Why…?
Katachigai Yoru paused, pen hovering above his notebook.
Sunlight seeped dimly through the paper sliding door, casting a muted glow over his desk. He didn't bother turning on the overhead light. After all these decades, he'd long grown used to writing in this half-darkness after his wife had gone to sleep.
Yoru had been born in 1950, the very year Japan began its rapid economic ascent.
By the time he turned eighteen, Japan had leapt from near the bottom of the world's rankings to become the second-largest economy.
It was a strange feeling—he hadn't done anything himself, yet life just kept getting better.
So, like most young men of his generation, Katachigai Yoru became a genuine optimistic drifter: the kind of person who had no idea what he wanted to do, but was sure the future would somehow work out fine.
When he finally realized what he truly wanted, he was already close to graduating college.
By then, most of his high school classmates—those who'd entered the workforce after graduation—were already married and starting families.
Including his first love.
Those were happy times. In that age of booming prosperity, the two of them had basked in their youth, building soft, hazy dreams atop rooftops, along riversides, and on sunlit grassy fields.
But maybe beautiful, hazy things were destined to clash with reality. In the end, they went their separate ways.
At their graduation ceremony, his first love had cried and begged him to stay, saying, "Everyone lives like this."
He cried too, but shook his head. The world was changing too fast—Tokyo offered far more opportunities.
And so, one stayed behind in their snowy northern village, and the other left for Tokyo to repeat a year of study.
The world was in the midst of globalization; shipbuilding was booming. Following the trend, Yoru applied to a top maritime engineering program at a prestigious university.
That year was hellish—he studied day and night.
Sometimes he'd read Japanese literature to clear his mind.
Since the Heian period, ever since Murasaki Shikibu's The Tale of Genji, Japanese literature had always carried that bittersweet melancholy—mono no aware, the sadness of passing things.
But Yoru wasn't the sentimental type. He thought such tragic futures had nothing to do with him.
And indeed, he succeeded—earning admission to the university and program he'd wanted, with excellent grades.
College life was good. Between part-time jobs and classes, he read and wrote short stories, even made a decent amount of money.
In four years, he managed to pay off nearly all of his 3 million yen in student loans and 1.5 million yen in bank debt.
He never dated anyone.
Even though he and his first love had stopped contacting each other, he was sure she was still waiting for him.
Because he always planned to go back for her—after he'd built a stable life in Tokyo.
It felt like he was watching his life from above, like reading a novel. From the author's words, you could tell that the protagonist's happy days were fleeting, that sadness loomed ahead.
But Yoru believed his own life would be the opposite—sorrow short-lived, with a bright future to follow.
That changed during the spring break of his third year, halfway through writing his first full-length novel.
He'd been too busy working part-time jobs to afford tuition and living expenses. Only then did he finally return home.
From a distance, he saw her—his first love—pregnant, with two toddlers toddling beside her.
He froze.
Then came rage. Unbelievable, searing rage.
She'd betrayed their promise.
He'd been gone four years. Her kids looked about three.
So she'd cheated almost as soon as he'd left.
He wanted to confront her, but when he thought about it—what would that even achieve?
Would he just end up being the stepfather of those kids?
After a long inner battle, he turned and left.
But misfortune rarely comes alone.
1973 brought a cascade of disasters.
The oil crisis hit. Global shipping demand crashed. Freight rates plummeted by seventy percent.
Then his mother fell ill with cancer. The family burned through all their savings. Yoru borrowed another four million yen from the bank, but still couldn't save her.
It was only when she passed that he finally understood how precious family was. After that, he started going home every month.
But every time he opened the door, all he found was his father—already a quiet man, now hollowed out by grief. The old man started drinking heavily, wandering like a ghost stripped of its soul.
After those blows, Yoru found refuge in writing. He grew obsessed with novels, though his progress on his long work slowed to a crawl. Most of his time went into short stories and part-time jobs to pay off his mother's medical debts.
By graduation, he still owed three million yen.
Despite everything, he'd decided to pursue his dream of becoming a novelist.
That was the plan—until life intervened again.
Just before graduation, his father handed him a report—terminal liver cancer—and clasped his hand, begging to see him married before he died.
It was the first time Yoru ever compromised.
He joined Sanko Shipping Company—the one he'd once dreamed of working for.
It was huge. So huge it took ten years of consecutive losses before finally going bankrupt—leaving behind a debt of 520 billion yen.
That same year, Yoru compromised again.
He married the daughter of his father's old friend—a woman two years his senior who worked at a biotech company in Tokyo.
The day after the wedding, his father's condition plummeted.
On his deathbed, the old man grasped his hand one last time, murmuring, "Be happy."
If happiness were that easy, there wouldn't be so many broken people in the world.
Three years later, their daughter was born.
And his wife's attitude changed overnight. She quit her job, insisting on being a full-time homemaker.
By the fifth year after his father's death, her spending had spiraled out of control. She gambled away their daughter's education fund. They had their first major fight.
After work, he came home with a bouquet of roses, ready to apologize.
He opened the door—just in time to see his wife's triumphant grin. Beneath her feet lay shreds of his novel manuscript—snow-white pages stained with ink.
It was the book he'd spent a decade writing. Almost finished.
For a moment, his mind went blank. Then one thought burned in his head: divorce.
But each night, when he remembered his father smiling at that wedding, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
And when his married coworkers told him all marriages were like that, he convinced himself it was normal. "Everyone lives like this," he told himself.
In 1979, as real estate prices soared, his wife insisted they buy a condo near Roppongi.
At the time, the market looked great, so it wasn't a terrible idea—except Roppongi was expensive. And shipping wasn't doing well. Losing his job would be catastrophic.
He suggested cheaper areas—Shinjuku, maybe Shibuya—but she refused. Roppongi or nothing.
This time, he tried to stand his ground.
But it's hard to win arguments when your opponent doesn't work and has all day to wear you down.
She nagged him relentlessly, making his home life hell until he gave in.
In 1981, as the company's profits tanked, her attitude grew colder. She stopped doing housework entirely. Even demanded he start cooking.
He thought she was joking—until one night during a company drinking party, she burst in screaming, throwing things, making a scene.
The thought of divorce surged again, but when his four-year-old daughter ran up to him with those innocent, worried eyes, he couldn't go through with it.
And so, the compromises piled up.
He started coming home early to cook, stopped going to parties, even refused invitations from his new boss.
Within a month, the company fired him under various pretexts.
With no income, they defaulted on the mortgage. Debt collectors came knocking. Terrified, Yoru fled with his family to the countryside.
From then on, his wife treated him like dirt—like an enemy.
Their daughter, now in grade school, lost her childhood friends because of the move, and started resenting him too.
Later, through his father-in-law, Yoru found a job as a security guard at a cherry orchard.
At some point, his daughter started wearing shirts that read "Children of Broken Homes Support Group" everywhere she went—like she wanted the world to know her family was a mess and her father a useless middle-aged failure.
The villagers whispered about him openly. Pointed fingers. Laughed behind his back.
Yoru's thoughts drifted back to the present. He put pen to paper again.
"I can understand the supervisor's actions."
"I can even understand my coworkers' contempt."
"What I can't understand… is myself."
"The whole 'Hirofumi Yoshida' incident makes no logical sense. Back in my student days, I would've investigated every detail."
"Now, one slap is enough to make me stop thinking. My head's filled with fear of demotion and unemployment."
"But I already hate this job—almost as much as I hate my wife, though less than my daughter. So what am I even afraid of?"
"Funny thing is, that fear doesn't come from the company. It comes from them—from home."
"This job's the only thing keeping that miserable family together. Lose it, and my wife will kill me. My daughter will erase me."
"I'm clinging to a job I despise, just to maintain a relationship I loathe. Because without them, at forty-seven, I'd have nothing left at all."
"Why… why did my life end up like this?"
He closed his notebook.
A flicker of regret passed through him.
He'd made this impulsive choice out of frustration—joining this overnight team-building trip without asking his wife's permission.
"She's gonna scream at me when I get back," he muttered. "Guess the next six months are gonna be hell."
Night fell.
The hastily organized company retreat turned out just as lazy and disorganized as he'd expected.
But thanks to it, for the first time in sixteen years, he found himself drinking at a bar again.
He'd been silent too long. He no longer knew how to mingle with others. So he just kept drinking quietly.
Half a mug of hot beer later, his stomach started churning. He barely made it a few steps before throwing up on the floor.
The sour stench filled the air. His coworkers grimaced, then—out of politeness—quickly masked it with forced laughter, concern, and teasing remarks.
The noise made him feel worse. He waved them off weakly.
The short, chubby guard helped him back to his room and laid him down on the freshly made futon.
My head hurts.
Eyes closed, he drifted toward sleep.
The chubby guard chuckled as he helped him out of his coat.
"Didn't think you'd show up, Captain. First time since I joined, at least."
"Feels gross, huh? Heh, me too. But I'm still young, trying to move up."
"Funny thing about bosses—you toast them, they forget you. Don't toast them, they never forget."
He tucked the blanket over Yoru.
"Honestly, I think you've got the right idea. Spending time with family's good. Keeps things peaceful… And hey, about what I said earlier, don't take it too hard. I wasn't trying to be mean."
Halfway through, Yoru's snores filled the room.
The guard sighed in relief. "Good. I wouldn't have the guts to say all this if you were awake."
Time passed.
When Yoru opened his eyes again, everything was bathed in cold, blue light.
His chest felt icy.
The president, the supervisor, the chubby guard—every coworker—was hanging from the crystalline branches of a massive blue tree.
Their eyes were closed, faces pale. If not for the branches spearing through their bodies, they might've looked peacefully asleep.
Yoru's vision swam with terror—until he looked down and saw a branch piercing straight through his own heart.
Then, at last, an eerie calm washed over him.
"…Thank God… I won't… get yelled at anymore…"