Prologue

Some believe that the very first moments of a life can define its future—an idea both superstitious and fascinating, as it carries a certain reasoning behind it. After all, the foundations of any work define the form and direction it will take. This applies not only to architecture but also to art. The epilogue of a novel can—and in strict terms should—convey its essence, define its nuances, and establish its identity.

If the story of my life had to begin with a concept, a general idea, a single word to define it entirely, it would be… Desolation; the cruel constant present in every stage of my existence. But to understand why, I must go back to that dawn in a Hokkaido hospital, the morning of my birth.

Unable to withstand the effort of bringing me into the world, my mother died in the delivery room where I first saw the light. She suffered from myasthenia gravis, and her muscles could not perform the function of pushing. On top of that, she suffered a third-degree perineal tear that caused her to bleed heavily. Even so, resisting the pain, she managed to bring me into the world at the cost of enduring an agony her heart could not survive.

The first and strongest bond humans form is that of mother and child. It is established the moment the newborn, overwhelmed by the shock of existence, stretches out its arms and feels for the very first time human warmth—the warmth of its mother. Fate decided to deny me that most precious gift.

Only through the stories my father and grandparents told me about her, and through the photographs in albums and portraits, was I able to piece together the kind of person my mother was, even though I never met her. It is difficult for me to define what I feel for her. I do not know if I can honestly say I miss her, since she vanished from my life before I had memory. I do not even know if I love her. Is it possible to love or miss someone you never knew? What I do know is that I feel an immense gratitude toward her, and perhaps because of that I developed an interest in the very thing that was her passion in life: sewing. Eventually, it became my own passion, shaping my dream of becoming a fashion designer.

For a time, it was just my father and me—until Ayume came along, the woman he married. Ayume ended up adopting the maternal role in my upbringing, for better or worse, for both of us. I say this because, without a doubt, she loved my father deeply, but she was not the least bit interested in being my mother. And truthfully… I was not very interested in her trying to be. So we kept a distant relationship, each doing what we had to: I behaved at school and stayed out of trouble; she took care of the house, cooked, and played with me. Neither of us interfered too much in the other’s life. However, our relationship would take a drastic turn after… the incident.

It is hard to speak of someone you once loved with all your heart when their very existence is inevitably tied to the tragedy that took them away from you. But it is unavoidable.

My father was the knot that held my life together. I longed to be someone important to earn his admiration. I tried to be sociable despite my introverted nature, to be kind and cheerful because my father taught me that charisma and companionship are essential values for those who want to go far in life. It was for him that, even though I never truly saw Ayume as a mother, I tried to treat her as such. He was my model of formation, the man I aspired to become: a true man who gave everything for the well-being and happiness of his family.

After graduating in computer science, my father got a job in a small but promising mobile game company that was on the rise. He worked tirelessly to give Ayume and me a decent life, and even though this meant that his presence in my daily routine was brief, our time together was always wonderful. Despite the fatigue, despite the exhaustion, my father would come home with a smile, ready to have fun with me and listen to all my childish chatter. Later, he would share a glass of whiskey with Ayume and play music on his record player so they could dance together. He was a true romantic.

My father always strove to give me the best in material things—toys, video games, and everything else. Yet all of those gifts paled in comparison to the most valuable one he gave me at the very moment I needed it most: his wisdom.

After my father was transferred to the company’s headquarters, we had to move to Tokyo. I entered middle school, and although I tried to make friends, I had no luck. No one wanted to hang out with a country boy who had just arrived. On top of that, the subjects in which I had once excelled now seemed too difficult for me to understand—especially mathematics, which had escalated from predictable patterns to a jungle of symbols and complex functions beyond simple addition and subtraction.

Not only was I no longer excelling academically, but I was also failing in sports. And while I had never been good at them in elementary school, now physical ability had become a determining factor for status and popularity. I quickly fell into the pit of irrelevance, spending my lunches alone.

I tried to change my depressing situation by joining a club: the sewing club. But since it was made up entirely of girls, when I proposed joining they looked at me with disgust. I decided to back down and pretend it had been a joke to avoid worsening my already fragile reputation—though calling it fragile might be too generous, since it was practically nonexistent. Still, my efforts were in vain. Soon enough, rumors began to spread about the boy who wanted to join a girls’ club. And while no one ever confronted me directly, the whispers in the hallways followed me: pervert, unmanly, weirdo, and more labels piled on. That was when I discovered that sometimes being ignored is better. The bullying, the bad grades, the criticism from teachers, and the loneliness made me lose faith in myself and come to despise who I was.

For the first time in years, I spent my birthday with only my father and Ayume. I tried to enjoy myself, and overall, it was a wonderful day—we visited the aquarium and ate pizza. But that night, alone in my room, after Ayume had tucked me into bed, I could not help but cry hidden under the sheets. That was when my father came in. I don’t know why—perhaps he had sensed something was wrong, or perhaps he wanted to tell me something. It no longer matters. Hearing my sobs, he approached me and gave me the warmest hug he had ever given me. At that moment, I didn’t know it would be the last.

Through sobs, I barely managed to tell him what was troubling me, in a stream of barely intelligible babble. Surely it must have been irritating for him, yet he patiently let me pour my heart out until I was exhausted. After a brief silence, he took the time to reflect, then prepared to answer.

Ten years have passed, and perhaps I can no longer recall the true sound of his voice. But the last words my father shared with me that night—October 26th, just minutes before his disappearance—have remained within my heart, accompanying me through the darkest times of my life, when the merciless lash of failure brought me to my knees.

“Do not mourn or belittle yourself because of rejection. You know yourself, and you know your worth. Perhaps, as you say, you have no talent—but you don’t need it. In this world, glory awaits those with the will to claim it, and I know you have it. No matter how many times you prick your fingers with the needle, you keep practicing your sewing. Children older than you would have given up out of fear, but not you. So wipe away those tears and show me your greatest smile. You have nothing to regret—you are an extraordinary boy.”

The end of this story is extremely confusing. Not being a witness to what happened, I can only summarize what the police later determined in their investigation.

After making sure I was feeling better, my father said goodnight and went back to his room, where Ayume was reading a book. Hours later, around midnight, he got out of bed quietly enough not to wake her. He dressed, left the room, went downstairs to the living room, took the car keys from the wall, put on his shoes, coat, and scarf.

My father left the house at 12:35 a.m., seen by the neighbor across the street, who was returning home drunk after a night out with friends at a bar. He got into the car and drove out of the block, turning left toward the north until he disappeared from the neighbor’s sight. At 1:11 a.m., my father parked the car in a convenience store lot, went inside to buy a pack of cigarettes and some mints, and asked to use the restroom, which was out of service. After that, he left, his presence confirmed by security cameras.

At 1:57 a.m., the police received a complaint about a car parked in the middle of an intersection, blocking traffic. A patrol arrived on the scene at 2:19 a.m. and found the vehicle abandoned, engine running, headlights on, and the radio playing Falling Jimmy by Maximum the Hormone. No one in the driver’s seat.

At 5:25 a.m., the police knocked on our door. Ayume, having woken up and noticed her husband’s absence, opened the door and offered them shelter from the cold along with cups of hot tea. I woke up an hour later, came out of my room, went downstairs, and headed to the dining room, expecting to find a family breakfast waiting for me. But that was not what I found, nor would I ever again. Instead, Ayume was slumped over the table, hiding her face in her arms, surrounded by empty beer bottles—all the ones from the night before.

The news left me petrified. In an effort to resist reality, I feigned indifference and optimism. I tried to be the hope that kept Ayume afloat, but she, overwhelmed by despair, surrendered to drinking and grew even more distant from me. The woman who had once been the closest thing I had to a mother was now just a shadow of the person I had once known. She no longer smiled, and every attempt I made to help her was met with anger and aggression. After so many failed efforts, exposing myself to more pain, I resigned myself to her decline.

Despite all their efforts, the police never found my father, and the case was closed. It was useless to keep up the mask of false optimism, and I had no choice but to resign myself to the fact that he would never return.

And so I went on living my life, carrying the pain of my father’s absence. Still, I know the last thing that man would want is for me to let sorrow defeat me and lose my resolve to pursue my dreams.

Ten years have passed since then. Now, as an adult, taking my first steps into the working world, I set out to become the man I wish to be.

Perhaps now, and perhaps never, I have had much to boast of, and my life is far from enviable. Yet I strive to live each day with pride. Even though I am neither talented nor special, I know I can go far as long as I hold on to my will. That is why I rise again and again after every defeat, walking with my head held high, proud and certain that one day, I will reach glory.