The Boy Who Never Smiled

The sun rose slowly over the city of Kurozawa. The tinted windows of Shinsei Academy reflected a pale, almost desaturated light — as if even the day itself hesitated to begin. The trees lining the school were shedding the last of their autumn leaves, falling in slow spirals onto the cold concrete.

In class 3-C, chatter already bounced off the walls.

— “Did you see the new Blade Zero trailer?”
— “I swear, if Yukari looks at me again today, I’m gonna talk to her!”
— “You forgot your homework again, idiot.”

Laughter, whispers, muffled shouts. The usual noise of a modern Japanese high school. A world of loud friendships, ordinary dreams, and teenage rivalries.

At the back of the room, near the fogged-up window, Rioshi Takeda stared outside. His bag was neatly placed at his feet. His notebook open, notes perfectly straight and free of smudges. He didn’t speak.
He never smiled.

His dark eyes mechanically followed the fall of a lone leaf in the courtyard. His breathing was calm, barely noticeable. He was there — but not quite. Still in the crowd. And that suited him just fine.

He was eighteen. Good grades. No friends.

His routine was set:
Wake up. Eat. Study. Work. Observe. Sleep. Repeat.
A precise, well-oiled, merciless machine.

Everyone at school knew his face without truly seeing him.
“That weird guy who never talks.”
No one really knew him. Not even himself.

At exactly 4:00 p.m., the bell rang. Students practically leapt from their chairs. Laughter, animated conversations, slamming doors.
Rioshi quietly packed up his things. He stood up silently, pulled his hoodie over his head, and walked out without a word.

By 5:00 p.m., he entered through the back door of the Ume no Hana restaurant, tying on his black apron. The owner, Mr. Hara — a round man with bushy eyebrows — looked up from the kitchen.

— “Right on time. As always.”

Rioshi nodded. He washed his hands, pulled on his gloves, and approached the sink.

— “We’re full tonight,” Hara announced. “You’re on floor duty. Tables 3 to 6. That okay?”

— “Yes,” Rioshi answered in a neutral tone.

— “If any customer gives you trouble, tell me. Don’t let them walk over you.”

Rioshi gave a wordless nod, grabbed his notepad, and stepped into the dining area.

— “Welcome to Ume no Hana. May I take your order?” he said in a soft, mechanical voice, almost robotic.

He took orders with precision, served with care. Every plate centered, every glass placed without a sound. No unnecessary words. No wasted motion.

— “Your new waiter’s intense,” whispered a customer to his partner. “He’s like a soldier.”

— “He’s here every night, you know? I heard he lives alone,” she replied. “He doesn’t seem unhappy… but not happy either.”

But no one dared to ask him anything.

He finished his shift at midnight. The last table had left. The dining room was empty, lights dimmed. Rioshi quietly mopped the floor. Hara walked in, holding two beers.

— “You do good work, kid. Ever think of staying on after high school? I could hire you full-time.”

Rioshi paused. He looked at the floor, then at the old man.

— “Thank you… but I haven’t decided yet. I might… try for university.”

— “And can you afford that?” Hara asked, not unkindly.

Rioshi didn’t answer. He simply resumed mopping, wiping away the last footprints.

— “Go home. Working this much at your age isn’t normal,” Hara said, patting his shoulder.

He walked home. Thirty minutes through the cold night. The streets of Kurozawa were quiet, nearly empty. A few neon signs flickered. A cat crossed the road. A couple laughed in the distance.
And he walked on.

At his building, he climbed the three floors without an elevator and opened the door to his tiny apartment.

As always, silence greeted him.

The ceramic bowl by the entrance was empty. Still there. Still intact. A quiet, cruel reminder.

Kuro was gone.

His dog. His brother. His companion on sleepless nights, on late returns. The only living being who had ever understood Rioshi without a word.

He sat in the dark, back against the wall. A folded blanket in the corner, still covered in grey fur, lay untouched for weeks.

He didn’t cry.

He slowly ran his hand over the fabric, as if he could still feel the warm breath of his friend.

“I wasn’t made to be happy,” he whispered.

Then he got up. Took off his work clothes. Slipped into his futon. Stared at the ceiling.
And waited for sleep to come.

But that night… something was different.

He felt a strange pressure in the air. A dull humming in his skull.
As if the world itself were holding its breath.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow will be like every other day.

He was wrong.