The Red Umbrella

The alarm attacked at six early in the morning. Kazu, still lost in fragments of dream half running, half falling through rain flinched, slapped his phone, and blinked into the pale light slicing through mismatched blinds. His bed was just wide enough for sleep. Barely enough for sprawling, and everything in the room, the textbooks, the scrunched schedule, a mug with coffee that had turned cold overnight seemed to jostle for space. 

The smell: faint coffee mingled with last night’s greasier takeout. Akihabara mornings, he sometimes decided—felt warmer than they really were. He stretched—vertebrae crackling, and then raised a mock salute to the world. 

“Morning, future me,” he muttered, unsure if he was awake or just pretending.

From the other side of a thin wall, Sato-san’s voice thudded through, a ritual as familiar as the caffeine he chased. “Up early, eh? Don’t make me bust out the frying pan!” 

Kazu grinned at that, thumb raised toward a poster of his favorite magical girl anime. “Promise you, coffee before chaos, two minutes max. Just don’t peep again, or you’ll see hair like a dead bird’s nest.”

Sato-san’s chuckle faded into water pipes and the muffled clatter of frying eggs next door.

He shuffled through his morning. Humming scraps of pop songs, twisting his ankles and wrists—forcing the body in motion as the smell of rising bread wafted from the street below. Runners passed in the half-light. Neon flickered, signs blinking “open” and “soon” as if the city was clearing its throat. Outside, the cold bit at his cheeks. He stood up, squinting as the bakery across the street cranked up heat. His exhale made little clouds and he a creature of habit—mapped out the usual route: two blocks down, hello to Ms. Yoshiko setting crates, a vague nod at a squad of high schoolers navigating last night’s spilled ramen.

“Keep up the streak, Kazu!” Yoshiko called, hands full of a cabbage box.

He shrugged, shuffling past a street cat bounding into the alley. “Too fast for me, always,” he whispered, losing pace but not heart.

A vending machine loomed at the corner; he punched in coins, snagged a can of Boss coffee, let it warm his fingers as his thoughts drifted to quiz scores, overdue novels and to a red umbrella he’d glimpsed once but never found again. The run ended almost before it began or so he thought. The city felt tight—tiled, shaken awake, restless as a classroom before a test.

Back home, breakfast barely qualified: fried eggs stuck to rice, sandwich who somehow lost its lettuce and overpriced but very important, instant coffee. His phone vibrated with a joke about thermodynamics and a crude meme starring last week’s professor— reminding him of a study group he’d probably be late for. A smile flickered, small, just for himself. 

Shower steam blurred the mirror. He took note—old hoodie with baggy jeans, left sock inside out. Backpack clattered with books and hopes. By 7:40AM, he stepped into a city now shimmering with sun, bicycles shivering as their chains snapped tight, a delivery truck rumbling with boxes of mystery. On the way to the station, the display window of the corner shop flashed something red—a cheap umbrella, slightly askew, alone among clear plastic and patterned yellow. It tugged at him, familiar in ways he couldn’t name.

“Maybe too flashy for me,” he murmured, rubbing his tired eyes and hustling towards college before the spell broke.

Classes blurred. He doodled in margins. Drawing sword-wielding foxes, paying just enough attention to get by. Friends traded glances, codes for “did you do the reading?” and “how bad was the quiz?” The professor’s voice swam, monotone, but laughter in the back row kept Kazu anchored.

Between lectures: clusters arguing deadlines, some hunched over manga, others gossiping, cellphone screens alive with endless drama. He drifted past, wave and half-smile a shield and greeting all at once. Nearby, two students whispered, books balanced between knees.

“Y’know,” one of them said, “there should be a 25th hour. One to fix everything.”

“Or to destroy it, maybe,” her friend retorted. “Next you’ll say time is a rubber band and we’re all just tugging at its ends.”

Kazu kept walking, pretending not to hear. He liked the idea—one secret hour hanging just out of reach.

During a break, Takumi flagged him down.

“You remembered your coffee? Miracles happen,” Takumi teased.

“Last week was a disaster,” Kazu admitted, lifting his thermos. “I’m in recovery.” Chuckles. 

Scribbling notes, bumping fists with Ayaka, rolling his eyes at anime gossip—a sequence of moments, the lightness of belonging without demanding much of the world. He sometimes wandered through library corridors, thumbing worn volumes, surviving on free wifi and a few borrowed minutes between classes. A friend startled him at a shelf.

“Got anything interesting? Or are we just barely afloat?”

“Floating,” Kazu said. “Coffee will save us.”

Lunch was stolen quiet—a bench with a pigeon brigade, sandwich (half-eaten, already unsatisfying), coffee warming his face.

Afternoon faded to routine, each class both a shelter and a challenge. After the last lecture, the slow trudge to his café shift began. Convenience store—bottle of water, chocolates for luck. The cashier gave a practiced grin.

“Late again, as always?” Cashier. 

He shrugged. “Running record. It’s my special talent.”

“Don’t brag,” she teased, scanning his snacks.

He couldn’t resist another joke, waving with chocolate raised in salute as the crowds thickened and buzz rose around Akihabara.

At the café, beans roasted, bell chimed, and felt like he was at home—sort of.

Apron tied, name tag straightened, he tried to look less tired than he felt. Miki stretched at the counter, eyes flicking to the slow clock.

“If time stopped for an hour… what would you do?” she mused.

Kazu thought, probably for too long. “Sleep. Maybe microwave thirty cups of coffee. Not in that order.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Then, a customer came in. “Evening, Kazu! Table for one?” 

Asked Hana, a regular who always sat at the corner by the window. She grinned, tapping her tablet.

“You got it,” Kazu replied smoothly, offering a practiced smile. “And hey, have you tried the mint chocolate croissant today? New addition—highly recommend it.”

Hana raised an eyebrow but laughed, shaking her head. “You’re way too convincing. Fine, two then.”

Sliding the tray across the polished counter, he winked. “You’ll thank me later.” 

The team’s banter kept the place alive. Miki carved disastrous latte art, Kazu declared it “avant-garde,” and suddenly the tension of work was less oppressive, less mechanical. Table service felt like a dance: moving, remembering orders, bowing to regulars, faking confidence when a first-timer froze at the menu.

“Caramel latte—fits the mood, trust me. No sugar trauma,” he offered gently to a nervous guest.

Anime banter with coworkers blurred into debates nobody outside cared about, but it made the hours lighter. Every order—another step, another smile, another chance to pause and notice small things: the sigh of tired office workers, the uncertain glance of a new couple, the sound of cups clinking and spoons stirring. It was kind of a peaceful moment for Kazu. 

By 7:30 PM, the café’s evening lull gave him the signal to head to his second job. He slipped off the apron, waved goodbye to his coworkers, and stepped into the night. The city lights had grown brighter, casting neon reflections on wet asphalt from an earlier drizzle. 

The distant hum of trains, the faint chatter of night-time wanderers, and the occasional laughter of students returning from evening clubs created a soft symphony he moved through like a practiced dancer.

Stopping briefly at a street-side vending machine, he grabbed a can of coffee for the road and sipped— enjoying the small warmth that contrasted the cool night air.

“Long day, Kazu?” a familiar voice asked from across the street.

He turned, recognizing a university friend, Takeshi, on his way to home from a late shift at a bookstore. “You could say that! But you know me, somehow I survive.”

Takeshi laughed. “Barely, I bet.”

“Barely,” Kazu admitted with a smirk. “But that’s part of the charm.”

They parted with a wave and Kazu continued walking toward the 24-hour family restaurant near Akihabara Station— the next leg of his seemingly endless day. Even as his muscles protested, his mood remained light, buoyed by the small interactions and the rhythm of moving through the city he knew so well.

By 8 PM—Kazu stepped into the warm, bustling interior of the 24-hour family restaurant near Akihabara Station. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting a bright glow across the neatly arranged tables. The scent of soy, miso, and grilled meat hung in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of fried foods from the kitchen. 

Kazu slipped on his apron, tying it carefully around his waist, and adjusted the name tag with a small grin. The familiar clatter of trays and hum of conversations greeted him like an old friend.

“Evening, Kazu! Table seven wants their miso ramen extra hot!” called out a coworker from the counter.

“Coming right up!” he said with a grin, grabbing a steaming tray from the kitchen. “Let’s not burn their tongues off too early!”

Tables of office workers celebrated fake victories, Kazu joined the joke with a flourish. A tourist tried—and failed to tackle the noodles; he knelt, patient, demonstrating his chopstick technique that was more “survived elementary school” than “master chef.”

“Here you go! Don’t start celebrating just yet—there’s still dessert,” he teased, sliding the tray onto their table.

One of them raised his glass. “Thanks, Kazu! You always make this place better.”

Kazu bowed slightly. “Always happy to serve, sir!”

At a nearby table, a tourist fumbled awkwardly with chopsticks, clearly unsure how to handle the noodles. Kazu knelt slightly beside her chair, demonstrating the technique patiently.

“Like this,” he said, twirling a few strands of noodles expertly. “See? Not bad for a first try!”

The tourist’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Thank you so much! I would’ve made a mess otherwise.”

Kazu chuckled softly. “No worries! It’s all part of the adventure.”

In the kitchen, a coworker accidentally dropped a tray with a soft crash. Kazu jogged over, picking up the fallen dishes with a grin.

“See? Nothing broken, just a minor plot twist,” he joked, handing the tray back.

The coworker groaned, laughing. “You’re too optimistic for this hour, Kazu.”

“Optimism keeps me alive,” he replied, winking before rushing off to another table.

The night wore on: energy waned, but moments glimmered— a child’s laughter, soft thanks from solitary diners, spilled tea mopped up with resigned grace.

Towards midnight, the crowd thinned; city outside now quiet except for rain and trains. Kazu took a coffee break, tucked his hands around the cup, and traded weary jokes with coworkers.

“Survival, not victory,” he admitted, half-smile stretched thin.

Final hours: more cleaning, more small talk, two napkins instead of one, a wink to a closing kitchen staff.

By 3:40 AM, the restaurant began to quiet further. Only a few lone diners lingered— sipping tea or scrolling on laptops. Kazu finally stepped out into the streets, stretching stiff legs and feeling the cool night air wash over him. The first raindrops began to fall, scattering across his hair and jacket. 

Puddles reflected the neon lights, fracturing them into fractured—shimmering patterns. Silence blanketed the streets except for the hiss of rain and the distant hum of trains.

Though his body was exhausted, a quiet satisfaction rested in his chest. He had moved through the night helping people, sharing small moments of joy, and making the city feel a little warmer for those awake in its streets.

He took his usual shortcut—boots splashing softly in puddles, past narrow alleys and flickering street lamps. He didn’t want to return home yet; the apartment felt too empty, too quiet.

And then he saw it.

A figure, standing perfectly still, at the corner where the shortcut met the main road. Dark raincoat. A red umbrella glowing vividly against the dim, rain-soaked street. Its back was turned, yet curiosity and unease rooted him in place.

“Hey… you lost?” His voice cracked slightly. No response.

A single drop slid from the umbrella, sparkling in the neon haze. His chest tightened. Something about the figure demanded his attention.

The figure moved deliberately into the intersection. Instinct screamed to stop, but he followed.

Suddenly, it ran.

Kazu sprinted after it, shoes sloshing in puddles, rain soaking him instantly. Neon lights fractured on the wet asphalt. Heart pounding, lungs burning, he pushed harder than he had in weeks.

Ahead, the figure stopped at dead center. Kazu skidded to a halt, chest heaving. Rain fell in torrents now, drumming on asphalt, on jacket, on his skin.

As he stopped and saw a clock on a pole, he noticed something strange: the seconds lingered just a moment too long on 3:59 AM, almost imperceptibly. He frowned— glancing around, but everything seemed normal. A light drizzle made the asphalt gleam.

Time seemed to shiver. Cars froze mid-turn, headlights suspended like stars. Raindrops hung like fragile crystals. The usual hum of late-night deliveries and distant trains had vanished. Silence swallowed it whole.

A shockwave rolled outward, bending the street. He stumbled, hitting the wet ground. One eye squeezed shut; the other opened.

The Umbrella Figure. Standing beside him. Watching.

Face obscured beneath hood and glowing umbrella, yet undeniably alive. Its gaze pinned him to the ground.

He tried to move, speak, react—but the world had inverted, suspended, twisted.

Black.

The neon, the rain, the city—all seemed to be shifted. Kazu collapsed, one eye still open, seeing the figure looming beside him. Something had begun.