"The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well."
I'd always found Emerson's words amusing. Such lofty ideals packaged in neat sentences, as if the complexities of existence could be distilled into a motivational poster.
The sun beat down on my face as I sprawled across the bench at the bus stop, one arm flung over my eyes, the other dangling toward the ground.
What's the purpose of life if not survival? I mused, watching clouds drift through the gaps between my fingers. Being useful? To whom? Being honorable? By whose standards?
I shifted on the hard bench, feeling the edge of my wallet press against my hip. Inside: exactly 28,637 yen and a folded photograph of my mother and sister. The real purpose of life was much simpler than Emerson suggested. Keep breathing. Keep those you care about breathing too.
My tongue pushed against the inside of my cheek, rolling the lollipop I'd been nursing for the past twenty minutes. Cherry. Not my favorite, but the convenience store hadn't stocked blue raspberry.
Three years away from home. Three years of navigating whatever this prestigious institution had planned. All anyone knew was the end result—100% employment rate, guaranteed success, the brightest minds in Japan coalescing in an isolated campus. The specifics remained conveniently vague in their brochures.
"Excuse me."
The voice came from somewhere above my head. Female. Young. Annoyed. I didn't move.
"Excuse me," she repeated, louder this time. "You're taking up the entire bench."
I sighed, removed my arm from my eyes, and squinted up at the silhouette blocking the sun. The backlight made her features difficult to discern, but her posture—weight shifted to one hip, arms crossed—told me enough.
"Am I?" I asked, making no effort to sit up. "Hadn't noticed."
"There are like three other people waiting, and you're sprawled out like you're at a beach resort."
I glanced sideways without moving my head. Indeed, an elderly man with a cane, a middle-aged woman clutching a handbag, and a boy about my age with headphones stood nearby. None qappeared particularly bothered by the seating arrangement.
"Technically," I said, returning my gaze to the girl, "this isn't a bench. It's a bus stop. The bench is incidental."
She stepped closer, and her face came into focus. Sharp eyes the color of a bluish green, narrowed in frustration. Blue hair that became lighter further down pulled back in a practical ponytail. School uniform similar to the one I had on.
"Are you seriously going to make an old man stand because you want to sunbathe?"
I clicked the lollipop against my teeth twice before responding. "If I sit up, there's room for maybe two people. Three remain standing. If I stay as I am, four people stand instead of three. The net change is minimal."
Her eyebrows shot up. "That's your justification? A net change of one person standing?"
"I didn't say it was justification. Just an observation." I pushed myself up to a sitting position anyway, sliding over to one end of the bench. "But please, by all means."
She hesitated, then gestured to the elderly man. "Sir, would you like to sit?"
The old man waved her off with a smile. "No need to trouble yourself, young lady. These old legs still work fine."
The girl frowned, her victory somewhat diminished, then sat at the opposite end of the bench.
I pulled the lollipop from my mouth. "Interesting."
"What?" she asked, not looking at me.
"You assumed I wouldn't move, so you made it about the old man to pressure me. But now that I've moved and he's declined, you're stuck following through on your own moral grandstanding."
Her head snapped toward me, eyes flashing. "I wasn't grandstanding."
"No? Then sit in the middle. Maximize the bench efficiency you were so concerned about."
She opened her mouth, closed it, then shifted to the middle of the bench, leaving equal space on either side. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," I deadpanned, returning the lollipop to my mouth.
We sat in silence for a minute. I watched a particularly ambitious cloud attempt to reshape itself from a rabbit to something resembling a dragon. It wasn't succeeding.
"You're going to ANHS too?" she finally asked, nodding toward my duffel.
"What gave it away? The mandatory government-issued bag or my winning personality?"
She snorted. "The latter, obviously. You're exactly what I imagined when I heard 'the brightest minds in Japan.'"
"Disappointed?"
"Underwhelmed."
"Fair enough."
The distant rumble I'd heard earlier grew louder, and this time, the distinctive shape of a bus appeared around the bend in the road. Not just any bus—sleek, modern, with the ANHS emblem emblazoned on its side.
"Right on time," the girl murmured, checking her watch.
The bus slowed to a stop before us, its doors hissing open. The driver, a stern-faced man in a crisp uniform, consulted a tablet.
"ANHS first-years?" he asked, not looking up.
The girl stood. "Yes."
I remained seated, studying the bus. Tinted windows prevented me from seeing inside.
"ID cards," the driver said.
The girl produced hers immediately from a neat wallet. I dug mine out of my back pocket, slightly bent at one corner.
The driver scanned them both with a handheld device, then nodded. "Proceed. Luggage in the compartment below."
The girl moved to comply, but I stayed put.
"What about them?" I asked, gesturing to the others waiting.
The driver finally looked up, his expression unchanged. "This transport is exclusively for ANHS students."
"But they've been waiting longer."
"Different bus line. This stop serves multiple routes."
I glanced at the elderly man who smiled. "We're waiting for the town shuttle, young man. Comes in about fifteen minutes."
"See?" the girl said, already loading her suitcase into the luggage compartment. "Not everything is a conspiracy."
"Never said it was," I replied, finally standing and stretching. "Just checking."
I slung my duffel over my shoulder, ignoring the luggage compartment. The driver frowned.
"All large items must be stored below."
"It's not large. And I prefer to keep it with me."
He looked ready to argue, then simply shrugged. "Your choice."
I boarded behind the girl, immediately noting several things: the interior was more luxurious than standard buses, with individual seats rather than benches; approximately half the seats were already occupied by teenagers our age; and a small camera was mounted above the driver's seat, angled to view the entire cabin.
The girl moved toward an empty seat near the front. I continued toward the back, preferring to have a full view of my surroundings. As I passed the other students, I cataloged them automatically—nervous boy chewing his lip, confident girl already introducing herself to neighbors, two friends from the same middle school based on their familiar banter, loner deliberately avoiding eye contact.
I chose a seat in the last row, next to the window. The seat across the aisle remained empty, as did the one in front of me. I dropped my duffel on the floor between my feet and returned my attention to the window as the bus pulled away from the stop.
The elderly man waved as we departed. I found myself lifting my hand in response, though I doubted he could see through the tinted glass.
The girl from the bench had already engaged her seatmate in conversation. Her posture had changed—more open, animated, friendly. Interesting contrast to the confrontational stance she'd taken with me.
The bus turned onto a highway, picking up speed. According to the information packet, the journey to ANHS would take approximately three hours. I settled deeper into my seat, preparing for a long ride.
A voice broke through the ambient noise of the bus. "Mind if I sit here?"
I looked up to find a tall boy with lavender hair gesturing to the seat across the aisle. His eyes matched his hair color, giving him an unusual appearance.
"Free country," I replied with a shrug.
He sat, immediately extending his hand. "Shibata. Sō Shibata."
I eyed his hand for a moment before accepting it. His grip was firm but not aggressive. "Minoru Shirō."
"Nice to meet you, Shirō-kun. First time away from home?"
"Something like that."
"Same here. Never been farther than the next town over before this." He gazed out the window, a mixture of excitement and apprehension crossing his face. "Feels strange, doesn't it? Leaving everything behind for three years."
"Some things are worth leaving behind," I said.
"And some aren't," he replied softly. From his pocket, he pulled out a smooth river stone, rubbing it between his fingers.
I turned back to the window, watching as urban landscapes gradually gave way to less developed areas.
Shibata seemed a little bothered by my silence. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"I talk when there's something worth saying."
He laughed. "Fair enough. My grandfather used to say still waters run deep."
"Your grandfather said a lot of things, it seems."
"He did." Shibata's expression turned wistful. "Everything important I know, I learned from him."
I found myself curious despite my better judgment. "And what's the most important thing he taught you?"
Shibata considered this, turning the stone over in his palm. "That your word is the only thing no one can take from you," he finally answered. "That's why I never give it unless I mean to keep it."
"Admirable," I said, meaning it. "Naive, but admirable."
Rather than take offense, he smiled. "Maybe. But I'd rather be naive and honest than clever and false."
The bus hit a bump, jostling the passengers. My duffel shifted, and I automatically steadied it with my foot.
"Just clothes in there?" Shibata asked.
"Essentials," I replied. "The school provides most of what we need."
"That's what the brochure said. Still, I packed some things from home. Reminders, you know?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of seeds. "Going to start a vegetable garden if they'll let me. Keep a piece of home close by."
I studied him, trying to reconcile his openness with my experience of people. Either he was the world's best actor, or he genuinely lacked guile. The latter seemed more likely.
"What about you?" he asked. "Bring any reminders of home?"
I thought of the photograph in my wallet—the only tangible connection to my mother and sister. "One or two."
He nodded. "That's good. Roots matter, even when you're branching out."
The countryside rolled by outside, green and vast and ordinary. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like to grow up in a place like Shibata's village—surrounded by nature, guided by a wise grandfather, untouched by the manipulations that had shaped my existence.
"Look," Shibata said suddenly, pointing ahead through the front windshield. "I think I can see it."
I leaned forward slightly. In the distance, barely visible on the horizon, stood the distinctive silhouette of Advanced Nurturing High School—modern, imposing, isolated.
My new prison. My new opportunity. My new stage.
Time for the performance of a lifetime.