The car swayed softly on the road.
Gray asphalt ran ahead, merging with the sky on the horizon. Fields, rare trees, lonely houses with tiled roofs floated past the windows. Genzo sat in the back seat, pressing his forehead against the glass. Next to him, on the adjacent seat, stood crutches, old, aluminum, with worn rubber tips. They reminded him that he still wasn't fully healthy. But that didn't matter. The main thing was that he was going home. Back.
His mother drove calmly, focused. She didn't turn on the radio, didn't say anything unnecessary. She just looked at the road and occasionally threw a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure Genzo was still there. Alive. Whole. With her.
"How's your leg?" she asked without turning around.
"It aches," Genzo replied. "But it's bearable."
"The doctor said they'll take the cast off in a month."
"I remember."
"You'll walk normally. I promise."
Genzo didn't answer. He just looked out the window. Fields, trees, little villages with red roofs floated past the glass. Somewhere in the distance, the city was already beginning. And beyond the city, the airport. And beyond the airport, Japan. Home.
His mother turned on the turn signal. The car smoothly merged onto the highway leading to the airport. The road became wider, there were more cars. Genzo watched as they passed gas stations, motels, billboards.
"Are you thinking about something?" his mother asked.
"About a lot of things," Genzo replied.
"For example?"
"About how strangely life is arranged. You walk down one path, thinking it's your road, and then it turns out it was just a detour. And the real road only begins now."
His mother smiled.
"Smart."
"No," Genzo shook his head. "I'm just tired of pretending I understand something."
"And what did you understand?"
Genzo thought for a moment. He watched the poles flicker outside the window, the wind sway the treetops, the clouds drift in the same direction they were going.
"I understood that we don't choose our pain," he said finally. "We only choose how to live with it. You can carry it inside you like a heavy burden. You can try to throw it away. Or you can just... acknowledge that it exists. And stop fighting it."
"That's wise," his mother said.
"It's stupidity," Genzo smirked. "Wisdom is when you know the answers. I only have questions."
"Questions are important too."
"Maybe."
They fell silent. It started drizzling outside the window. Fine, rare, almost imperceptible. Droplets settled on the glass, gathered into heavy drops and slowly slid down, leaving murky trails behind them.
"I want to tell you one thing," his mother said.
"What?"
"You don't have to be strong. You don't have to be what everyone expects. You can just be. And that's enough."
Genzo looked at her. At her tired but kind face. At her hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the only support in this world.
"I know," he said. "I just don't always know how to do it."
"You'll learn."
"You think so?"
"I know."
Genzo smiled. Not widely, just the corner of his lips. But he smiled.
He took out his phone. The screen lit up. Several missed calls and messages. He opened the chat with Renji.
Renji: "Are you on your way yet?"
Renji: "When will you be here?"
Renji: "I'm waiting. I can't wait. Really. You have no idea how much I'm waiting. I bought tangerines. A lot. A whole box. Aya said it was too much, but I didn't listen. You love tangerines. I remember."
Genzo smiled. His fingers flew across the screen.
Genzo: "On my way. I'll be there soon. Tangerines are good. But no more than ten kilograms, or I'll burst."
Renji: "You're always so skinny anyway. So twenty kilograms is perfect."
Genzo: "You're crazy."
Renji: "Maybe. But I'm happy."
Genzo: "See you soon. For real. This time I won't disappear."
Renji: "I'll be waiting. Always."
Genzo put the phone back in his pocket. Ran his hand over the crutches, cold metal, worn rubber. They had already become a part of him, these crutches. Like a part of his past. But soon they would only be a memory.
The car pulled into the airport parking lot. Genzo took the crutches, leaned on them, and slowly got out. His leg still hurt, but he could walk. Could move. Could live.
His mother took his arm.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"If it hurts, tell me."
"I know."
They walked toward the airport entrance. The wind blew in their faces, warm, soft, smelling of gasoline and freedom. Genzo looked at the sky, it was blue, clear, endless. Like a promise.
They went through check-in, dropped off their luggage, passed security. Genzo walked, leaning on his crutches, and felt something inside him release with each step. As if he were shedding old skin.
The waiting area was noisy. People, children, announcements. Genzo sat in a chair by the window, put his crutches next to him. His mother sat beside him, took his hand.
"Nervous?" she asked.
"A little," Genzo admitted. "It's strange. I'm going home, but I feel like I'm going into the unknown."
"That's normal. Home isn't a place. Home is people. You're going to people who are waiting for you."
Genzo looked at her.
"Were you waiting for me too?"
"Always," she said. "Even when you were far away. Even when you didn't write. Even when I didn't know if you were alive or dead. I always waited."
Genzo couldn't find the words. He just squeezed her hand in response.
The plane took off an hour later. Genzo sat by the window, watching the earth fall away below, houses grow small, rivers turn into silver threads. He thought about how many times he had risen and fallen in his life. And that now, he was rising again. But this time, not to fall. To land where he was awaited.
He closed his eyes. And smiled.
When they landed in Tokyo, the sun was already setting. Genzo got off the plane, leaning on his crutches, and took a deep breath. The air was different, humid, warm, smelling of the sea and the city.
"We're home," his mother said.
"We're home," Genzo repeated.
They took a taxi to the apartment. Along the way, Genzo looked at familiar streets, houses, trees. Everything had changed. And nothing had changed. The city was the same. But he was different.
They drove up to the apartment. His mother opened the door, and Genzo walked in. Everything was as before, the old sofa, dusty books, the smell of her perfume. He sat on the sofa, put his crutches next to him.
"Are you tired?" his mother asked.
"A little."
"Rest. I'll make dinner."
Genzo nodded. Watched her go to the kitchen, the light come on, the clatter of dishes. And felt a strange calm.
He lay down on the sofa. Closed his eyes. And his thoughts drifted into the past.
Two years ago.
The sun shone brightly, but not hot.
The air was transparent, like water in a mountain stream, and smelled of flowers, somewhere in the schoolyard, lilac bushes had bloomed. The wind was light, almost imperceptible, it touched faces like someone's cool palms.
Genzo walked down the street.
These were his school years.
Back then, he didn't yet know what real pain was. He didn't know what broken bones and broken noses were. He just walked down the street, looked at the light pouring from the sky, and thought that the day was good. Just good. For no reason.
He wasn't in a hurry. His step was even, his breathing calm. He wasn't even thinking about anything serious, just walked and watched sunbeams jump across the asphalt.
A figure appeared at the end of the street.
A girl.
She walked toward him, and her steps were as even as his. She didn't look around. She looked straight ahead, and in her eyes there was neither joy nor sadness, only emptiness. Her brown hair fell on her shoulders. Genzo knew her. Kaoru. They had never spoken. They just knew they were in the same class.
They drew level.
And accidentally bumped shoulders.
It wasn't painful. Not hard. Just a light touch, as happens when two people aren't looking at each other, but at their own thoughts. Genzo's books swayed but didn't fall.
And then Kaoru stepped forward and pressed herself against him.
It was strange. It was unexpected. It was almost awkward. Genzo froze, not knowing what to do. He could feel her body trembling. How she breathed, unevenly, intermittently. Or was it not breathing? Or just an accident? A reflex?
He didn't know.
He stood still. Not pushing away. Just standing.
A few seconds passed. Maybe a minute. She pulled back.
"Aren't you afraid of me?" she asked.
Her voice was hollow, almost soundless.
Genzo looked at her.
"No," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I don't care who you are."
Kaoru smirked. Not cheerfully. Not angrily. Just smirked.
"Weird guy," she said.
"I know."
She turned and walked on. Genzo watched her go. She didn't look back. And he didn't know what it was.
He walked on.
Two days later, she found him herself.
It was after school. Genzo sat on a bench in the yard, looking at the sky, listening to the birds. And suddenly someone sat down next to him. He turned his head — Kaoru. She sat, looking ahead, and her face was as empty as always.
"You didn't ask me," she said.
"About what?"
"Why I pressed myself against you."
"You didn't want to talk."
"I want to now."
Genzo turned to her.
"Then tell me."
She was silent for a long time. Looked at the trees, the sky, the clouds. And then she began to speak. Her voice was calm. Almost indifferent.
"My father died when I was five. I barely remember him. Just the smell of tobacco and his laugh. My mother died when I was six. She was raped, her corpse was desecrated, and thrown into a ditch."
Genzo was silent. He listened.
"After that, I was beaten. Tortured. Raped. They did things to me that they don't even do to animals. Every day. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even think. I just wanted it to end. I lost my humanity too early."
She fell silent. Ran her hand over the grass.
Genzo looked at her. At her hands lying lifelessly on her knees. At her face, which expressed nothing.
"It's not your fault," he said.
"I know."
"You shouldn't have had to go through that."
"..."
"You can be different."
She turned to him. For the first time, something alive appeared in her eyes. Pain. Or anger. Or something else.
"How?" she asked. "How can I be different if I don't know who I am? If all I remember is pain and emptiness?"
Genzo didn't know what to answer.
"I bullied people," she said suddenly. "Those who couldn't fight back. I hurt them because I can no longer feel pain, I can no longer feel sorry for anyone. I surpassed myself."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you look at me as if I can change. But I can't."
Genzo was silent for a long time. Then he said:
"You can. It just won't be fast."
She smirked. Cheerlessly.
"You're too naive, Genzo. It'll kill you someday."
"Maybe," he said. "But not today."
She looked at him. For a long time. And something flickered in her eyes. Something he couldn't understand. Real cruelty? Or what?
She stood up. Took a few steps. Then stopped, not turning around.
"Good, evil, kind, bad, they all remained far behind what really happens. Neither good nor evil can ever overcome the inner bottomless soul. The one who is stronger than the hope of God, and something higher. Not some moral principles of God. You can become someone who surpasses him in everything."
And she left.
Genzo remained sitting on the bench. He looked at the sky, which was already beginning to darken. And thought about how strangely the world is arranged. How people can carry so much strangeness inside. And how sometimes it's enough to just be there. Just listen. Say nothing.
He sat for a long time, looking at the sky.
Then he got up and walked home.
Genzo opened his eyes.
He was lying on the sofa in his apartment in Tokyo. It was already dark outside. His mother was clattering dishes in the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance, the sounds of the city could be heard.
He yawned.
The memory was warm. Strange. But warm.
He didn't know what had become of Kaoru. They never crossed paths again. But he remembered her gaze. And the words she said. "Weird." "Too naive."
Maybe she was right.
But Genzo knew one thing: even in the darkest emptiness, you will never find light. Just someone's eyes looking at your life indifferently.
He stood up. Took his crutches. Went to the kitchen, where his mother was setting the table.
"Did you dream something?" she asked, glancing at him.
"No," said Genzo. "I remembered something."
"Something good?"
"I don't know. But something important."
He sat down at the table. Picked up his chopsticks.