01 - The Gray Bridge

The sun bled through the grimy window of the university library, casting long, dusty shadows across rows of books that held more life than I did. It was a weak, watery light, the kind that promised a new day I had no interest in seeing. My head was heavy, cheek stuck to the cool, polished wood of the table where I’d fallen asleep. Again.

A dream, vivid and warm, clung to the edges of my consciousness like morning mist. It was a memory that didn't feel like mine. On a sprawling, impossibly green hill, under the shade of a colossal, ancient tree, two little girls were playing. They wore matching white dresses, their laughter like tiny bells chiming in the summer breeze. One had hair the color of spun moonlight, a cascade of pure white that seemed to shimmer even in the dream's soft focus. The other’s was a warm, earthy brown, catching the sun in threads of gold. They danced in circles, their small hands clasped together, their joy so pure and untainted it felt like a foreign language.

My eyes fluttered open. The dream dissolved, leaving behind a familiar ache, a phantom limb of a past I couldn't grasp. The library was quiet, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustle of turning pages. Just a dream. A recurring one. I often wondered if it was a fabrication of a lonely mind, a desperate attempt to create a happy memory where none existed.

My name is Juiro Minasaki. I am twenty-four years old, a student of Civil Engineering, and I had, for all intents and purposes, given up on life. Each day was a monumental effort of putting one foot in front of the other, a series of motions devoid of meaning or purpose. My parents had died in a car accident ten years ago. The same accident that had stolen them from me had also stolen my past, wiping the slate of my memory clean from everything before that day. I woke up in a hospital bed a stranger to myself.

My grandparents, bless their weary hearts, had taken me in. They were old then and are older now, their faces etched with the worry of raising a grandson who was a ghost in his own home. They tried, they really did. They fed me, clothed me, sent me to school, and now to university. But the chasm between us was too vast. They were mourning a daughter and a son-in-law, while trying to connect with a boy who didn't remember their love, their scent, their home. I was a living reminder of their loss, and they were a constant reminder of my emptiness.

So, I lived alone. In a small, sterile apartment closer to the university, funded by their pension and the life insurance payout that felt like blood money. I was a nobody. A hollow man walking through the motions. My grades were slipping, my attendance was sporadic. The complex equations of structural analysis, the elegant principles of fluid dynamics—they were just meaningless symbols on a page. How could I build bridges for the world when I couldn't even build one to my own past?

My only tether to anything resembling human connection was a girl named Aiko. We’d never met in person. She was a casual gaming friend, a voice through a headset, a tag on a screen. She was a year younger than me, twenty-three, and a demon on the virtual battlefields of League of Hero, a MOBA game that was my only real escape. We formed an unlikely duo. My calculated, defensive playstyle as a tank character perfectly complemented her aggressive, all-or-nothing approach as a damage dealer.

"Juiro, you there? You're spacing out again," her voice, cheerful and bright, would crackle through my headphones. "Their jungler is rotating bot. Don't die on me, old man."

I’d grunt a reply and reposition my character, the fantasy violence a welcome distraction from the silent screaming in my own head. I treated her like a sister. She was funny, sharp, and relentlessly optimistic. She knew I was quiet and a bit of a loner, but she didn't know the depth of the abyss I stared into every day. To her, I was just Juiro, her reliable in-game partner. It was a simple, uncomplicated relationship, and I cherished it more than she would ever know.

But even Aiko's cheerful voice couldn't fill the void. Today, the grayness was heavier than usual. The dream of the two girls had left me with a profound sense of loss for something I never even had. The library felt suffocating, the weight of a future I didn't want pressing down on me. I packed my bag, the movements slow and deliberate, and walked out into the fading afternoon light.

I didn't go back to my apartment. My feet, acting on a will of their own, carried me through the bustling Tokyo streets, past laughing couples and hurried salarymen. I was invisible, a ghost haunting the periphery of their vibrant lives. My destination was a place I’d thought of often, a recurring image in my darker moments: the Rainbow Bridge, arching gracefully over Tokyo Bay.

It was beautiful, an engineering marvel. A testament to human ingenuity and ambition. A bridge designed to connect, to bring people together. The irony was a bitter pill in my throat.

I walked to the pedestrian path, the wind whipping at my jacket, carrying the salty tang of the sea. Below, the water was a dark, churning gray, mirroring the sky and the turmoil in my soul. The city lights began to twinkle to life, a sprawling galaxy of artificial stars. It was a world full of light and life, and I was a black hole at its edge.

This was it. The thought wasn't dramatic or panicked. It was calm, resigned. A logical conclusion to a failed experiment. I leaned against the railing, the cold metal biting into my palms. One quick climb, one final step, and the emptiness inside would finally meet the emptiness outside. It would be over. The pain, the loneliness, the suffocating burden of a life I never asked for.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to pull myself up.

And that's when I saw her.

At the far corner of the bridge's viewing platform, partially obscured by a support beam, stood a lady. A goddess. That was the only word that came to mind. She was bathed in the ethereal glow of the city lights, her form slender and elegant. Her hair was the most striking thing about her. It was long, impossibly long, and the purest shade of white, like moonlight given form. It cascaded down her back, stirred by the same wind that chilled me to the bone. She was staring out at the water, her posture radiating a sorrow so profound it seemed to draw all the light and warmth from her surroundings.

She was beautiful. Achingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. And she looked as lost as I felt.