The Emperor and I

Chapter 4

It has begun in silence. The kind of silence that felt too heavy to be real—thick, unmoving, almost like the world had stopped breathing.

Taka stood in the genkan of the old house. He was smaller, barely reaching the height of the coat rack. Rain tapped gently on the roof, but it sounded far away, like it was happening behind a wall of glass. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper in his hand—he didn’t know what it said, only that it was damp and trembling the same way he was.

The front door opened.

Two men stepped inside, their shoes still wet from the storm. Police officers. Their uniforms were dark, and their expressions even darker. One of them took off his cap and pressed it to his chest.

Taka looked up, confused. His fingers gripped the paper tighter.

Then Sofu-san appeared behind him, silent and tall in the hallway. He didn’t speak, just stood there, his hand resting lightly on Taka’s small shoulder.

“We’re sorry to inform you…”

The officer’s voice was low, muffled—like it came from underwater.

“There was an accident. The car… didn’t make it through the bend.”

Taka turned his head slowly to look at Sofu-san. But the old man didn’t react. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. His hand only tightened slightly on Taka’s shoulder.

And then—so suddenly it was like being thrown into another scene—they were at the funeral.

Taka stood at the edge of a sea of black umbrellas, his tiny fingers clutching Sofu-san’s sleeve. The caskets were side by side, too big, too final. People spoke around him, but the words were like wind—whispers he couldn’t catch.

He felt cold. But not because of the rain.

He looked up at Sofu-san again, hoping for some warmth, some sign of what to do next. The old man didn’t look down. His jaw was set, his posture rigid, his eyes unreadable.

Only his hand—the one holding Taka’s—betrayed the slightest tremble.

Taka woke with a start.

His breath caught in his throat, and for a brief second, he didn’t know where he was. The ceiling above him looked unfamiliar in the half-light of dawn. His futon felt too cold, the air too still. It wasn’t until the low whirr of the neighbor’s rice cooker kicked in that he realized he was home.

It was just a dream.

But his body didn’t believe that yet.

He sat up slowly, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His hands rested in his lap—clenched into loose fists. He stared at them for a moment, remembering how small they had looked in Sofu-san’s grip that day… and how tightly he had held on, like letting go would mean being left behind too.

The dream had pulled it all back—the day his world changed. The knock on the door. The funeral. The silence.

Even now, the silence.

He moved through the evening in a fog. He boiled water for tea, hoping it would calm him down before starting his night shift at the bar. After sipping two cups, he quickly moved around the small, rundown apartment—changed clothes, brushed his teeth, and packed the guitar he wasn’t sure he had the energy to play.

He walked on autopilot, the only thing on his mind was work—and covering Sofu-san’s medical bills.

On the train to the Red Light District, he stood near the door, gripping the overhead rail as the city rushed past him. His reflection in the window looked like someone else—older than he should be. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.

When Taka arrived at the bar, the familiar neon sign flickered above the door, casting pink and violet hues on the rain-damp pavement. The place wasn’t glamorous—just a cozy dive tucked between a shuttered massage parlor and a 24-hour ramen shop—but it had a steady crowd, and more importantly, it paid.

He stepped inside and was greeted by the low hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the lingering scent of cigarettes and old wood. The bartender, Aya, looked up from polishing a glass and gave him a small nod.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Didn’t feel like staying home,” Taka replied, setting down his guitar case.

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “You’re up second. First guy didn’t show.”

Taka nodded, too tired to ask why. He slid into the back corner near the old upright piano and started tuning his guitar. The strings felt stiff under his fingers, like they were resisting him. Or maybe he was just projecting.

He didn’t know what to play. The usual crowd wanted covers—soft ballads, the occasional jazz standard, maybe something nostalgic if the sake had been flowing. But his mind wasn’t on melodies tonight.

“Hey, rockstar,” his co-worker greeted him while changing the water in the pitcher he was holding. It was Gon, one of the waiters. He called Taka "rockstar" because Taka had once shared his dream of becoming one.

Taka chuckled faintly, setting his guitar case down behind the bar. “Maybe just a part-time rockstar.”

“Part-time or not, you’ve got something,” Gon said, grinning as he slid the pitcher onto a tray.

Taka chuckled again faintly, setting down his guitar case behind the bar. “Well, I’m more like a rusty string than a rockstar these days.”

“Still better than most,” Gon grinned, wiping his hands on a rag before leaning casually against the counter. “The regulars always quiet down when you play. That’s gotta count for something.”

Taka shook his head in amusement.

“You know, if this place ever shuts down, I’m quitting to be your manager.”

Taka smirked, shaking his head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Gon laughed and moved toward the tables, weaving through the usual scatter of customers. Taka remained behind the bar, grabbing a rag and wiping down the counter more to keep his hands busy than out of necessity. His eyes wandered toward the old clock above the door.

He still had time before his set.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from the hospital—just a routine update about Sofu-san’s medication schedule. Still, even the most mundane texts made his chest tighten.

He thought about visiting again after his set, like he’d done the past three nights. Bring tea. Sit in silence. Watch the old man pretend he wasn’t worried about his health.

But tonight, a strange unease curled in Taka’s chest. He couldn’t name it, only feel it—like the stillness before a sudden downpour.

He shook it off and looked toward the stage, where a mic stood waiting under the warm glow of a single spotlight.

Just another night.

Taka offered a small smile when Gon come again.

“You okay?” Gon asked, his tone suddenly more serious. “You’ve been looking… I don’t know. Tired. Different.”

Taka paused, then reached for a clean glass and started pouring himself some water—more out of habit than thirst.

“Yeah. Just a lot on my mind lately.”

Gon raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead, he clapped Taka lightly on the shoulder. “Well, don’t overthink it. You’ve got a gig tonight. Come on, make someone cry with that voice of yours.”

Taka gave a weak laugh. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

But even as Gon walked off to attend to a customer, Taka stared down at the glass in his hand, the cool surface grounding him for a moment and maybe tonight, he’d sing like someone standing at the edge of something he couldn’t explain.

Still, when his name was called, he stepped up.

The stage was barely a step higher than the floor, just a small space with a stool, a mic, and a single spotlight that buzzed faintly above him. The light hit his face, warm and isolating, while the rest of the bar blurred into shadows.

He adjusted the mic, cradled the guitar in his lap, and strummed once. The chord wavered, then settled.

“Good evening,” he said quietly.

A few heads turned. Some didn’t.

Taka took a breath.

And then he began to play.