Chapter 2: The Color in Ordinary Things

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The city glowed that morning. Not in the flashy, neon blaze Tokyo often promised, but softly—like someone had draped gauze over the sun. A forgiving light that made even the cracked sidewalks and weathered street signs shimmer with quiet dignity.

I tightened the strap of my canvas bag and exhaled, fog curling in the cool air. The address on my phone blinked back at me:

Minami Tower.

The name alone made my stomach flutter. Everyone in Tokyo knew of the Minami Group. They owned half the skyline—or at least the parts that made people stop and stare. Their logo appeared on train stations, schools, and hospitals. Some people joked that if you dug deep enough, even the sewer pipes would spell Minami.

And now I was supposed to clean one of their penthouses.

On my first day.

Of course. Why start small when you can risk unemployment immediately?

“Just breathe, Hana,” I muttered to myself, brushing a rebellious strand of hair away from my face.

“You’re just cleaning. Floors. Tables. Maybe the air itself, if it’s rich enough.”

My reflection flickered in a bakery window as I passed—flour-dusted glass, the warm scent of anpan and butter seeping out. Simple uniform, neatly tied apron, hair pinned back. I looked… ordinary. The newest recruit of Shimizu Domestic Services. Nothing flashy, nothing remarkable. But beginnings were what I was learning to collect.

The side streets glimmered with leftover rain, puddles reflecting fragments of sky, shards of city life. Shoes splashed. Bicycle bells chimed, mingling with the distant hiss of the metro. The air was layered: miso simmering somewhere unseen, roasted coffee, rain-washed asphalt. Everywhere, color pulsed: the jade shine of vending machines, burnt-orange tulips in planters, a patch of powder-blue sky cradled between towers.

That’s when I noticed her.

An older woman near the corner market, struggling under a bundle of grocery bags. One had already started to tear, the plastic straining like skin under too much weight.

“Ah—no, no, no!” she gasped, reaching helplessly as an apple tumbled away toward the gutter.

I reacted before I could think. “Wait—I’ve got it!”

The apple was cool in my palm, skin the blush of a summer sunset caught mid-flight.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she breathed, laughing softly in relief. “You’ve just saved me a trip back.”

“Happy to help,” I said, handing it back. “Though maybe next time bring an accomplice.”

Her laughter softened the edges of the morning. “Tell that to my to-do list.”

That’s when I noticed her uniform—same company crest stitched into the pocket.

Shimizu Domestic Services.

“Oh—you're with Shimizu too?”

Her face brightened. “One of ours! I thought I recognized that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re wondering if you missed the right bus stop.”

“First day,” I admitted. “Fujimoto Hana.”

“Tanabe Yuki,” she said warmly, handing me one of the heavier bags. “Senior staff—and today, apparently, your tour guide. You can tag along. I could use another pair of hands.”

I took the bag—it was heavy, warm from her grip, and smelled faintly of earth and ginger. “Where are we headed?”

She glanced at a folded slip of paper. “Minami Tower. Penthouse level. Belongs to the chairman’s son. We’re to make sure it’s spotless before he returns this afternoon.”

I paused. “Minami Tower,” I repeated quietly. Not surprise, not awe—just recognition.

Tanabe-san chuckled. “You sound like you already know the name.”

“Hard not to,” I said. “It’s on half the buildings in this city.”

Her eyes twinkled. “True enough. But this is their home. So maybe be twice as careful not to break the furniture—or breathe too hard.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “No promises about the breathing part.”

We fell into rhythm walking to the bus stop. Bags swinging, Tanabe-san’s stories painting warmth over the ordinary: a grandson’s dreams, odd client requests, small victories. Her words seemed to draw color out of the air itself, a secret palette she carried effortlessly.

The bus ride was a moving watercolor. Through the windows, Tokyo unfolded: pastel apartments, laundry dancing in the breeze, rooftops blooming with green gardens, the river glinting gold. Even traffic lights seemed to vibrate with purpose and joy.

When we stepped off, I finally looked up.

Minami Tower soared, silver glass splitting the clouds. My reflection vanished in its mirrored facade, one ghost among many.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tanabe-san said. Her amusement was soft. “Though I prefer homes with flowers. This one… too perfect. Afraid to breathe.”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe perfection feels safer than life.”

The lobby swallowed us in muted luxury: white marble floors reflecting soft morning light, silver fixtures gleaming beneath chandeliers that looked like frozen stars. Lilies and lemon polish scented the air—clean, controlled, precise.

Tanabe-san spoke to the receptionist with practiced ease. I tried not to stare at the wall canvases: enormous black-and-gray ink works, brushstrokes frozen mid-tempest. Beautiful, but lifeless.

“Penthouse,” the receptionist said politely. “He’s expecting you.”

The elevator doors slid open with a gentle chime. Reflections multiplied in mirrored panels—two cleaners in pressed uniforms surrounded by infinite copies of themselves. Heart beating faster, I swallowed.

“Nervous?” Tanabe-san asked, lips curling.

“Maybe a little,” I admitted.

“Good,” she said. “It means you care.”

Floor by floor, the city blurred past in pastel streaks.

Penthouse.

The doors opened to silence—still, deliberate, as if the world itself held its breath. The walls glowed pale ivory, cool under soft, filtered light. Tanabe-san knocked, gentle, respectful.

Nothing.

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, hand on the handle. “Guess he’s out today.”

Her eyes crinkled in that familiar half-smile, and she opened the door. A faint draft whispered past, smelling faintly of steel and polish.

Inside, the penthouse was immaculate. Glass, stone, geometry without warmth. The city outside blazed with color, but here… nothing. Gray on gray. Even the air felt scrubbed of life.

For a moment, I thought of tulips, the red apple, the golden river morning. All the color I carried—and none of it had followed us in.

And then, almost reflexively, I caught my own reflection in a panel of polished steel: a girl carrying sunlight in her hands, about to step into a grayscale world.

I wondered, fleetingly, if color alone could change such a grey view of the world.