Fragments Of Past - Forgotten Promises

chapter 1 - present part 1

The sun hung low over Niigata City, casting long shadows across the narrow streets. I kept my head down, hands shoved deep into my pockets, feeling the weight of yet another rejection letter crumpled in my fist. It was a familiar sting, but it didn't hurt any less—the same cycle of hope and failure repeating itself like some cruel joke. The salty sea breeze swept past, but it did little to soothe the ache gnawing at my chest.

As I neared our modest apartment complex, I slowed my pace, eyes flickering upward. The evening sky was streaked with shades of crimson, and for a split second, the sight of it made my heart tighten— like that first time I saw blood on the pavement, the day everything changed. I shook the memory off. I had more immediate problems, like how I'd explain to my mom that, once again, I'd come up short.

The wooden steps creaked beneath my feet as I climbed to our thirdfloor apartment, each step feeling heavier than the last. I wasn't ready to face her, but there wasn't anywhere else to go. When I reached the

door, there she was—Mom, waiting for me, her sharp eyes softening when she saw my face. Even though she tried to hide it, I could see the concern in her eyes.

"Yuki," she greeted me, voice a blend of warmth and the kind of weariness that I was starting to feel myself. "How did it go?"

I didn't even bother with pretence. Pulling out the letter, I handed it to her with a forced smile. "Same as always."

Mom glanced at it for just a moment before crumpling it in her hand, her sigh echoing in the small space between us. "You're being too hard on yourself, Yuki. These things take time."

Time. I felt a bitter laugh threaten to escape but swallowed it down.

"I've been trying for years, Mom. Maybe... it's time to accept it's not going to happen." My voice came out quieter than I intended.

She stepped closer, her hand resting on my shoulder. "Don't say that. You're talented, Yuki. You just need to find the right story to tell."

I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Her belief in me only made it worse. "I don't even know if I can do that anymore."

She was quiet for a moment before trying to lift my spirits. "Why don't you come inside? I made okonomiyaki... your favourite."

I shook my head, already feeling the familiar tightness in my chest.

"I've got to get to work. Ayame's probably waiting for me."

Mom frowned, her worry deepening, but she didn't press further.

"Just... promise me you'll eat something later, okay?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, already halfway down the stairs.

Disappointment settled over me like a heavy coat. It wasn't just the rejection letter. It was the realization that I was stuck in a life I didn't want, with no escape in sight. My dream of being a novelist—of making something meaningful out of all these stories in my head—felt like it was slipping further and further out of reach. What was left? A dead-end job, unfulfilled promises, and this suffocating sense of failure.

The walk to my office, where I worked as a news photographer, wasn't long, but today it felt like miles. The streets buzzed with the sounds of summer—children laughing, the hum of traffic, people living their lives—but it all felt distant, like I was walking in some muted, colourless world. I couldn't stop thinking about that letter, about how every rejection chipped away at whatever was left of my hope. How long could I keep going like this?

When I arrived at the small office, I was greeted by the whirlwind of energy that was Ayame Saito, my co-worker—and, honestly, my only real friend these days. Her long black hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with the kind of enthusiasm that made you think life still had endless possibilities. It was a sharp contrast to how I felt.