Chapter 1: How Far You'll Go?

In the heart of Toyohashi—a city that never blinks, where silence is a luxury and time is always late—lives a man who hums against the noise.

Dence, a mild-mannered office drone by day, soul-scarred busker by night. He doesn't just carry a guitar, as his music buddy, and katana, as his props. He carries wounds that never bled, stories no spreadsheet could ever balance.

A solo father of three, he juggles deadlines and throws garbage every Monday morning, lullabies and lunchboxes, love and survival. Their cramped apartment smells of instant noodles, spilled dreams, and toothpaste kisses. "Oh! The heater’s broken again!" But the kids still laugh. Somehow, that keeps the lights on.

By morning: necktie.
By evening: amplifier.
By midnight: reheated Filipino food, rough guitar chords, and songs scribbled in the margins of unpaid bills.

At Toyohashi Station, he busk. Plugs in.
Strangers pass like static.
A few toss coins. Most don’t.
But still—he plays.
Not for fame. Not even for applause.

He plays to keep the silence from eating him alive.

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[One Lovely Evening — Toyohashi South Station Square]

The sky over Toyohashi was velvet blue, tinged with city lights. A soft wind stirred the leaves. A few people lingered. Dence was busking again—his guitar slung low, his voice carrying gently through the square. Before him, an elderly Japanese woman stood quietly. She listened—head slightly bowed—as Dence sang ひまわりの約束 (Sunflower's Promise).

Dence (singing, baritone ending):
「🎶ひまわりのような　まっすぐなその優しさを
　温もりを　全部
　これからは僕も　届けていきたい
　本当の幸せの意味を見つけたから🎶」

(All that gentleness and warmth, straight like a sunflower...
From now on, I want to deliver it too.
Because I found the true meaning of happiness.)

His voice faltered just slightly—his eyes flickering with heat as a single tear escaped.

The old woman stepped forward and gently placed a ¥1,000 bill in his tip jar. No words. Just a kind nod. Dence straightened, blinking. Something inside him surged—a small ember rekindled. He strummed again, bolder this time.

But then—
Someone dialing.
Shrill, urgent.

Across the plaza stood a man—Peruvian, wild-eyed, mouthing something furiously as he pointed at Dence.

Moments later, two officers approached.

Police (with calm authority in Japanese):
“Excuse us. Can we see your residence card?”

Dence (smiling, unfazed):
“Of course.”

He handed over the documents—clean, legal, no issue. But still—

Police (in Japanese):
“We’ll have to ask you to pack up for the evening.”

He nodded, folding his mic stand, packing up the warmth that had just begun to bloom.

Dence (to himself, shaking his head):
“So much for lucky charms.”

The glow of the evening faded.

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[Later That Night — Home]

He returned with three Tuna-Mayo onigiris—one for each of his kids. And for him―two Black Thunder chocolates for an evening meal. As he stepped through the door, three pairs of arms wrapped around him.

Children:
「お疲れ様でした！」
(“Thank you for your hard work!”)

Dence (soft laugh):
“Sorry my lalabs... late dinner again tonight.”

Middle child (beaming):
“It’s alright, Daddy. What’s important is... you’re here now.”

They ate.
They laughed.
He burped.
They groaned.

And just like that, it was a good night.

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[1:03 AM — The Weight of Silence]

He lay in the dark, eyes open. The ceiling offered no comfort. The thoughts came anyway.

Rent.
Bills.
Deadlines.

The creeping feeling that maybe this dream... wasn’t for him.

But still—he worked. One last secret project. A concept album. Dedma — a love letter to buried feelings and forgotten fire.

Six months in.
Still incomplete.
Still... burning.

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[Rainy Evening — Lightning Breaks]

The middle child sat by the window, hands clamped over his ears, flinching as the thunder rolled like distant drums.

 Meanwhile, the eldest stirred pasta and tomato sauce with dramatic flair, grinning.

“Who’s ready for my world-famous spaghetti?” she called out.

Laughter echoed through the apartment as every hand shot up.
“Me! Me! Me!”

The youngest slipped a crumpled paper into his hand.

A stick figure with one sided hairstyle, an acoustic guitar slung across his back, katana in hand, slashing through a storm cloud.
Above it, in orange crayon:
“Daddy is a Hero.”

He didn’t cry.
Not then.
Not in front of them.

That night, beneath the warm shed of love and completeness from his lovely energy capsules—he is revived. Strength―always renewed.

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[Another Day, Another Song]

Late afternoon.
He returned to his square.

Set up the mic stand.
Adjusted the lyric sheet.
Plugged in the amp.

His fingers touched the strings of his black Yamaha acoustic guitar.

Strum.
Strum.

Let It Be began to drift from his soul. Across the station, someone watched. A hooded figure on the platform. In her pocket, something glowed faintly—an old lyric notebook, edges frayed, spine cracked. The name Sam was etched on the cover.

Worn. But not forgotten. A whisper swallowed by the wind.

She turns, fading into the crowd.
"Let's see how far you'll go, Dence."

(To be continued...)
(Next: The Whispering Corner)