line "I killed a man because the sun was too bright that day" from Albert Camus' The Stranger reflects the protagonist Meursault's detached and absurd worldview. He is not driven by malice or premeditation, but by a series of physical sensations and the overwhelming heat of the sun. For Meursault, the killing is a reaction to the environment, not a deliberate act of violence.