Chapter 2
I grew up an orphan, shuffled from one government program to another. I never had a place to call my own. Each place felt temporary, a waiting room for a life that never arrived. The beds were stiff, the food tasteless, and the walls always the same—dull white with peeling corners. I remember cold nights with thin blankets, listening to the soft whimpers of other children who missed families they once had. But I didn't have any memories like that. I didn't remember my parents. Not their faces, not their voices. Only the silence they left behind.
My co-workers avoid me. They never say hello. They never ask how my day is going. They pass me by like I'm a shadow in the hallway. Some don't even bother to hide their whispers and side-glances. It's always the same: fake smiles when the boss is around and cold stares the moment backs are turned.
I try not to let it get to me. I keep my head down, my voice soft, my presence small. I wear plain clothes—nothing flashy, nothing that draws attention. At my desk, I type quietly, check reports, and fix other people's errors. Day in and day out, I do the same thing.
Then comes the voice I dread most.
"Gentaro!" Mr. Tanaka barks from across the room. "What is this? Column G is a mess. Again!"
I stand up halfway and bow slightly, my hands trembling just enough to be noticed. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll correct it right away."
Tanaka shakes his head in disgust and walks away without another word. Behind me, I hear laughter. Someone snickers. It's always the same group. They think I don't hear them, but I do. Every single time. It doesn't hurt like it used to. Now it just leaves a hollow feeling in my chest. Like something important is missing.
At lunch, I sit at the farthest table in the office cafeteria. I unwrap a rice ball from its plastic wrap. It's cold, but I don't mind. I used to buy lunch from the vending machine—hot noodles or curry rice—but I'm trying to save every yen now.
I scroll through my phone slowly. Then I see it.
A notification from the company portal.
"Promotion results are out."
I stare at the screen for a second, my breath stuck in my throat. This is my fifth time applying. I gather some hope and tap the link. It loads slowly.
Rejected.
I read the word again.
Rejected.
It's short, final, and cold. No explanation. No encouragement. Just a quiet door closing in my face.
I lower the phone and continue eating without a word. The rice ball tastes dry now. I finish it slowly, then pack up and walk back to my desk.
That evening, when I return to my apartment, something catches my eye. An envelope sits on the floor, pushed under the door. I pick it up. The handwriting is familiar.
It's from my landlord.
"Final eviction notice. You have one week to vacate the apartment."
No warmth. No kindness. Just a deadline.
I close the door gently and lean my back against it. The air inside is still. The room is dim. I flip the light switch, but it takes a moment before the weak bulb flickers to life. I walk across the small space, stepping over my worn shoes and past a stack of unpaid bills.
I sink onto the futon, dropping my bag beside me. My fingers are cold. I rub them together, then stare at the ceiling. There's a crack that runs across the corner. A small spider sits in its web, unmoving. The only sound in the room is the ticking of the wall clock.
I don't cry. I haven't cried in years. But there's a weight in my chest, like something is pressing down on me.
"Why am I still trying?" I whisper.
The silence answers back.
I remember being a child, waiting at the window of the orphanage. Watching cars drive by. Wondering if someone would ever come for me. Someone who would smile and say, "You're mine now."
No one ever came.
The older I got, the more invisible I became. Families always wanted the younger ones. The ones who still smiled, still believed in magic. I stopped smiling a long time ago. I learned to survive instead. To disappear when things got bad. To keep my voice quiet. To never ask for too much.
Now I'm 35. And the world still feels the same. Cold. Unforgiving. I try to keep going. I try to tell myself that maybe, just maybe, something good will happen. But days like this make it hard.
My phone buzzes. Another message. This time, it's from the electric company.
"Payment overdue. Power will be disconnected in three days."
I place the phone face down.
My mind drifts back to the only warm memory I have. A girl from my teenage years. I never got her name. She was just a classmate who noticed me once. It was snowing, and I didn't have a coat. She gave me a red scarf. Her hands were cold, but her smile was gentle. That scarf was the only gift I had ever received. I kept it for years. Until it wore out.
I wonder what she's doing now. If she even remembers me.
I let out a soft breath.
"Maybe tomorrow will be different," I say, barely above a whisper.
I lie down, not bothering to pull the blanket over me. The room is cold. But it feels normal now. Comforting in its own strange way.
I look at the ceiling again. The spider hasn't moved.
And I close my eyes.
Not to sleep.
But just to escape.
For a while.
Maybe.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe something will change.
Even if I don't believe it anymore, I still wish for it.
Somewhere inside.
Where hope still lives in silence.