Behind the Mask

Off the Record

My life was often a well-organized series of routines and schedules. Wake up, prepare for work, and ensure everything in my daughter's bag was packed: textbooks, notebooks, lunchbox—all in their designated places. Then I outlined any special instructions for the day to my mother, though they had been repeated so many times that I could tell she was getting tired.

"Please don't give Chiho anything sweet once it's past 7 P.M," I said as I grabbed my jacket off the back of a chair.

"Don't tell me how to take care of my granddaughter," she said, her voice stern.

My mother was a petite woman in her early sixties. Her salt-and-pepper hair had been recently cut in a sleek bob, framing a face that bore the grace of age with a few laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She looked up at me and her eyes scanned my features. "You look tired," she remarked.

"I'm fine, Mama," I said.

"You need to sleep more. You've been working too hard lately," she said.

"I have to work hard," I said, grabbing my bag off the couch and slipping on my shoes. "If I don't, who's going to pay the rent and bills?"

She shrugged.

"Make sure Chiho wakes up on time and gets to school early. Last week, you-"

She waved her hand dismissively. "I know, I know. Go to work. My granddaughter and I will be fine."

I smiled. "Bye, Mama," I said, bending down and giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Have a good day, darling," she replied, patting me on the shoulder.

I took a deep breath and stepped outside. It was a cold morning. A light mist hung over the city, making the sky look hazy. The crisp air nipped at my cheeks, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me. The street was quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of Tokyo still waking up. The buildings were tall and they seemed to disappear into the mist, their tops obscured by the low-hanging clouds. The faint scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle fragrance of damp earth and the distant aroma of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café.

Puddles from last night's rain dotted the sidewalk, reflecting the dull gray of the sky. I could hear the soft patter of water dripping from the eaves of buildings onto the concrete below. I checked my watch and quickened my pace. The early morning bus would be here soon.

The bus stop was a small, unassuming structure nestled at the corner of the street. A simple metal shelter with a clear, plastic roof offered minimal protection, but it was enough to shield waiting passengers from the impending rain. The roof was slightly fogged from the cold morning air, and droplets of water clung to its surface. A few other people had been waiting and it wasn't long before the distant hum of an engine grew steadily louder, cutting through the morning stillness. The bus rounded the corner, its headlights piercing through the mist. It pulled up to the stop with a smooth precision, the doors opening with a soft, pneumatic whoosh and we got in.

The journey to Takahashi Media Company was short. The building stood on a quiet street, nestled between a coffee shop and a small bookstore. It wasn't imposing, but it had a certain understated charm - a modest, mid-rise structure with brick walls and a large bay window that overlooked the street.

The glass doors opened into a small lobby where Akiko, the receptionist, sat at a desk. She looked up as I walked in, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. "Good morning, Miss Wakita," she chimed.

"Morning, Akiko," I replied, forcing a smile.

"Mr. Takahashi has asked for you this morning," she said. "He does not look happy."