Chapter 26 Parents
Chapter 26 Parents
Utensils clattered in the kitchen of the Taiyou residence. Sachiko's hands moved in a blur of focused energy. She was a flurry of motion—frying, seasoning, slicing, and flipping. The kitchen was thick with the rich scent of hot oil and simmering spices. Suddenly, one of the long wooden cooking chopsticks slipped from her grip.
Smack.
It struck the floor with a sharp, hollow sound.
She froze. Standing motionless over the stove, eyes half-closed, she stared at the fallen chopstick for a long moment before letting out a slow, heavy breath. She crouched down to pick it up, only for the second one to slip from her trembling fingers and clatter to the floor.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed both hands to her face. After a beat, she gathered the pair, carried them to the sink, and turned on the tap. She washed the chopsticks with slow, methodical care, finding a fragile comfort in the simple task. Once they were dry, she turned back to the stove and plunged once more into her cooking.
After several more minutes of frantically juggling pots and pans, she finally finished. She carried plate after plate to the dining table, laying out an absurdly large feast. There was a deep pot of thick curry, a mountain of golden-crisp karaage, freshly fried fish, an array of different sauces, bowls of steaming white rice, and even bowls of ramen. It was a banquet far too massive for a standard weekday dinner, sitting ready and waiting.
Right on time, the click of the front door echoed through the house as Isamu stepped inside. Sachiko hurried to the entryway to greet her husband, gently taking the briefcase from his hands. She tried to muster a welcoming smile, but the muscles in her face refused to cooperate.
"Welcome home, dear," she said softly.
Isamu, still lost in his own heavy thoughts, paused for a moment at the entrance. "I'm home," he replied, slipping off his suit jacket.
"The food is ready. Please, come and eat," Sachiko offered.
"Alright," Isamu said. He hesitated, his gaze drifting past her and toward the hallway. "Has he come out?" he asked.
Sachiko pressed her lips together and simply shook her head.
A heavy silence fell between them. Together, they walked side by side down the hallway, stopping in front of their son's bedroom door. Sachiko raised a trembling hand and knocked against the wood.
"Iryoku... the food is ready," she called out.
Silence. There was no response from the other side.
“I made all your favorites,” she tried again, her voice wavering with desperate hope. “There’s curry… karaage… fish, and even ramen too.”
Still, nothing. Not even the rustling of footsteps or the shifting of a bedsheet.
Isamu let out a long, ragged breath. He stepped closer, leaning slightly toward the door. "Son... is there anything you need?" he asked, his deep voice thick with concern. "Any other food you want? We can go out somewhere, or I can go buy whatever you want and bring it right here to your door."
He stood there, waiting for an answer he knew wasn't coming, his tired face etched with a deep, agonizing worry.
Finally, they both turned and walked away toward the kitchen. They sat at the table in silence, the steam rising from the untouched food between them.
"I got a promotion," Isamu muttered.
Sachiko looked up, trying to force a smile. "That’s... wonderful," she said, her voice straining to sound happy. "You've worked so hard for this. Now... everything we..." She trailed off, losing her grip on the words.
Isamu kept his face neutral, offering nothing more than a quiet, solemn nod.
Click, click, click. Even at home, Isamu kept typing on his computer. The endless data entry and reports formed a fragile wall between him and his reality; they kept him occupied, the only thing he still felt he could do right.
After a while, his fingers stalled on the keys. He turned off the monitor and reached for the thick folder at the corner of his desk. He stared at the logo on the cover for a long moment, fingertips tracing its edge, before he finally opened it.
As usual, there were no concrete findings. The pages were filled with local maps of different city sectors, heavily marked with red circles and crosses where tips had gone cold, along with several transcripts of interviews with different people.
CASE FILE: TAIYOU, KOTA (MISSING)STATUS: ACTIVE / UNRESOLVED
…Subject’s prime suspect remains unlocated...
...Local inquiries yielded negative results…
…Follow-up on the teenager homicide in the central district confirms no connection to the subject…
…Canvassing of neighboring prefectures ongoing. Informant network monitored…
…Current whereabouts of Taiyou Kota remain unknown…
Paperclipped to the final page were two photographs. The first was an old, cherished snapshot of Kota as a little boy, smiling warmly at the camera and waving. Beside it was the latest age-progression render—a computer-generated estimate of what the boy would look like today, at twelve years old. The digital rendering showed him with older, sharper features, a stranger built out of pixels and guesswork.
A ragged sob finally escaped Isamu’s throat. He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his vision blurring as he stared down at the face of his son.
Then a small sound came from the hallway. Isamu hurriedly wiped his face again, closed the folder, and stood up. He stepped out of the room and looked around the dimly lit hall. A faint light was spilling from the kitchen.
He moved forward and entered. There sat a young man at the table, back turned to him, eating mechanically from a cold plate with his head down.
“Iryoku, son,” Isamu said gently, lifting his hand toward him.
But the young man stood up without a word, walked straight to the sink, and dumped his plate there, never once turning to face his father.
“Son, I’m sorry,” Isamu pleaded, his voice breaking. “We... we will never act like that again. Your mother and I will never doubt you again. We know we failed you. We hurt you.”
He bowed deeply, his eyes tightly shut.
The sound of running water filled the silence as Iryoku buried his face beneath the faucet and scrubbed it vigorously. He said nothing.
By the time Isamu straightened, Iryoku was already walking out of the kitchen. Isamu hurried after him. To his surprise, instead of heading toward his room, Iryoku continued down the hallway to the front door and pulled it open.
“Son, where are you going?” Isamu asked, quickening his pace.
Iryoku didn't answer. He stepped outside and slammed the door shut behind him, then disappeared into the night.