The Morning Glow Burns with Youth

Episode 2: Cold Miso Soup and Lies to Keep the Peace

A glass-walled café.

The air conditioner hummed quietly in the background.

On the table sat two glasses of iced coffee, beaded with condensation.

Ayumu and Misaki sat across from each other.

"Hey, look at this. It's hilarious."

Misaki pointed her smartphone screen toward Ayumu.

On the screen, a cute cat was doing a strange little step.

Ayumu chuckled softly, lifting his eyes from his own phone.

"True. Honestly, this cat's time-efficiency is off the charts."

An effortless laughter drifted between them.

It was their usual atmosphere—comfortable, without any friction.

"Oh, by the way,"

Misaki murmured, twirling her straw with her fingertips.

"How did yesterday's joint career fair go?"

At that moment, it felt as though the air above the table grew just a fraction colder.

Ayumu picked up his glass of iced coffee.

His fingertips slid smoothly over the cold glass, leaving only water droplets on his skin.

"Mmh, pretty average, I guess. Looked at a few stable-looking infrastructure companies, but nothing really clicked."

"I see. Well, as long as we both take it easy and don't rush, right?"

Misaki wore her usual soft smile, swiping her smartphone screen.

"Exactly. We still have plenty of time."

Neither of them ventured beyond that point.

To speak any deeper would mean touching "heavy realities" like future anxiety or financial strain.

He didn't want to hurt Misaki. Nor did he want to show his own pathetic side.

So, they played their roles as smart, uncomplicated partners for each other.

Misaki's fingers, twirling the straw, were pale and perfectly clean.

A risk-free, safe distance where not even their fingertips brushed.

But deep inside Ayumu’s chest, a lukewarm, stagnant loneliness gathered—like cold miso soup left on a table.

(Are we... actually connected at all?)

Misaki’s profile, gazing into the dazzling world beyond her screen, seemed incredibly far away.

A winter night in 1952.

The tiny six-tatami apartment was wrapped in a freezing silence.

Through the thin wooden walls, the wind whistled and seeped inside.

A single, small low table sat in the center of the room.

Yumi exhaled a breath white from the cold, working her treadle sewing machine with a steady clatter.

Her fingertips, swollen from washing clothes in the freezing winter well-water, were split with painful, raw cracks.

Yumi hid those scarred hands beneath her apron, offering reheated, yet already cooling, miso soup to Seiichi, who had just returned home.

"Sorry I'm so late, Seiichi. I'll reheat the pot right now."

"No, it's fine. Don't waste the gas. It's good as it is."

Seiichi picked up the cold bowl and moved his chopsticks.

In the bowl, a thin film of cold grease had formed over the miso soup.

It felt like a symbol of their guilty livelihood, earned from grueling munitions factory labor and the absurd war procurement boom.

Seiichi sipped the soup in silence, and Yumi stared mutely at her sewing machine.

Between them lay only a heavy, freezing silence.

"Seiichi... is work... hard?"

Yumi asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.

"Not really. It's just normal,"

Seiichi replied without looking at her.

In truth, his heart was being chipped away by the sparks flying day and night, and the endless hammering of iron meant to harm others.

Every day, he felt the primal terror of survival deep in his bones: "If I get hurt, this life collapses in an instant."

But if he spat out his weakness, it would utterly crush Yumi, who was already worn ragged by her side-work.

So, Seiichi lied. "It's normal," he said.

Yumi, too, hid the pain of her chapped hands from Seiichi, forcing a smile.

Their "gentleness"—their desire to protect one another from pain—instead erected a freezing wall between them.

Seiichi's hands holding the bowl were blackened with soot, iron dust embedded deep in the creases of his skin.

Yumi's hands were numb from the freezing water, stiff and red.

Though within arm's reach, they could not even bring themselves to touch.

(What... are we even living for?)

As Seiichi stared into the cold miso soup, only the metallic clatter of Yumi’s sewing machine continued to echo, cold and hollow.

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🌐OriginalJapanesehere:https://note.com/juicy_laelia8513/n/n0ace1aeb6c34

"Thank you so much for reading to the very end!"💗