Lost

Chapter 3 Isamu

"Ko-ke-koko~!" (Rooster call in Japanese)

It's morning again.

I'm awake—again.

Every time I wake up, I wish the night had lasted longer so I could keep sleeping. I'm not a morning person, but I'm not lazy either. Once I get myself together mentally, that's when I can start moving.

I let out a long sigh as I sat up. Time to get up and get ready for the day. I folded the bed and sheets, carefully placing them away, then splashed cold water on my face to fully wake up. The mirror reflected my tired eyes, still puffy from yesterday's travel and jet lag. I muttered to myself, trying to wake up properly.

"Isamu, come eat! The food's ready," my neighbor called.

I've never liked anyone calling me by my last name. No one here even knows it anymore—they stopped asking long ago after I refused to give it out. It doesn't matter to me, so there's no reason for anyone to know.

"Hai," I responded.

I needed to hurry. She was almost 85 and still up at the crack of dawn doing housework and cooking breakfast. Honestly, that's the secret to longevity—just keep moving, keep working. Physical activity alone doesn't explain it. Feeling like you have a purpose gives people a reason to fight every morning. That's why elders in nursing homes often fade—they lose their reason to keep living. None of the elders here would step foot in one. They've told me they'd rather die than go.

I don't blame them.

I'm the only young person here—well, young compared to the village elders. Most residents are elderly, so being 37 is like being a baby. I don't mind; I was taught to respect my elders and help out. I do most of the farm work and crop picking, though most women help too, because that's what they've done for most of their lives. Only one other man lives here; the rest of their husbands have passed.

"Hurry up, Isamu, or all the food will be gone," she shouted.

All the food? Who else is here?

Curious, I headed inside. Maybe a visitor from a nearby village had joined for breakfast. News travels slowly here; you usually find out yourself or catch it on TV.

I took off my shoes and rounded the corner. A girl—a foreigner—was helping herself to breakfast. We locked eyes for a moment. Her mouth was full, but she forced a smile. I turned away, not caring about formalities since she wasn't Japanese; I didn't know her.

"Who's that?" I asked in Japanese.

"I don't know, but she's a beauty. She doesn't speak much Japanese, but I heard something about a bus. You go ask her—go on," granny said, nudging me forward.

The girl quickly swallowed her food and stood to greet me. At first, she offered her hand but swapped it for a bow.

"H-Hi...uh...kon'nichiwa...onamae wa...Jackie desu...hajimemashite..."

"You can stop with the broken Japanese", I replied in English.

She blinked in surprise.

"O-oh...you speak English..."

"Clearly," I said.

"You don't have an accent."

"Nope."

"Are you...American too?"

"No."

"O-oh..."

"Did you ask her yet?" granny pressed in Japanese.

I let out a sigh.

"Don't ask me anything until I'm done eating," I told the girl.

She nodded obediently.

This is going to be a pain. I need to find out how long she's staying. She didn't come here for vacation—she's here by mistake. She's going to rely on me for everything, especially translation. Why her of all people ended up here, in this tiny village? She's used to city life; she won't help on the farm. I bet she'll be afraid to get her nails dirty or mess up her hair—probably spent hours making it perfect. I should warn her about the bugs; that might send her running.

Breakfast was simple but hearty. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. The foreign girl ate slowly, carefully, as if every bite was a challenge. I watched her, curious how she would adjust to village life. She glanced at me nervously, probably thinking I was some strict local who would scold her for her manners. Little did she know, I wasn't that guy. I had my own problems to worry about.

After breakfast, I helped clear the dishes. She followed, mimicking my movements. I resisted the urge to explain the proper way to dry plates or fold cloths. She'd learn, or she wouldn't—that wasn't my problem...yet.

Outside, the village was coming alive. Chickens clucked and the smell of morning dew mixed with the faint scent of smoke from early cooking fires. I gestured for her to follow me to the small farm patch behind the house.

"This is where you'll be working, Jackie," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Mostly picking crops, feeding chickens, a little digging here and there. Don't touch anything you don't know, and wear gloves."

She nodded, eyes wide, taking it all in. She clearly had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. Good. Let her be surprised—it might teach her something.

"You'll get used to it," I added. "If you complain, the bugs and mud will win. You don't want that."

She laughed nervously. "Bugs?"

"Everywhere," I said simply. 

I saw her glance at her hands, clearly worried about her nails. I smirked. This was going to be entertaining.

The day stretched ahead, full of sun, work, and the constant reminder that this girl didn't belong here—or maybe she did, but only temporarily. I had no patience for disruptions, but reality was unavoidable: I'd have to deal with her presence. For now, I'd tolerate it. Teach her a lesson or two, keep her in line, and make sure she understood—village life wasn't city life.

And if she survived the day without crying...maybe she had a chance.