My name is Natsuri Moro. I'm 25 years old, and I work at a convenience store.
I live in Higashiyodogawa Ward, Osaka, in a small, aging apartment complex tucked between a railway line and a row of shuttered shops.
My address is 3-17-12 Shimo-Shinjō, Higashiyodogawa-ku, Osaka, apartment 204.
It's nothing special, thin walls, flickering hallway lights, and a landlord who only shows up when rent is late.
I'm pretty healthy, all things considered.
I don't really play video games much anymore, not because I don't want to, but because work gets in the way… and because I had to sell my console to cover rent.
I used to have a girlfriend, though you probably know how that goes in a story like mine.
It didn't really take much for it to end, and honestly, I'm just surprised it even lasted six months.
Sometimes I wish I could get back the money I spent on gifts for her, but that's just how it is.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right. My life is pretty boring so far. But that's not really anyone else's fault but mine, since my dreams were always small.
You know… get a decent job, marry a decent woman, live in a decent house, and die before my wife so I wouldn't have to deal with the pain of watching her die in front of me.
Selfish, I know, but in my head, that was the best-case scenario.
The problem is, the job isn't even decent, and at this rate, I won't get a wife, and I definitely won't get a house either.
And it's times like these that I miss being a kid. Back when I actually gave a damn about life.
I'd sit in front of the screen watching Super Sentai, Kamen Rider, Ultraman, stuff like that.
Yeah, it was probably the cringiest period of my life. I had all the phrases, lore, poses, and abilities memorized.
But it was also when I was happiest. It made me want to do something with my life. Be something.
That feeling didn't last long, though.
7 years ago, I got into a car accident right when I was trying to become a police officer.
I was lucky that I hadn't died, but with one leg and the other leg so bad that I needed a cane to stabilize myself, even with my prosthetic leg, I lost hope.
I wanted to try to be a hero in my own way if I couldn't be a superhero. Guess that dream ended before it even really began.
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THIRD PERSON POV:
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Moro wiped his hand on his shirt out of habit, stiff from the day, bagging the same brand of instant noodles until the letters on the packages blurred together in his vision, and pushed the glass door open into the evening air.
The automatic chime cut off behind him as the door slid shut.
A train thundered past nearby, steel screaming against steel, the vibration rattling the loose change in his pocket.
The alley of shuttered shops smelled faintly of frying oil and old rain, a smell that never quite went away, no matter how many times it rained.
He limped along the cracked sidewalk, his cane tapping a dull, uneven rhythm against the concrete as he made his way home.
Each step was careful, not painful enough to complain about, but never comfortable enough to forget.
A streetlight flickered ahead, bathing the curb in a sickly orange glow.
That's when he saw him.
A man sat hunched on the curb, shoulders folded inward like he was trying to disappear into his own coat.
The coat itself looked borrowed from a better life, too big, too worn, sleeves swallowing his hands.
His face was still, eyes unfocused, the kind of stare that said so much without saying anything at all.
One that Moro saw on his own face after he woke up every day, and to think that he had almost walked past him.
Most nights, he would have. Usually, after work, his head was too full of customer complaints, barcode beeps, and fluorescent lights to notice anyone else's misery.
He had his own things to worry about. Rent. Bills.
A leg that never quite cooperated.
A future that felt smaller every year.
He took three steps past the man.
Then stopped.
The sounds of a train faded in the distance, leaving behind an uncomfortable quiet.
Moro stood there for a second longer than necessary, annoyance rising first, 'I'm tired, I just want to go home', but it didn't last.
Something else crept in, uninvited. Sympathy, maybe. Or recognition.
He exhaled slowly and turned back.
"Hey," he said, voice rough from disuse.
The man didn't react at first. Then, slowly, his eyes shifted upward, as if it took effort to remember how to look at another person.
"You alright?" Moro asked, already feeling stupid for asking.
Nobody sitting on a curb under a flickering streetlight at night was alright.
The man blinked once. "I've been better."
Moro nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
An awkward silence stretched between them. Moro shifted his weight, the cane pressing into his palm.
"Listen," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "There's a convenience store right there. Still open. You should… get something to eat."
The man let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "You offering, or just giving advice?"
Moro hesitated. He glanced back toward the glowing storefront he'd just left, then down at the man again. "I'm offering."
The man studied him then, really looked. The cane. The tired eyes. The uniform shirt wrinkled from a long shift.
"…Why?" the man asked.
Moro didn't answer right away. He wasn't sure he had a good one.
"Because," he finally said, "we've all been down on our luck. And if tonight sucks a little less for you, then… I guess that's something."
The man stared at him for another long second, then looked away, jaw tightening. "You really believe that?"
Moro gave a small, tired smile. "Honestly? Not really."
That seemed to surprise him.
"But," Moro continued, "you don't have to believe it for it to help. Just...don't give up, alright? There's always some kind of way forward. Even if it looks stupid and slow."
The man swallowed, then nodded once. "Alright."
They stood there for a moment longer, two strangers under bad lighting and worse circumstances. Moro gestured with his head toward the store.
"C'mon," he said. "Before I change my mind."
As they turned back toward the glow of the convenience store, Moro couldn't shake the strange feeling in his chest, not hope, exactly, but something close enough to be dangerous.
He didn't know why he'd stopped. He didn't know why he cared.
He only knew that, for the first time in a long while, he felt like he'd done something that mattered, even if the world never noticed.
The chime above the glass door dinged as they stepped inside, bright and small against the hum of fluorescent lights.
Moro's fingertips still ached from the day's work when he fumbled his wallet open.
He felt the weight of coins and small bills, the familiar economy of his life: exact change, careful choices. He set a few bills on the counter.
"Four cup ramen, please. And—"
He paused, glancing at the man
"Two beers." He tried to keep it casual.
The clerk, one of his co workers that just took over from Moro's shift, gave a tired smile and scanned the items; the register beeped in a steady, indifferent rhythm.
Outside, the night had cooled just enough for steam to rise from the ramen as they tore open the lids and poured the hot water.
The man, Taichi, finally introduced himself when the food was between them, cradling the styrofoam cup like it was something sacred.
Moro cracked his own can of beer, the hiss soft. He didn't drink much anymore, but the first swallow tasted like permission: to sit, to breathe, to talk.
They sat on the low concrete wall by the storefront.
Taichi ate in small, quick bites, eyes flicking to Moro like he was trying to read him.
Moro watched the way Taichi's hands moved, and the speed at which he ate, and felt sympathetic.
"So," Taichi said after a long pause, "you work there all the time?"
"Yeah." Moro shrugged. "Second year now. Nights mostly. Scan, bag, stock shelves, listen to complaints about the point system."
He forced a laugh that came out like a cough. "You?"
"Delivery, before." Taichi's voice slid into the gaps. "Used to run packages around the ward. Had a bike. Used to think I'd never get tired of the city."
He blew on a noodle and smacked his lips. "Then… stuff happened. Lost a job. Lost my home. You know how it is."
Moro nodded. "Yeah."
He tapped the cane against his ankle. "I had plans once. Wanted to be a cop. Tried to be, gave up after something that… didn't go my way."
He kept his eyes on the street in front of them, taking the words out slowly. "Got in a crash. Lost my leg, and the other one is useless, but still functional. Spent a long time thinking about what that meant. Thought I was done."
Taichi was quiet for a heartbeat, then asked, "Do you regret it? Trying?"
Moro looked at him, the question sharp and honest. "Sometimes I do."
He took another sip of beer, letting the bitterness clear his throat. "But I regret the not-trying more. I guess that's why I stopped. I still want to mean something. Not in some grand way, just… not be small for the sake of it."
Taichi nodded, eyes shrouded in the neon glow of a distant vending machine. "I thought I was fine moving around. Thought I could start over every time. But it gets old, sleeping in different places, people who forget your face by morning."
He tapped his beer can with his finger. "I miss my bike. I miss that same roof that was my problem to pay for, but now it's someone else's."
They traded small confessions like trading cards: Moro found himself telling Taichi about the canned milk he drank before bed, about the twenty minutes of stretches that felt like rituals, about the ridiculous childhood of memorized poses and hero catchphrases.
Taichi laughed at some of it, gently, not cruelly, and then admitted he'd had a soft spot for Ultraman as a kid, too.
"Funny," Taichi said between slurps, "how those shows taught us how to stand tall, even when we're falling apart."
"Yeah." Moro smiled, the kind that didn't need teeth. "We tried to act big when we were small."
The conversation drifted to less personal things, where the best cheap ramen in the ward could be found, which train line was least likely to delay, but the core of it stayed steady: two people sharing a night so that it didn't feel quite so heavy.
The beer dwindled; the ramen cooled.
The streetlight flickered, and somewhere a train announced itself in the distance.
When the time came to stand, Taichi pushed the empty cup away with both hands and looked at Moro with not just respect but gratitude. "You gonna be okay?"
Moro tightened his grip on the cane, thinking of the small, stubborn plan that got him out of bed in the morning. "I'll be fine,"
He said, because he believed it more than he would have yesterday. "You get some rest, yeah? The shrine alley's not great, but it'll keep you dry."
Taichi nodded, then hesitated. "If... if it's not too weird… I'll come by the shop tomorrow. Maybe help you close? I'm not much at stocking, but I can carry a box."
Moro felt something like warmth fold over his ribs. "Yeah," he said, surprised at how easy the answer was. "Come by nine. I'll give you the cheap stuff."
They said goodnight in small, awkward ways and walked off in opposite directions, one toward thin, familiar corridors and a small apartment with flickering lights, the other toward the patchwork shelter of the alley, each carrying a little less of the weight they'd had an hour earlier.
The stars above Osaka were just a smear through the city's glow, but for the first time in a while, Moro didn't mind waiting to see if the morning would look different.