Prologue: Here, A Red Recluse, and Across, A Golden Delinquent

[E/D]: This is just a rewrite of my previous novel. Currently, I'm practicing writing again (I stopped for a while due to school shenanigans) and getting my ass out of writer's block. I hope you'll enjoy it (again)

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They said that there is always something special that happens beneath the rain.

Of all 8 billion people in the world, I wonder if there is someone that could experience and prove to me that.

The ‘someone’ in question: probably no-one.

Today, society is solely focused on turning themselves as puppets, lost into the mechanical grind of climbing up, and think of such things as nonsense. Ambition removes the color of their world, leaving behind a dull gray in its wake—and yet, this is, as they said, exactly what it means to be a modern human. Is the human condition inherently a grind, or is it merely a widely accepted, yet tragic, path?

I always thought about this on the get-go, but never really had the chance to talk about it with anyone. I long searched for answers, and when I was about to give it all up, fate handed me a ticket to this particular situation.

One wise elderly woman at the stall earlier seemed to be talking about that subject, and as someone so curious about mindfulness of the world around me, I asked the same argument in mind.

"The formula to solve this is easy, young one: slow down, take a breath, and actually see your surroundings, not just looking at it."

The answer was swift and concise, yet it reminded me of the lingering taste of soy glaze on a dango—warm and sweet, and somehow, mild and bland without. I realized that mindfulness is like the flavor of life that most were missing.

And by then she said thereafter, one would start to notice some beautiful things.

Like the sound of shoes tapping the pavements, drumming the sound of youth.

The skirts of students swaying on the spring breeze, and the mild laughter as they walked hand in hand.

The way stray sakura petals float on puddles, as if afraid to sink.

The dry air and pastel blue skies of summer, it's warmth against our skin.

The scent of soil softening under the autumn drizzle, the trail of raindrops against the school windows.

The feeling of the rain pelting on your cheeks, as you walk under the canopy of trees.

And the people kneeling on the puddles, looking at their clear reflections.

Let me ask you, dear reader, the one who's holding this book and reading it.

Do you believe in such an implication? That the rain rewards people with something special? Or was it just for aesthetics?

Honestly, I, Shimizu Itsuki, don't have the luxury of observing the world up to the miniscule detail, so I can only refer to it as half-right and half-wrong.

Going back to the seventeen years I have lived, I have accounted for everything that happened to me when it rained. I can say one thing for sure—that the rain was an observer to how the universe decided to play me with irony.

It was raining when the people whom I called 'parents' decided to pack their things in the dead of night and left without a word. I just woke up chasing their shadows and the stillness they left behind.

At first, I waited. Thought maybe they just went on a vacation outside of the country and they'll come back. It's such a childish excuse looking back at it now. But before, I clung to any illusion that kept me from starting to believe I really was abandoned.

I wanted to go after them—to hear something from them, at least.

Days passed.

The mail piled up with letters I have no way of understanding. Even there's lots of names being called, the apartment only grew quieter and dirtier.

The following month, deep into the rainy night, there was a knock on the door. I was tucked away safely under warm blankets and decided to welcome them with a smile.

Like I wished, they have returned, or so I believed for a single, foolish heartbeat. Reality has a way of peeling away your blindfold for you.

There were people with stout frames blocking the entrance. With their unfamiliar rasp and low voices, I knew they weren't neighbors. They were looking for the same people that were already gone—my parents, I suppose.

I remember standing at the doorway, small and confused, clutching the hem of my shirt while they asked questions I couldn’t answer. Their eyes weren’t kind. Their words weren’t gentle. And they're always making my body tense and ready to bolt should anyone try anything.

One of them sighed—finally noticing my discomfort.

“They ditched the kid too, huh." as another clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"What do we do now?"

The words that followed there—I didn’t know what any of it meant. All I knew was that, for a moment, I felt like a ledger being examined—not a child.

I have stopped expecting rainbows in the rain, because it always brings me misfortune. I had stopped seeking happiness, as I would've spent that effort looking for something to do in order to survive another day.

However, the rain let up and luck finally decided to help me on my lowest. I was selected on the government self-supporting program at the time I stepped on high school, and the reward? A small mitarashi dango stall managed by a second-year highschooler in a public park.

It’s not much, but I'm thankful that it's mine. I nearly got rejected even, because of that female staff member, who said that I look ‘too good for a guy that went through hell’ and thought I was staging everything. It was a pity wrapped in a compliment.

That's thanks to my father's genes that gifted me this crimson hair, and to my mother that gave me these constantly tired hazel eyes.

Of course, who the hell this young could struggle on the streets to live another day? That's what my regulars always whispered at their approach. I just shut them up with a greeting sweeter than the soy glaze I offered them.

There were the kind old ladies who asked if I’ve eaten. Then, there's some office workers who don't take their change after buying. It's like a non-vocal assumption of my upbringings, which I found quite irritating, but accepted in the name of politeness.

There's this saying that "If someone weak doesn't fight the atmosphere, they will be crushed by it." But there is a heavier truth for those who are deemed weak: they are not allowed to fight at all. When you are weak, your only real weapon is silence, and your only safe zone is the routine.

That is why I did my best to craft my own small, contained world.

Selling dango became my daily routine. It goes like this: three dango per stick, turn, baste, and serve warm. As long as I don't talk unless someone speaks first, or keep a personal distance from people, I'll never have any problem in doing it. The focus is on myself and my table, and not the environment around me.

Until that elderly woman arrived with her distilled "Slow down, take a breath, and actually see your surroundings, not just looking at it."

But that mantra, although counterintuitive to mine, convinced me to practice taking everything slow and seeing my surroundings.

And thus I started to notice that person.

The one who never buys anything at all. The one who doesn't even look this way. The one that isn't my regular customer, yet I still can’t help but follow her with my very eyes.

Why wouldn't I? She always sits at the same rotten bench 10 meters across my stall that no-one uses anymore.

She arrives at exactly 4:30 PM, just as I had arranged the stall, then leaves at 8:00 PM, just as I was cleaning up for closing.

Every single day.

She doesn’t move much from her position and just leans forward with a sketchpad balanced on her knees, a charcoal pencil dancing across the page constantly, perfecting art in her own pocketed world.

I've known her as Kousaka Akari, a classmate of mine at Shonan High School.

She has long golden hair that always catches the sun just before it sets. Blue eyes that glare at the world like it always picked the wrong fight.

She's the kind of girl my other classmates whisper about, but never approach unless they want a scene. Sharp, prideful, brash, icy, delinquent—I had enough of everyday dose not to forget. Yet I don't care. My experiences itself made me understand.

I don’t know her beyond the surface, neither would I risk trying to.

We’re close enough to touch—but we exist on opposite ends of a quiet, invisible barrier. It’s comfortable, in a strange way. Like we're two stray cats who’ve gotten used to seeing each other in the alley, but never get any closer.

When met by this kind of irregularity, what do people do? Mostly, they will just approach the said person and try to interact with them, to formalize the connection between these two strangers. I chose to ignore her out of caution, and she slowly became a background to my constant routine.

Ever since the second year of school started, I watched from the frames of my small empire every afternoon and night, and it felt like everything was part of this new normal. I'm back to the status quo, to the mindfulness I avoided, and to the habits I developed to avoid getting involved with others.

That’s how it’s always been. That’s how I thought it would stay.

It's the same as believing that the rain always brought misfortune.

Not until the afternoon the sky broke and the first autumn rain decided to break that routine.

And to my surprise, I never knew that I would be the one crossing that long drawn line—right to that wilting golden flower.