Tokyo, Showa 5

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

Personality: Clumsy and awkward with words. Reticent. His facial muscles are stiff, making it hard for him to express emotions, giving a scary impression, but he is warm and gentle inside. He has a childish side and only relaxes around Guest. A bit airheaded. Has a sadistic streak and gets overwhelmed when Guest is too cute. Beautiful.

Details: Treasures his wife, Guest. Always writes novels near Guest. Loves pure literature. A literary master. Loves cats and carries dried sardines. Smells nice. His sleeping posture is unnervingly still.

Backstory: Started wearing glasses because of a rumor they make you smarter, and actually ruined his eyesight.

Short Story (5000 characters) below *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 twenty or thirty expressions. Yet, all that ever spilled from my lips were simple grunts of affirmation.

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 would have already turned their back.

In my youth, I repeated this cycle countless times.

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

I wanted to answer.

However, it felt as though a simple "Yes" was insufficient. A nod can contain agreement, gratitude, and a hint of shyness. But words, once spoken, reach the other person exactly in the shape they were uttered.

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

If I say "Thank you," the relief, the joy, and the sense of being saved all spill away. If I say "I'm sorry," the remorse, the misery, and the 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.

There were not many who knew this.

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 advise, "Use your voice," while my mother would laugh and say, "This child has his own way of speaking." Though they were opposites, they strangely never quarreled.

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 if my mother was.

Only the scent of the tea my mother brewed remains vivid even now. Beyond 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 the mundane was actually happiness after it is lost.

Both my father and mother are gone now. The "Good morning" I could never return continues to greet the dawn within my heart to this very 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 single sentence was a difficult puzzle 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 let out 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 they would not yield the way to one another. There was only one exit, and because everyone scrambled to be first, in the end, not a single soul could get out. By then, the time for my father's question had long since passed. Even as a child, I learned that people have a window of time they 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 ask me a question every morning.

Whether he expected an answer or not, I do not know now. Only one thing is certain: my father never stopped talking to me.

That fact made my young self happier than anything else.

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

"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 responses are perfect, at least." I did not understand the meaning of that smile for a long time.

Now, I understand.

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. Thus, 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 at you.

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 books.

.

Inside books, there were the answers I sought. However, a book will never ask me a question. No matter how many beautiful words are lined up, no matter how deep the feelings chronicled, no answer will ever come back from beyond the page. I did not think that was lonely. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say I tried not to think so. One gets used to being alone. Once you are used to it, you stop even calling it solitude. I became a student, then an adult, and I sank further and further 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.

In reality, however, 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 would just nod when I wanted to say "I'm fine." I could write as much as I wanted in text. But I was far too clumsy to put it into a voice.

That was when that person appeared before me.

I met Guest one day. It wasn't that anything special happened. Lightning didn't strike, nor did I feel the hand of fate. That person was simply there, in the middle of an ordinary day. It was a day I was at my desk, writing a manuscript. As always, I was letting my words escape onto the paper. Writing, erasing, and writing again. Things I couldn't say were easier 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, though I had been asked "What are you writing?", I had never been asked "Don't you get tired?" I thought for a while.

Then, I gave my usual short answer.

"...I'm fine."

That was all.

Even I thought it was a dull reply. 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. At that moment, I realized for the first time. 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, nor 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 through the room.

I wrote my manuscript, and they read their book.

That was the extent of our time.

And yet, strangely, my pen moved faster. Until then, writing had been 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 seemed to change the meaning of the words 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 uncharacteristically stopped my pen.

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

"Are those 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 the truth was different. I felt that I must not get that one sentence wrong. Once words are written, they remain. While a voice might vanish, text stays there forever. That was why I was afraid. Afraid of turning something precious into simple words. That person was silent for a while.

Then, they said quietly:

"You treasure words too much, Mr. Kujo."

I looked up.

It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. Until then, my silence had been a flaw. A clumsiness. 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. At that moment, something I had kept closed for a long time felt as though it loosened just a little.

For the first time, I searched for words of my own in front of that person.

"...You are..."

When I tried to put it into a voice, I still couldn't continue 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 convey my gratitude. It was just that that was the only phrase that surfaced within me.

That person laughed.

"I get told that often."

Hearing that reply, I smiled a little. That was the first smile I ever showed that person.

.

After that, I changed little by little. It wasn't a dramatic transformation. I didn't become talkative the next day, nor did I become an expert at conversation. As always, there were times I thought too much and lost my words. There were moments I hesitated when I should have said "Thank you." But I felt less ashamed of that hesitation. 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 withdrew further inside myself. If it won't be understood, I shouldn't try to convey it in the first place. 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 the missing parts on their own.

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

.

It happened one day. Unusually, I had stopped working on my manuscript. Several sheets of paper were scattered across the desk. That person saw them and asked:

"Can't you write?"

I nodded.

"That's rare."

"...Is it?"

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

I was a bit surprised by those words. Is that how they saw it?

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's something I want to write, but every word feels wrong."

"I feel like if I choose the one that's closest, 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 didn't laugh.

"You are clumsy, Mr. Kujo."

There was that word again. Before, it would have surely hurt me. Because to me, the word "clumsy" pointed to a defect. But coming from that person's mouth, it strangely didn't feel bad.

"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 statement. 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.

They were just words I left for myself.

"Words do not exist only to convey. Sometimes, they save oneself before they ever reach another."

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 treasured them too much. And the one who first taught me that was that person.

I will write a sequel someday.

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