The Ungiven Gift
Souta opened his old suitcase—a gray Samsonite that had accompanied more than half his life—with a hesitation he could not rationalize. The zipper made its familiar, stubborn sound, scraping against the fabric as if reluctant to reveal what was buried inside. He had unpacked this suitcase countless times over the years: in innumerable hotel rooms, in temporary apartments, on work trips to remote research stations. But today, in the Hokkaido resort with the storm still hanging in the air, the act felt foreign. The suitcase was no longer just a container for belongings; it was an artifact of a life paused and abandoned, a time capsule of decisions not taken. His hand stopped on its contents. Clothes folded neatly in the military trifold method he had learned from his father. Leather-bound n
- Writer
