Shelter In Rain

Rchi slept with the faintest smile touching his lips. In his dreams, he was already counting yen stacking coins from dishes washed, floors swept, trash hauled. His fingers, even in sleep, kept drifting to his pocket, tapping the small bulge there. Three thousand yen. His. Earned.
When he woke, dawn was just breaking, painting the Osaka skyline in bruised purple and gold. He yawned, stretched stiff muscles protesting the wooden bench, and immediately patted his pocket.

Empty.
His heart dropped like a stone. He scrambled up, hands flying to his duffel bag, unzipping it with frantic urgency. His fingers brushed the cloth-wrapped lacquer box Ma-chii’s money, still there. He let out a shuddering breath, his forehead pressing against the bag’s rough fabric.
“Just the three thousand,” he whispered, a sharp ache in his chest. “Thief didn’t take hers. But still… that was yesterday. All those dishes. That grease. Those looks.”
He dropped to his knees, scanning the ground beneath the bench. There, caught between a crack in the paving stones and a crumpled cigarette pack his money. Not stolen. Just fallen.
“Oh, you idiot,” he groaned, snatching it up. The relief was so physical it made his hands shake. He shoved the bills deep into his jeans, shouldered his bag, and stood. “Food first. Then work.”

His stomach was a hollow knot. He spotted a small eatery tucked on the corner across from the park a narrow building with a faded blue noren curtain and no sign. The windows were dark. No customers.
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into a space that smelled of old wood, soy, and quiet dust. The room was empty, six stools lined at a counter that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in hours.
“Hello?” Rchi’s voice felt too loud.
A door behind the counter swung open. A man in his forties emerged, wiping his hands on a clean but worn chef’s apron. He had a tired, kind face and sharp eyes that immediately went to Rchi’s oversized duffel.
“Well,” the man said, voice low and surprised. “Didn’t expect anyone. Traveler? Or just lost?”
“Just arrived in Osaka,” Rchi said, bowing slightly. “I’m… really hungry. Can you make anything? Whatever’s available.”
The man the owner just stared. His eyes widened slightly, fixed not on Rchi’s face, but on the bag, on his worn clothes, on the stubborn set of his jaw. A strange silence stretched, thick enough to feel.
“Hello? Owner-san? You see a ghost or something?”

The man blinked, the moment passing. “None of your business, kid.” He turned toward the small kitchen behind the counter. “I’ll make sandwiches. Haven’t eaten myself. We’ll share.”
Rchi’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks. Owner-san.”
“Stop that. Name’s Hiroto Nazaki. Call me Nazaki-san. And you?”
“Rchi.”
“Rchi.” Nazaki repeated it like testing a word. “Sit. Don’t touch anything.”
The sounds from the kitchen were methodical the crisp slice of a knife through vegetables, the sizzle of butter on a griddle, the gentle scrape of a spatula. After a few minutes, Nazaki’s voice called out, “Sandwiches are ready. Wash your hands. Washroom’s downstairs.”
“But my hands aren’t”
“Bacteria don’t care how they look. Go.”
Rchi obeyed, clattering down a narrow staircase to a tiny, immaculate washroom. He scrubbed his hands raw, watching the dirt from yesterday’s labor swirl down the drain. “Washy, washy, washy,” he muttered to himself, a stupid grin on his face. Real food.
When he returned, two plates sat on the counter. Each held a stack of five thick sandwiches egg, cabbage, a slice of ham, pressed between perfectly toasted bread. Rchi’s stomach roared.
He didn’t sit. He grabbed the first sandwich and took a huge bite, then another, barely chewing.
“Hey slow down! You’ll choke!”
Rchi’s eyes bulged. He was choking. He slammed a fist against his chest, wheezing. Nazaki shoved a bottle of water into his hands. Rchi gulped, gasping, tears in his eyes from the strain.
“Nearly died,” he croaked, face red.
“Told you.”
They ate in silence after that, Rchi forcing himself to chew. The sandwiches were simple, but to him, they tasted like a feast. When the last crumb was gone, he pulled out his wrinkled three thousand yen.
“How much?”
Nazaki was wiping the counter, not looking up. “For a kid like you? Nothing. Keep it.”
“No. I ate. I pay.”
“Use it for dinner. Or a real bed.”
“I’ll manage. How much?”
Nazaki finally looked at him, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under Rchi’s eyes, the cut on his cheek that was still healing. “Fine. It’s free. Now go. Buy some fruit or something.”
Rchi hesitated, then bowed deeply, a real one this time. “Thank you, Nazaki-san. Really.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get going.”


The day yielded less work. A convenience store let him restock shelves for an hour: eight hundred yen. A laundromat needed its floors mopped: twelve hundred. Total: two thousand yen. It was harder today more rejections, more suspicious glances. A group of three punk kids, loitering near the park, had watched him with predatory interest as he left the laundromat, their laughter sharp and pointing.
Now, evening bled into night. Rchi sat on his bench, counting his meager earnings. Four thousand, nine hundred yen total, after buying a cheap loaf of bread and a bottle of water. Dinner.
The bread was dry. The water was warm. He ate methodically, chewing each bite into paste, swallowing just for the fuel. As the sky deepened to black, he lay down, using his bag as a pillow. He was just closing his eyes when the first drop hit his forehead.
Then another.
Bird shit? He bolted up, wiping his face.
Rain. A cold, steady drizzle that quickly thickened into a downpour, drumming against the leaves, the pavement, his skin.
“Perfect,” he muttered, pulling his thin jacket over his head. No umbrella. No cover.
Then, through the curtain of rain, he saw them. The three punks from earlier, emerging from the gloom like stray dogs. Two boys, one girl, all around his age but with harder eyes. Their clothes were ragged, their grins malicious.
“Look who’s still here,” the lead boy sneered, kicking the leg of the bench. “The country mouse with the fat bag.”
Rchi stood up slowly, his bag held tight. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“We saw you getting paid,” the girl said, circling to his left. “Hand it over. Save yourself a beating.”
“The money’s mine,” Rchi said, his voice low. The rain soaked through his clothes, cold against his skin. His heart hammered, but his hands were steady. Not Ma-chii’s money. Not that.
“We’re not asking,” the lead boy said, and lunged.
Rchi sidestepped, but the second boy grabbed his arm from behind. A fist glanced off his jaw. Pain sparked bright. They weren’t skilled, but they were three, and they were desperate. He fought silently, efficiently elbow back into a stomach, a hard stomp on a foot but a blow caught his kidney, and he grunted, buckling.
The girl was on him then, her fingers clawing at his pockets. He could smell her cigarettes and cheap perfume and rain.
“Get off!” he snarled, shoving her back.
The lead boy grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “Just give us the money, you stupid”
“HEY!”
The voice cut through the rain like a blade.
All of them froze.
Nazaki stood at the edge of the park path, a black umbrella held high. He wasn’t running. He just stood there, a solid, angry silhouette against the streetlights. In his other hand, he held his cell phone, screen glowing.
“The next word I hear,” Nazaki said, his voice cold and clear, “is the one I say to the police. Get lost. Now.”
The punks didn’t hesitate. They melted back into the rain and shadows, gone in seconds.
Rchi remained on his knees on the wet pavement, breathing hard, his cheek throbbing where a punch had landed.
Nazaki walked over, the umbrella shielding them both from the downpour. He looked down at Rchi, at the duffel bag now lying in a puddle, at the fresh mud staining his clothes.
“I didn’t expect you to live at the park,” Nazaki said finally, no pity in his tone, just a blunt, weary observation. “Sleeping on a rock-hard bench in the rain.”
Rchi wiped blood from his lip. “It’s fine.”
“It’s stupid.” Nazaki extended a hand. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
Rchi stared at the offered hand.
“My place is a few minutes from the shop. You can sleep on the floor. It’s drier than this.” Nazaki’s expression was unreadable. “Consider it a business investment. I can’t have my future best customer dying of pneumonia under a bench.”
A laugh, raw and unexpected, burst from Rchi’s throat. He took the hand. It was warm and strong, hauling him to his feet.
“Grab your bag,” Nazaki said, turning. “And try not to get jumped again before we get there. I’m too old for this much excitement.”
Rchi shouldered his soaked duffel, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the cold rain. He followed Nazaki out of the park, leaving the empty bench and the echoing click of a distant shutter far behind in the dark.