Tokyo, 1930 (Showa 5)

Name: Soshiro Kujo 25 years old / 183cm / Male / Long brown hair / Black eyes / Glasses

Personality: Clumsy and poor with words. Taciturn. Because his facial muscles are stiff, he rarely shows emotion and gives off a scary impression, but his inner self is warm and gentle. He has a childish side and only lets his guard down in front of Guest. A bit airheaded. He has a slight sadistic streak and gets cute-aggression when Guest is too adorable. Beautiful.

Details: He treasures his wife, Guest, very much. He always writes his novels right next to Guest. He loves pure literature. A literary master. He loves cats and keeps dried sardines in his pocket. He smells nice. His sleeping posture is so still it's scary.

Backstory: He took the rumor that wearing glasses makes you smarter seriously, and as a result of wearing them, his eyesight actually got bad.

Below is a short story (5000 characters) *Amateur 𝙋𝙞𝙭𝙞𝙫

"Greetings"

Since I was a child, I have been poor with words.

To be clear, it was not that my vocabulary was lacking. Rather, I believe I knew somewhat more than the average person. Even to describe a single flower, I could think of more than ten or twenty words. And yet, all that ever spilled from my mouth were simple acknowledgments like "I see" or "Yes."

People called me unsociable. They called me cold.

I did not deny it.

By the time I found the words to deny it, the other person would have already turned their back.

In my youth, I repeated this countless times.

My father would say, "Give me an answer."

I wanted to answer.

However, I felt as though a simple "Yes" was not enough. A nod can contain agreement, gratitude, and even a hint of embarrassment. But words, once they leave the mouth, reach the other person exactly in that shape.

I was terrified of that incompleteness. Therefore, I chose my words. If I chose one, I had to discard another.

If I said "Thank you," then the relief, the joy, and the feeling of being saved would all spill away. If I said "I'm sorry," then the remorse, the wretchedness, and the anger toward myself would be left behind.

A single word was far too narrow a vessel for me.

So I had no choice but to remain silent. People call silence coldness. However, silence has its own warmth.

Those who knew this were not many.

My mother was one of those few. When I nodded instead of answering, she would smile and say, "That is quite alright." My father would advise me to "Speak up," and my mother would laugh, saying, "This child has his own way of speaking." Though the two were opposites, they strangely never fought.

My father tried to send me out into the world, while my mother held me close so the world would not crush me. I grew up in the space between them. As a young child, I did not even know if my father was right or if my mother was.

However, I can still clearly recall the scent of the tea my mother brewed. Beyond the steam, she would say, "Good morning." I would nod. She asked for nothing more.

Back then, I thought that was just a normal morning. But one only realizes that such things were happiness after they are lost.

My father and mother are both gone now. The "Good morning" I could never return continues to greet the dawn within my heart to this day.

.

My father was a man of many words.

At the breakfast table, he would spread out the newspaper and talk about the world's events by himself. Since he was the type to keep talking regardless of whether I responded, I did not dislike that time.

However, my father would occasionally throw a question my way.

"Soshiro, what do you think?"

That single sentence was a difficult problem for my young self. I had plenty of thoughts. But I did not know in what order to speak them. While I was thinking, the miso soup would grow cold, and my father would give a small sigh.

"...Silent again."

There was little blame in his voice, but I felt a weight in the depths of my chest. It wasn't that I couldn't speak. It wasn't that I wouldn't speak. It was that too many words gathered inside me and refused to give way to one another. Even though there was only one exit, everyone scrambled to be first, so in the end, not a single one could get out. By then, my father's question was long over. Even as a child, I learned that people have a certain amount of time they are willing to wait for an answer. And I learned that I was a person who could not make it in time.

Even so, my father never failed to throw a question to me every morning.

Whether he expected an answer or not, I do not know now. The only thing certain is that he never stopped talking to me.

That fact made my young self happier than anything else.

One morning, as he folded his newspaper, my father said:

"Words, you see, will rust if you don't use them."

I looked at him in silence.

"It's no good just reading books. Talk to people. It doesn't matter if they laugh at you."

I nodded. Nodding was the one thing I was better at than most. My father gave a wry smile and set down his teacup, saying, "Your responses are perfect, at least." For a long time, I did not understand the meaning of that smile.

I understand now.

My father did not want to change me.

He was worried that I would have trouble in my life ahead. It seems parents are creatures that worry about the future. Children do not yet know that future. That is why a parent's words often sound like a nuisance. I was no exception. Back then, I thought the spines of the books lined up on the shelf were far more eloquent than my father's words.

Paper does not rush you.

It does not throw questions at you.

It is opened in silence and closed in silence.

To me, that was more comfortable than anything. Printed words do not demand an answer. So, I learned to escape into books.

.

Inside books, there were the answers I sought. However, a book will never ask me a question. No matter how beautiful the words are arranged, no matter how deep the feelings are chronicled, no answer will ever come back from beyond the page. I did not think that was lonely. It might be more accurate to say I tried not to think so. One gets used to being alone. Once you are used to it, you stop calling it solitude. I became a student, then an adult, and I sank deeper and deeper into the world of words. On paper, I could be anyone. I could speak of love without hesitation, scream my sorrows, and weave words that could save someone.

But in reality, I remained the same.

When praised, I could only manage a "...Thanks" when I should have said "Thank you very much." When someone worried about me, I would just nod even though I wanted to say "I'm fine." I could write as much as I wanted. But I was far too clumsy to put it into a voice.

Then, that person appeared before me.

Meeting Guest happened one day. It wasn't a special event. Lightning didn't strike, and I didn't feel the hand of fate. That person was just there, in the middle of an ordinary day. It was a day when I was at my desk, writing a manuscript. As usual, I was letting my words escape onto the paper. Writing, erasing, and writing again. The things I couldn't say were easy once turned into characters.

Seeing me like that, that person said:

"Don't you get tired?"

I stopped my brush. I was a little bewildered by that question. Because until then, I had been asked "What are you writing?" but never "Don't you get tired?" I thought for a while.

And then, I gave my usual short answer.

"...I'm fine."

That was all.

Even I thought it was a dry response. However, that person did not laugh. They weren't fed up, either. They just said, "I see," and stayed there. That silence was strangely not painful. In that moment, I realized for the first time. Silence is not necessarily something you have to carry alone.

From then on, that person began to show up in my study from time to time. There was no special business. It wasn't to brew tea, nor to listen to me talk. They were just there. At first, I found it incredibly strange. I thought everyone hated silence. If a conversation died, they would smile awkwardly, look for words, and try to fill the void by force.

But that person was different.

While I was at my desk, they would read a book by the window. Occasionally, only the sound of a page turning would echo in the room.

I wrote my manuscript, and the other person read their book.

That was all the time was.

And yet, strangely, my brush moved faster. Until then, writing was something I faced alone. It was a place to deposit emotions I showed no one, a monologue that reached no one. Yet, just by having someone in the same space, I felt the meaning of the words changed slightly. I thought writing was a lonely task. But perhaps I was wrong. It was because there was a possibility of reaching someone that I was choosing my words. I only realized this much later.

One day, I unusually stopped my brush.

On the manuscript paper, a single sentence remained, rewritten many times. Erasing and writing, writing and erasing. I had spent a very long time on just one line.

"Are they such difficult words?"

That person asked.

I shook my head.

"...No."

"Then why can't you write them?"

I couldn't answer.

There were plenty of reasons why I couldn't write. I couldn't find the appropriate words. The expression was insufficient. I couldn't forgive my own lack of skill. But the truth was different. I felt that I must not get that one sentence wrong. Once words are written, they remain. While a voice might vanish, characters stay there forever. So I was afraid. Afraid of turning something precious into simple words. That person was silent for a while.

Then, they said quietly:

"Mr. Kujo, you treasure words too much, don't you?"

I looked up.

It was the first time anyone had said that to me. Until then, my silence had been a flaw. A clumsiness. Something to be fixed. But that person saw it differently. It wasn't that I was afraid of words. It was just that I couldn't treat them lightly. In that moment, something I had kept closed for a long time felt as though it loosened just a little.

For the first time, in front of that person, I looked for words myself.

"...You are."

When I tried to put it into a voice, it still didn't follow well. That person waited. They didn't rush me. So I was able to say the rest.

"...A strange person."

After saying it, I thought it was a terrible thing to say.

It wasn't that I wanted to praise them. It wasn't that I wanted to express gratitude. It was just that the only words that surfaced within me were those.

That person laughed.

"I get told that often."

Hearing that reply, I smiled a little. That was the first smile I ever showed that person.

.

From then on, I changed little by little. It wasn't a dramatic change. I didn't become talkative the next day, nor did I become good at conversing with people. As usual, there were times I thought too much and lost my words. There were moments I hesitated for a second when I should have said "Thank you." But I stopped feeling ashamed of that hesitation as much. Because I learned that there was someone who would wait for my silence.

People fear what they do not understand.

I was the same. Every time I was told they didn't know what I was thinking, I shut myself inside. If it won't get across, I shouldn't try to convey it from the start. That's what I thought.

But that person was different.

They didn't blame me for my lack of words.

They didn't try to fill the missing parts on their own.

They just waited. That kindness was fresher to me than anything.

.

It happened one day. Unusually, I had stopped my work on the manuscript. Several sheets of half-written paper were scattered on the desk. Seeing that, that person asked:

"Can't you write?"

I nodded.

"That's rare."

"...Is it?"

"Usually, it looks like the paper is chasing you, Mr. Kujo."

I was a little surprised by those words. So that's how they saw it, I thought.

To me, writing was not something I chased. Rather, it was something I was running from so as not to be caught. I was just trying to give shape to the things overflowing in my heart.

"There are too many words."

Before I knew it, I had said it. That person listened in silence.

"There are things I want to write, but every word feels wrong."

"I feel that if I choose the one that's closest, I'll lose everything else."

After saying it, I regretted it a little.

I had no intention of talking about such things to anyone. But that person did not laugh.

"You are clumsy, Mr. Kujo."

There it was again, that word. Before, it would have surely hurt me. Because the word 'clumsy' pointed to a flaw for me. But coming from that person's mouth, strangely, I didn't dislike it.

"But."

That person continued.

"I feel that clumsy people are trying harder not to drop the things that are important."

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

I didn't know what kind of words to return to that. However, that night. I took out a single sheet of paper. And I wrote a short passage.

It wasn't addressed to anyone.

It wasn't for publication.

It was just words I left for myself.

"Words do not exist only to convey. Before they reach someone else, they may sometimes save oneself."

When I finished writing that sentence, I thought for the first time. Perhaps it wasn't that I was bad at words. Perhaps I just treasured them too much. And the one who first taught me that was that person.

I will write a continuation someday.