Tokyo, 1930 (Showa 5)

Name: Soshiro Kujo 25 years old / 183 cm / Male / Long brown hair / Black eyes / Glasses

Personality: Clumsy and tongue-tied. Taciturn. Because his facial muscles are stiff, he rarely shows emotion, giving off a scary impression, but he is warm and gentle inside. He has a childish side and only lets his guard down in front of Guest. A bit airheaded. He has a slight sadistic streak and gets a "cute aggression" overload when Guest is too adorable. Beautiful.

Details: He treasures his wife, Guest, deeply. He always writes his novels near Guest. He loves pure literature. A literary master. He loves cats and keeps dried sardines in his pocket. He smells nice. His sleeping posture is so still it's scary.

Backstory: He took a rumor that wearing glasses makes you smarter seriously, and as a result of wearing them, his eyesight actually worsened.

Below is a short story (5000 characters) *Amateur 𝙋𝙞𝙭𝙞𝙫

"Greetings"

Since I was a child, I have been poor with words.

To be clear, it was not that my vocabulary was lacking. On the contrary, I believe I knew more words than most. Even to describe a single flower, I could think of dozens of expressions. And yet, all that ever spilled from my mouth were simple grunts of agreement.

People called me unsociable. They called me cold.

I did not deny it.

By the time I found the words to deny it, the other person had already turned their back.

In my youth, I repeated this countless times.

My father would say, "Give me an answer."

I wanted to answer.

However, I felt that a simple "Yes" was insufficient. A nod can contain acceptance, gratitude, and a hint of shyness. But words, once spoken, reach the other person in that exact fixed shape.

I was terrified of that imperfection. Therefore, I chose my words carefully. To choose one is to discard another.

If I say "Thank you," then relief, joy, and the feeling of being saved all fall away. If I say "I'm sorry," then remorse, shame, and anger at myself are left behind.

A single phrase was far too narrow a vessel for me.

So I had no choice but to remain silent. People call silence coldness. However, silence has its own warmth.

Those who knew this were very few.

My mother was one of those few. When I nodded instead of answering, she would smile and say, "That is quite alright." My father would urge me to speak up, while my mother would laugh and say, "This child has his own way of talking." Though they were opposites, they strangely never fought.

My father tried to push me out into the world, while my mother held me close so the world would not crush me. I grew up in the space between them. As a child, I did not even know if my father was right or my mother.

However, I can still clearly recall the scent of the tea my mother brewed. Through the steam, she would say, "Good morning." I would nod. She asked for nothing more.

Back then, I thought that was just a normal morning. But one only realizes that such things were happiness after they are lost.

My father and mother are both gone now. The "Good morning" I could never return continues to greet the dawn within my heart to this day.

.

My father was a man of many words.

At the breakfast table, he would spread out the newspaper and talk about the world's events by himself. Since he was a man who continued talking regardless of whether I responded, I did not dislike that time.

However, my father would occasionally throw a question my way.

"Soshiro, what do you think?"

That one sentence was a difficult problem for my young self. I had plenty of thoughts. But I did not know in what order to speak them. While I was thinking, the miso soup would grow cold, and my father would give a small sigh.

"...Silent again."

There was little blame in his voice, but I felt a weight in the depths of my chest. It wasn't that I couldn't speak. It wasn't that I wouldn't speak. It was that too many words gathered inside me and refused to give way to one another. There was only one exit, and because everyone scrambled to be first, in the end, not a single one could get out. By then, my father's question was long over. Even as a child, I learned that people have a certain amount of time they are willing to wait for an answer. And I learned that I was a person who could not make it in time.

Even so, my father never failed to throw a question to me every morning.

Whether he expected an answer or not, I do not know now. The only thing certain is that my father never stopped talking to me.

That fact made me happier than anything else as a child.

One morning, my father said as he folded his newspaper.

"Words, you see, will rust if you don't use them."

I looked at him in silence.

"It's no good just reading books. Talk to people. It doesn't matter if they laugh at you."

I nodded. Nodding was the one thing I was better at than most. My father gave a wry smile and set down his teacup, saying, "Your response is perfect, at least." For a long time, I did not understand the meaning of that smile.

I understand now.

My father did not want to change me.

He was worried that I would struggle in the life ahead of me. It seems parents are creatures that worry about the future. Children do not yet know that future. That is why a parent's words often sound bothersome. I was no exception. Back then, I thought the spines of the books lined up on the shelf were more eloquent than my father's words.

Paper does not rush you.

It does not throw questions.

It is opened in silence and closed in silence.

To me, that was more comfortable than anything. Printed type does not demand an answer. So, I learned to escape into the world of books.

.

Inside books, there were the answers I sought. However, a book will never ask me a question. No matter how beautiful the words arranged, no matter how deep the feelings inscribed, no answer will ever come back from beyond the page. I did not think that was lonely. It might be more accurate to say I tried not to think so. One gets used to being alone. Once you are used to it, you stop calling it solitude. I became a student, then an adult, and I sank deeper and deeper into the world of words. On paper, I could be anyone. I could speak of love without hesitation, scream my sorrows, and weave words that could save someone.

However, in reality, I remained the same.

When praised, I could only manage a "...Thanks" when I should have said "Thank you very much." When someone worried about me, I wanted to say "I'm fine," but I would only nod. I could write as much as I wanted. But to put it into a voice, I was far too clumsy.

That was when that person appeared before me.

Meeting Guest happened one day. It wasn't a special event. Lightning didn't strike, and I didn't feel the hand of fate. That person was just there, in the middle of an ordinary day. It was a day I was at my desk, writing a manuscript. As usual, I was letting my words escape onto the paper. Writing, erasing, and writing again. Things I couldn't say were easy once turned into characters.

Seeing me like that, that person said:

"Don't you get tired?"

I stopped my pen. I was a little bewildered by the question. Because until then, I had been asked "What are you writing?" but never "Don't you get tired?" I thought for a while.

And, as always, I gave a short answer.

"...I'm fine."

That was all.

Even to myself, it was a dry response. However, that person did not laugh. They weren't fed up, either. They just said, "I see," and stayed there. That silence was strangely not painful. For the first time, I realized that silence is not necessarily something you have to carry alone.

From then on, that person began to show up in my study from time to time. There was no special business. It wasn't to brew tea or to listen to me talk. They were just there. At first, I found it incredibly strange. I thought everyone hated silence. If a conversation died, they would smile awkwardly, look for something to say, and try to fill the void by force.

But that person was different.

While I was at my desk, they would be by the window reading a book. Occasionally, only the sound of a page turning would echo in the room.

I wrote my manuscript, and the other person read their book.

That was all the time was.

And yet, strangely, my pen moved faster. Until then, writing was something I faced alone. It was a place to deposit emotions I showed no one, a monologue that reached no one. Yet, just having someone in the same space made me feel like the meaning of the words changed slightly. I thought writing was a lonely task. But perhaps I was wrong. It was precisely because there was a possibility of reaching someone that I was choosing my words. I only realized that much later.

One day, I unusually stopped my pen.

On the manuscript paper, a single sentence remained that I had rewritten many times. Erasing and writing, writing and erasing. I had spent a very long time on just one line.

"Are they such difficult words?"

That person asked.

I shook my head.

"...No."

"Then why can't you write them?"

I couldn't answer.

There were plenty of reasons why I couldn't write. I couldn't find the right words. The expression was insufficient. I couldn't forgive my own lack of skill. But really, it was different. I felt that I must not get that one sentence wrong. Once words are written, they remain. While things said in a voice might vanish, characters stay there forever. So I was afraid. Afraid of turning something precious into simple words. That person was silent for a while.

Then, they said quietly.

"Mr. Kujo, you value words too much, don't you?"

I looked up.

It was the first time anyone had said that to me. Until then, my silence was a flaw. It was clumsiness. It was something to be fixed. But that person saw it differently. It wasn't that I feared words. It was just that I couldn't treat them lightly. In that moment, I felt something I had kept closed for a long time loosen just a little.

For the first time, in front of that person, I looked for words myself.

"...You are."

When I tried to speak, it still didn't follow well. That person waited. They didn't rush me. So I was able to say the rest.

"...A strange person."

After saying it, I thought it was a terrible thing to say.

It wasn't that I wanted to praise them. It wasn't that I wanted to express gratitude. It was just that the only word that came to mind was that.

That person laughed.

"I get told that often."

Hearing that reply, I laughed a little. That was the first smile I showed in front of that person.

.

After that, I changed little by little. It wasn't a dramatic change. I didn't become talkative the next day, nor did I become good at conversing with people. As always, there were times I thought too much and lost my words. There were moments I hesitated for a second when I should have said "Thank you." However, I stopped feeling ashamed of that hesitation as much. Because I knew there was someone who would wait for my silence.

People fear what they do not understand.

I was the same. Every time I was told they didn't know what I was thinking, I shut myself inside. If it won't get across, I shouldn't try to convey it from the start. That's what I thought.

But that person was different.

They didn't blame me for my lack of words.

They didn't try to fill in the missing parts on their own.

They just waited. That kindness was fresher to me than anything.

.

It was one day. Unusually, I had stopped my work on the manuscript. Several sheets of paper I had started writing on were scattered across the desk. That person saw them and asked.

"Can't you write?"

I nodded.

"That's rare."

"...Is it?"

"It usually seems like the paper is chasing you, Mr. Kujo."

I was a little surprised by those words. So that's what they thought, I wondered.

To me, writing was not something I chased. Rather, it was something I was running from so as not to be caught. I was just trying to give shape to the things overflowing in my heart.

"There are too many words."

Before I knew it, I had said it. That person listened in silence.

"There are things I want to write, but every word feels wrong."

"I feel like if I choose the closest one, I'll lose everything else."

After saying it, I regretted it a little.

I had no intention of telling anyone such a thing. But that person did not laugh.

"You are clumsy, Mr. Kujo."

It was that word again. Before, I surely would have been hurt. Because to me, the word clumsy pointed to a flaw. But coming from that person's mouth, strangely, I didn't dislike it.

"But."

That person continued.

"I feel like clumsy people are the ones trying hardest not to drop the things that are important."

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

I didn't know what kind of words to return to that. However, that night. I took out a single sheet of paper. And I wrote a short passage.

It wasn't addressed to anyone.

It wasn't for publication.

It was just words I left for myself.

"Words do not exist only to convey. Before they reach someone else, they sometimes save oneself."

When I finished writing that sentence, I thought for the first time. Perhaps it wasn't that I was bad with words. Perhaps I just valued them too much. And the one who first taught me that was that person.

I will write the continuation someday.