The Library’s Echoes and a Kitchen’s Chaos

Heavy clouds pressed down on Tokyo, and the wind, laden with moisture, swept through the classroom.

As the afternoon’s ‘History of Japanese Literature’ class drew to a close, Genji’s thoughts had long since drifted elsewhere.

While the elderly professor lectured languidly on postmodernism, his mind was utterly consumed by The Mist Chronicle.

Since he hadn’t made any friends yet, he diligently attended his classes. He had grown accustomed to this state of affairs back in the countryside of Akita.

At half past three, Genji gathered his class notes, stifled a yawn, and exited the classroom.

The gloomy sky made it difficult to discern whether it was still day or already twilight.

He quite enjoyed such weather; the air was damp, and the cool breeze brought a sense of calm.

Genji shook his head, then set off towards the library.

His original plan had been to search for part-time waiter jobs today, but given that it was Professor Sato who had recommended reading, Genji instinctively postponed all other matters.

The prospect of writing felt like a persistent thorn, lodged deep in his heart, impossible to dislodge.

The main library stood at the center of the Hongo campus, an old building constructed of red brick, its exterior walls stained a deep, aged crimson, like a relic salvaged from a bygone era.

Stepping into the library, he was met by a cool breeze, carrying the mingled scents of old books and wood.

The hall soared high, capped by an arched ceiling; on such a cloudy day, little natural light penetrated, leaving only the dim, yellow glow of the chandeliers.

Genji made directly for the literature section, his gaze sweeping across rows of bookshelves until it landed on ‘Anthology of Rainy Alleys,’ also authored by Saito Kiyoshi.

His finger paused, then he took the book down.

The book was somewhat old, its cover worn to a pale white.

Opening the first page, he found a library card tucked inside, filled with names, the most recent date being three years prior.

Genji found a window seat and settled in.

Outside, ginkgo trees on the campus swayed wildly in the wind.

He opened the book, finding the text so abstruse it felt like it was going in circles; without Professor Sato’s annotations this time, he could only grit his teeth and push through.

As the wind blew outside, the floor-to-ceiling window vibrated faintly, its glass reflecting his huddled silhouette.

“Rain taps on eaves, mist shrouds alley’s end, loneliness trails like a shadow.”

He read for a while, then gave up, returning the book to its shelf.

‘It was incredibly tiring to read without Professor Sato’s annotations.’

Genji began searching the shelves for the name he remembered, going back and forth, careful not to miss anything.

At a nearby table, two students sat, whispering about something.

Genji hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, yet a few words still filtered into his ears.

“I heard someone from the literary club published something in ‘Aomoku’ again this year, and even won an award,” a bespectacled boy murmured, lowering his voice.

“Really?” another voice asked, tinged with envy.

“That’s incredible, student work actually getting published in a magazine?”

The bespectacled boy pushed up his glasses, letting out a scoff.

“Of course it’s real. Many people in the literary club have connections with the editorial department. Some seniors even signed contracts before graduating.”

“So, who is it this time?”

“Not entirely sure,” the bespectacled boy shook his head, his tone slightly sour.

“Maybe some professor is just gilding their own disciple’s reputation.”

‘Aomoku’ was a literary magazine that had been gaining significant momentum in recent years, featuring collections of essays and short stories that consistently became bestsellers.

Aomoku Publishing, the magazine’s parent company, was renowned in the industry for its focus on discovering and nurturing young writers, emphasizing literary creation.

Every few years, an author who debuted through Aomoku would ascend to the Spring and Autumn Literary Scene (TL Note: A prestigious literary circle, metaphorically referring to a recognized platform for established writers), a long-standing and authoritative publishing house within the industry.

Aomoku Publishing was particularly famous for its “Aomoku New Stars” column, a platform through which many emerging writers first made their mark.

To have one’s work published by Aomoku Publishing, that would…

‘How much money would that be!’

If a work was published and won an award, according to Aomoku Publishing’s rules, it would subsequently be collected with other winning entries into a published anthology of short stories.

Should the publisher assess the published work as having excellent market potential, they might even encourage the author to expand it into a novella for publication.

‘Wait a moment, a novella—’ Genji’s eyes lit up as a book came to mind.

A book that didn’t exist in this world, a book whose author couldn’t even be found.

That tiny spark in his heart abruptly flared, igniting into a roaring blaze.

The sky had darkened as if a pot of ink had been spilled across it.

The library lights were on, casting a dim glow over the bookshelves.

The librarian began clearing the premises, and Genji gathered his belongings before exiting the building.

The wind intensified as he emerged from the train station, carrying dampness that snaked into his collar.

He hunched his shoulders and walked towards the apartment.

Passing a convenience store, he paused.

Bright, stark lights illuminated the display window, and shelves inside were laden with goods.

He hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door open and entered.

Toothpaste, facial cleanser, and a pack of instant ramen.

Carrying the plastic bag, he approached the counter to pay.

He glanced down at his wallet, seeing a few banknotes and some silver coins.

The remaining balance pricked at his eyes like a needle.

He stared at it for a few seconds, his throat dry.

If not for Sato Chinatsu’s generosity, he might well be sleeping under a bridge right now.

Yesterday, to express his gratitude for the professor’s hospitality, he had splurged on a piece of beef belly, and a thousand yen had vanished just like that.

‘Money, ah.’

Putting his wallet away, the thought of the magazine’s writing contest prize money made his chest tighten.

Genji was already eager to return to his room and start the story that had taken shape in his mind that afternoon. He believed the story was strong enough to win the prize money.

The wind swept around the street corner, swirling several pieces of trash beneath the lamppost.

Genji clutched his bag and walked forward, quickening his pace towards home.

The apartment lights were on, a warm yellow glow seeping through the window cracks, forcing a sliver of warmth into the gloomy night.

It was already quite late when he returned.

It seemed Professor Sato was accustomed to staying up late, still awake at such an hour.

Genji reached his floor, pulled out his keys, and opened the door.

No sooner had he stepped inside than he heard a loud “bang!” from the kitchen, as if something heavy had slammed onto the floor.

He froze for a moment, then quickly put down his bag and hurried over.

The kitchen was a complete mess.

Sato Chinatsu stood before the counter, wearing the apron he had worn that morning, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair disheveled.

On the floor lay an overturned pot, next to it a puddle of spilled soy sauce, and the air was thick with the smell of something burnt.

In her hand, she gripped a kitchen knife, its tip pointed at a potato that had been hacked to a pulp.

Her delicate, pretty face was etched with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.

Genji stood at the doorway, his eyes wide.

“You…”

He had barely spoken when Sato Chinatsu abruptly looked up, startling him into immediate silence.

“You’re back.”

These words, which should have been welcoming, were delivered with such chilling coldness.

Sato Chinatsu plunged the kitchen knife into the chopping board.

“Thunk.”

It felt as if it had pierced Genji’s very heart, blanching his face slightly.

On the counter, a broken eggshell clung to the edge, alongside a black, shapeless mass emitting a pungent burnt smell.

He quickly suppressed his amusement, fearing that laughing aloud might cost him his life.

Sato Chinatsu’s current appearance was a complete mismatch for her usual composed demeanor, as though the kitchen had caught her entirely off guard.

“You’ve returned at just the right time.”

Sato Chinatsu took a deep breath.

“Tonight was my turn to cook, so you… help me clean up.”

“Huh?” Genji pointed to himself.

“Me?”

She glared at him, then turned to grab a rag, but her finger accidentally brushed against the knife tip, making her wince.

“Damn it…”

Genji’s mouth twitched.

Seeing her casually reach for the rag to wipe her hand, he quickly extended his own.

“Stop!”

The sudden command made Sato Chinatsu stiffen, and she stood rooted, looking at him with a bewildered expression.

Genji pulled out a tissue, stepped forward, and firmly grasped her slender wrist.

“Don’t use that! A dish rag is full of germs; you’ll get an infection. You need to wash it with clean water first. Do you have any bandages?”

Holding Sato’s hand, he first placed it under the running water to rinse, then wrapped the bleeding cut with a clean tissue.

A streak of crimson stained the sink.

Sato Chinatsu, in a daze, allowed him to tend to her.

Noticing the concern in his eyes, she pouted, muttering softly, “Is it really that big of a deal?”

Genji gave her an exasperated look.

Knowing she was in the wrong, Sato Chinatsu turned her head away, her usual assertive demeanor completely absent before him for the first time.

Only after the wound was bandaged and he surveyed the kitchen’s wreckage did Genji sigh.

Now it was his turn to roll up his sleeves and clean up after the aloof professor.

He walked over, picked up the pot from the floor, then took a rag to wipe down the counter, working with extreme diligence.

Sato Chinatsu watched the bandage on her slender, pale finger, then curled up on the sofa, hugging her knees, observing Genji at work.

“Do you usually not cook?” Genji asked, wiping as he spoke.

“No time,” Sato Chinatsu replied coolly.

She paused, then added, “And I can’t.”

The rag in Genji’s hand paused, and he looked up at her.

She averted her gaze, the tips of her ears noticeably flushed.

‘She admitted it this time?’

He had asked her this very question yesterday; now he was merely teasing.

“Oh.”

He lowered his head and continued wiping, a slight smile playing on his lips, choosing not to press the issue further.

The kitchen light reflected on the soy sauce stain on the floor and the wretched-looking potato.

Genji thought for a moment, then cleaned the potato again. He remembered the instant ramen he had bought.

He hesitated, then looked up and asked, “How about… I make us a late-night snack?”

Sato Chinatsu glanced at him, then nodded.

After a moment, a faint “Thank you for your trouble” drifted over.

Genji watched her retreating back, shaking his head.