The sun dipped low in the Tokyo sky, casting long shadows across the bustling streets. Among the sea of hurried feet and indifferent faces, a teenage boy sat on a small wooden chair, strumming his guitar. His fingers moved deftly over the strings, coaxing a soulful melody from the worn instrument. His name was Seimei, written with the kanji for "life" (生命), a name that now felt bitterly ironic.
Seimei's music drifted into the air, mingling with the sounds of the city. Despite his talent, most passersby paid him no heed, their minds occupied with their own lives. A few kind souls stopped briefly, dropping coins or the occasional bill into the frayed hat that lay open on the ground before him. Seimei nodded gratefully at each small act of generosity, his eyes reflecting a depth of gratitude that belied his youth.
As the day wore on, Seimei's hands ached, but he continued to play, pouring his heart into each note. The music was his refuge, a way to forget his worries, if only for a little while. When the sky finally turned a deep indigo and the streetlights flickered to life, Seimei packed up his guitar and carefully counted the money in his hat. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.
With a heavy sigh, Seimei began his walk to the hospital. The neon signs of the city flashed around him, casting a garish glow on his somber face. Each step felt like a journey through a world that had forgotten him, a world where his mother's life hung by a thread.
Arriving at the hospital, Seimei made his way through the sterile corridors, the scent of antiseptic and quiet hum of medical machines surrounding him. He reached his mother's room and paused in the doorway, his heart aching at the sight before him. His mother lay in the bed, her frail form almost swallowed by the crisp white sheets. She was asleep, her breathing shallow and labored.
Seimei quietly approached her bedside and knelt down, placing the small pile of money on the nightstand. He looked at her peaceful face, a stark contrast to the pain he knew she endured daily. His throat tightened as he struggled to find the words he needed to say.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry that I'm such a failure of a son. I wish I could do more for you. I wish I could save you."
Tears welled up in Seimei's eyes, blurring his vision as he clutched his mother's hand. The enormity of his helplessness crashed over him, and he sank to his knees, his body wracked with sobs. The weight of his mother's illness, the financial burden, and his own feelings of inadequacy bore down on him until he could no longer hold back the flood of emotions.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
Seimei's cries filled the quiet room, a poignant counterpoint to the steady beeping of the medical equipment. In that moment, he felt utterly alone, a young boy in a world too vast and cruel for him to navigate.
As the night deepened, Seimei remained on the floor, his heart heavy with sorrow and guilt. The melody he had played earlier seemed a distant memory, its notes lost in the echo of his grief.
END OF CHAPTER 1