Stranger in a Strange Land - Part 2

Wasaru placed his briefcase down on the desk.

With a soft sigh, he slipped off his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the brass rack, its ornate carvings glinting under the dim light. His fingers moved to his necktie, loosening the knot before folding it into a crisp square and setting it carefully on the shelf. The desk before him was buried beneath a chaotic sea of research papers—unfinished, unending, and with no promise of completion in sight.

In a sudden sweep, he knocked everything to the floor. Papers fluttered like wounded doves, and a heavy thump followed—a muffled, solid weight striking the wooden boards. Amidst the scattered pages, his eyes caught a large envelope, once hidden beneath the mountain of documents. He bent down, seized it, and without a word, turned and left the study.

The mansion, a grand inheritance, blended the grace of a traditional Japanese estate with the imposing presence of a Western fortress—towering walls, thick wooden doors, and a silence steeped in old memories. Yet, he could hardly complain. It was a home handed down through blood and legacy.

Sliding the door shut behind him, Wasaru walked along the covered wooden corridor that lined the mansion's inner garden. The air carried the tranquil symphony of nature—whispers of wind through the manicured pines, the faint chirr of cicadas, and the soft crunch of pebbles beneath his step. Here, in the embrace of the Zen garden, he often came to let his thoughts drift free.

He lowered himself to the wooden veranda, facing the rippling waters of the fountain. Beside him, a vintage phonograph stood tall—an antique speaker with a winding crank, tethered to its record player. Slowly, he unwrapped the parcel and slipped the vinyl from its sleeve. With practiced care, he placed it on the turntable and lowered the needle. The record began to spin, its surface catching the golden evening light.

A mournful piano melody seeped into the air—Moonlight Sonata, a lament that clung to his chest like a phantom's touch. He lit a cigarette, the tiny ember flaring to life before he drew in a slow breath, eyes falling shut as he exhaled a thin wisp of smoke. Around him, the world performed its eternal song: the bamboo fountain tipping and clacking with a hollow tok, the trickle of water over mossy stones, and the endless chorus of cicadas heralding summer's zenith.

"Father."

The voice broke through the reverie. His eyes opened—and for a fleeting instant, he thought he saw her. But no... only a reflection. A shadow of what was lost.

There, standing amidst the garden, was Satoru, his son. In the boy's small hands rested a bright, colorful ball. His long, raven-black hair swayed lightly in the breeze—hair he had inherited from her. The only treasure she had left behind.

"Take care of Satoru… Promise me."—Her final words, whispered in his fading moments after giving birth.

Satoru's voice came soft, carrying the weight of a question. "I thought you were still working, Father."

Wasaru offered a weary, half-hearted smile. "I'll have to return soon… but not just yet."

The boy's gaze lowered, falling to the ball in his hands. Disappointment flickered across his face. "Oh. I see..."

The sight carved a fresh wound into Wasaru's chest. Rising from his seat, he approached his son and knelt beside him. "I'm sorry," he said softly, resting a hand on Satoru's small shoulder. Ten years... A mere breath of time since he first held his newborn son in his arms. And yet, it felt like an eternity stolen in a blink. He wished—more than anything—that she could see the boy their love had brought into the world.

"How about this?" he offered, his voice warmer now. "This weekend, for your birthday... I'll take you to the amusement park. Just the two of us."

Satoru's reply came faint, heavy with doubt. "You said that last time…"

Wasaru felt the sting of truth. "I know. But—" Excuses, he chided himself. "It was urgent. But this time... I swear, I'll clear everything. You have my word."

Satoru's eyes searched his father's face. "Promise?"

"Promise."

With that, he pulled his son into a tight embrace, holding him as if the warmth between them could halt the spinning of the earth. Let this moment remain. Let it last forever.

…

"The A-32 compound induction experiment has failed. No reaction was observed under electrical stimulation."

Wasaru spoke into the small voice recorder, holding it close to his lips. With a weary sigh, he pressed the button to end the recording and tossed the device onto the desk without care. His body, heavy with exhaustion, sank into the chair.

Around him, his team of researchers exchanged uneasy glances. Seeing their concern, he forced a thin smile.

"That's enough for today," he said, his voice strained. "Go home and rest. We'll try again tomorrow."

As his team departed one by one, the room grew quiet—until he was the only soul left, alone with the weight of failure.

He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Where did I go wrong?

A sudden ringtone shattered the silence. Wasaru's eyes flicked to his phone, lying face-up on the cluttered desk. His heart stuttered. The number flashing on the screen made his chest clench with dread.

With trembling fingers, he accepted the call.

"Mr. Wasaru."

The voice on the other end was slow and deliberate, each syllable carefully measured, a blade pressed against his resolve. "I believe we're approaching the deadline we agreed upon, aren't we?"

Wasaru's throat tightened as he scrambled for words. "I… I'm fully aware of the deadline," he managed, his voice tight with urgency. "But the project isn't ready. I need more time."

The voice interrupted him—calm, cold, and absolute.

"Mr. Wasaru. It has been five years. Five years since we began funding your research. Our original agreement expected results within three. We extended the timeline—twice—at your request. But this is now your third extension."

"I understand." Wasaru's voice cracked, cornered and desperate. "But this experiment—no one has succeeded with it before. It's a frontier beyond our current technology. It should take two, even three times longer than conventional research."

A pause, then the voice, sharper now. "Surely you're not expecting us to fund your fantasy for another decade?"

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wasaru." The voice, though polite, carved into him without mercy. "You are a brilliant scientist. We recognize that. And we believed in your work—its potential to change the world. But if no one has achieved this breakthrough before, perhaps you should start considering that… it might be impossible."

"It is possible!" Wasaru's voice erupted, raw and defiant. "The theories—the simulations—they all show it can be done! I just need more time!"

A sigh, impersonal and final. "I'm sorry. Our decision stands. We're terminating your funding."

"No, wait—!"

He lurched forward, his mind racing through every calculation, every projection, every figure he could throw at them to change their minds. But his plea met only the hollow, rhythmic tone of a disconnected call.

The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter, tumbling across the cold tiles. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.

A storm brewed within him—anger, frustration, desperation—until it boiled over. With a wordless cry, he slammed his fist against the desk, sending scattered tools and papers to the ground. The phone, lying innocent and lifeless on the floor, became his next target. With a violent sweep, he sent it skidding across the room, where it struck the wall and bounced back like a stone skipping on water.

"Idiots." His voice seethed with contempt. "They know nothing. Nothing of what this could become. All they care about is their damn money and politics."

But the voice from the call lingered, gnawing at his defenses. No one has ever succeeded. Perhaps it's impossible.

The bitter truth pressed against his ribs like a vice: This was an experiment no one had dared—or managed—to complete. The technology it promised belonged to the realms of fiction, to the daydreams of eccentric scientists and the pages of science fiction novels. No wonder no corporate backer had stepped forward—no matter how revolutionary the outcome sounded. Because an idea that cannot succeed is nothing but the fevered delusion of a madman.

Wasaru reached down, retrieved his glasses, and slid them back onto his face. The fire that had raged moments before was already dying, leaving only the cold ashes of weariness behind.

Maybe they're right. His fingers laced together beneath his chin as his eyes darkened with doubt. Maybe… it is impossible.

The project was his life's work—the culmination of every dream he'd chased since his student days. He had poured his soul, his future, his everything into it. And yet… every attempt, every calculation, every simulation—failure. Always failure. Something was wrong. Some variable he had not yet seen. But he was too exhausted, too drained to find it.

It's over.

But then—

The sudden ring of his phone pierced the room once more.

His breath hitched, his head snapping up. The device lay where he had thrown it, battered but still glowing. His pulse quickened, a spark of impossible hope igniting in his chest.

Did they change their minds?

In a flash, he seized the phone, his thumb pressing the answer button almost before it reached his ear.

"H-Hello! This is Wasaru speaking!"

The voice on the other end spoke—words he could not yet fully process. But the tone—its urgency—ignited a fresh, burning resolve.

The embers of his rage flared back to life.

"I'll be there immediately," he said.

…

When Wasaru entered his office, he found his son already waiting for him.

Fifteen-year-old Satoru—still the mirror of his mother. The same delicate features, the same pair of blue eyes, cold and sharp as the surface of a distant, wind-kissed lake. Those eyes now narrowed at him with undisguised disdain. His son's hair, dyed a vivid green, was almost certainly a provocation—a rebellion typical of his age.

"So, you do remember where home is," Satoru greeted him, his voice laced with sarcasm as Wasaru settled into the chair opposite him. Between them lay the barricade of his ever-present fortress—a desk, piled high with research papers.

"I got a call from your teacher." Wasaru's voice was taut, strained under the weight of his restrained temper. "You got into another fight, didn't you?"

Satoru draped his arm lazily over the back of his chair, his eyes drifting to the ceiling with an air of indifference. "Since when do you care?"

The last fraying thread of Wasaru's composure snapped. His fist slammed onto the desk, sending papers into the air like startled birds.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice raw with frustration. "Why—why must you keep causing trouble?! Everything I've done—everything—is for your sake!"

"For my sake?" Satoru's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Don't make me laugh, Father. Everything you've ever done was for yourself."

Wasaru froze. "What… did you say?"

"You don't love me," Satoru continued, his voice chillingly steady. "You only loved her. You're just keeping a promise you made to her before she died. That's it. I know."

Satoru's eyes locked with his—those same, haunting eyes. "You don't see me, Father. You see her in me. That's why you push me so hard. That's why you make me study, force me to be the perfect, obedient son. That's why you hated it when I dyed my hair—because it broke the image. Her image."

A smile, bitter and razor-edged, twisted Satoru's lips. "You don't love me because I'm your son. You don't even care about that stupid promise. You love me because I'm the last reflection of her. A ghost you can control—a replacement for the woman you lost."

Silence fell—thick, suffocating, and unbreakable.

Wasaru sat frozen, disbelief carving into his chest like glass shards. His lips parted, but no words came.

"Is that… what you've thought of me… all this time?" His voice trembled—not with rage, but with something far more fragile.

"You think everything I've done—the discipline, the pushing you to succeed, teaching you to live in this world—you think that was about her?" His voice sharpened, raw and frayed. "You think I cared about your dyed hair because of her?"

"Oh, forgive me," Satoru's voice dripped with mockery, though a tremor of sorrow cracked beneath it. "Maybe I misunderstood." His lips twisted into a hollow grin. "Maybe you don't love her more than me. Maybe you don't love anyone at all. Not her. Not me. Only your precious work."

The blade found its mark.

"That's why you weren't there," Satoru continued, his voice soft and deadly, "Not there when she was in the hospital. Not there when I was born. Not there for any of my birthdays. Of course... She left you, didn't she? She chose to die away from you."

Satoru's gaze burned. "Because no one—no one—could live with a man who's incapable of loving anything but his own ambition."

The words struck Wasaru like thunder.

And that—

That was when he broke.

A rupture, raw and violent, ripped through him.

"You're wrong!"

The roar tore from his throat—an animalistic, primal howl. His voice, a shattered vessel of agony, filled the room and consumed the air.

"No—no!" he screamed, his voice cracking, splintering—too loud, too wild to be contained. "You're lying!"

It wasn't true.

It wasn't true!

"I loved her—more than anything in this damn world!" His voice was a thunderclap, a desperate plea to an empty sky. "More than my work, more than my life! I—"

That was when he realized—

The words hadn't stayed inside his head.

They had escaped.

And in that instant, he saw it—

The truth.

Because everything Satoru said...

Was true.

He hadn't loved Satoru because he was his son.

He had loved him because Satoru was all he had left of her.

Because his son—his flesh and blood—was the last, living echo of the woman who had completed him... and then left him shattered.

The realization was a blade through his soul—cold, merciless, and absolute.

And then—

The world... stopped.

Because he felt it.

The warmth beneath him.

The tension in his hands.

The skin beneath his fingers—warm, but not breathing.

His eyes—wild, unfocused—snapped down.

His knees pressed against the cold floor—his body straddling Satoru.

His hands—his trembling, shaking hands—wrapped around his son's neck.

The skin there, bruised. Darkening. His fingers, stiff and tight, crushing.

His son—

Still.

Silent.

Eyes wide, staring past him—

...Unseeing.

His fingers—

He couldn't feel the pulse.

No—

His body moved before his mind. His hands released, snapping back as if burned—horrified, alien, unrecognizable.

And Satoru—

Didn't move.

Didn't—

Breathe.

A strangled sound, inhuman and broken, tore from Wasaru's throat. His body—cold, trembling—fell back, his hands splayed before him, shaking—unfamiliar, foreign. What… what have I done—?

"Satoru—!" His voice cracked, hoarse, wild. "No—"

His hands flew to his son's chest—

"No!" He pressed—once—twice—

Again.

Harder.

"No—!" His voice broke—raw, shattered. "Please—please—"

His palms struck again—harder—

"Satoru!"

A bone cracked beneath his force.

But there was no heartbeat.

No life.

Only his own breathless sobs—his own voice, hoarse and crumbling, begging—pleading—

"I'm sorry—" He didn't know if he was speaking or screaming. The words were water through his fingers, slipping, drowning—

"I'm sorry—" His fists pounded, desperation devolving into madness. "I—"

And then—

Then, he collapsed.

His body crumbled, folding over Satoru's still form, his forehead pressing against his son's—his tears pooling, mixing—hot against cold.

"…I'm sorry…"

His voice was a whisper, a ghost, a prayer no god would hear.

But somewhere—deep, beneath his shattered soul—

A whisper. A question. A truth he could not outrun.

Am I crying because he's gone?

Or…

…because she is now truly gone with him?

…

The hospital's smoking area was deserted.

Wasaru stood alone, leaning against the cold, tiled wall. The faint orange glow of his cigarette flickered in his fingers as he exhaled a thin trail of smoke, his eyes unfocused, staring into nothing.

His fingertips brushed against the rough stubble on his jaw—a beard left to grow wild and untended. His fingers, bony and skeletal from stress and neglect, trembled faintly. The reflection in the glass window showed a man who looked twenty years older than his age. Deep-set, hollow eyes stared back, sunken beneath dark rings carved by countless sleepless nights. His cheeks, gaunt and pale, bore the marks of malnutrition and grief.

With a final drag, he crushed the cigarette underfoot and turned back inside, his steps heavy as he walked the sterile, lifeless corridors of the hospital.

He pushed open the door to a private patient room—

—and faced what remained of his son.

Satoru lay on the hospital bed, his form still and fragile, wrapped in pristine white sheets. His chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical rhythms, each breath a labor borrowed from the machine beside him. Clear tubes ran from his arms, feeding life through his veins, sustaining a heartbeat that the boy's body no longer fought to keep.

The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filled the room, a metronome of liminality. A cruel reminder:

Satoru was alive.

But he may never awaken.

Wasaru stood at his son's bedside, eyes tracing every delicate feature—the face that mirrored hers. His heart twisted, crushed beneath the weight of déjà vu. It felt like losing her all over again.

A soft knock rapped against the door. He didn't turn. It would be the doctor, or perhaps a nurse. It no longer mattered. The door opened with a faint hush and closed behind the visitor.

"Mr. Wasaru, I presume?"

The voice was low, smooth—older, but firm. A stranger's voice.

"Who are you?" Wasaru asked, his voice cold and flat. Every doctor and nurse in this hospital knew his name by heart.

"My name is Johannes Heisenberg," the man said, his tone steeped in careful sympathy. "First, allow me to extend my deepest condolences for what you're going through."

Wasaru's gaze remained fixed on his son's face. "What do you want?"

"I represent the European Organization for Nuclear Research," the man continued. "You may know us by another name—CERN."

The mention of CERN finally drew Wasaru's attention. He turned, and his eyes fell upon the man behind the voice.

Heisenberg appeared to be in his fifties, his posture upright but his presence somber—like a mortician in a suit rather than a diplomat of science. The thinning crown of his hair betrayed his age, but his eyes—keen, sharp, and analytical behind polished lenses—made Wasaru uneasy without knowing why.

"CERN?" Wasaru echoed, guarded and wary.

"The Large Hadron Collider, particle accelerators, the World Wide Web—you've surely heard of some of our contributions to science." Heisenberg's deep voice carried the cadence of a man accustomed to explaining the extraordinary.

"Of course, I know CERN," Wasaru replied, his voice laced with impatience. "So, tell me—what do you want from me?"

The man's eyes flicked briefly to the lifeless figure on the bed. "Your son is in a persistent vegetative state. Cerebral death. What are your plans, if I may ask?"

Wasaru's gaze dropped to his son's face—the echo, the reminder, the last fragile thread to her. His voice was barely above a whisper:

"...One day… they'll find a cure. Someday…"

But he didn't know if he believed it. Or if he only wanted to believe it.

"You know as well as I," Heisenberg said, his voice steady but not unkind, "that such miracles—if they come—are decades away. And the cost to wait for them, even with hope, is far beyond your means."

The bluntness, the truth in those words, pierced deeper than any false comfort.

"That is why I've come with an offer."

Wasaru said nothing, inviting the man to continue.

"We propose cryonic preservation."

A beat of silence.

"What?"

Heisenberg's expression did not waver. "We will use cryonics to preserve his body—and, more importantly, his brain—in a perfect state. Suspended beyond decay. He will not require life support, IV nutrition, or medical intervention. Time, disease, and entropy will cease their march. And he will wait—until science can bring him back."

Wasaru's voice, cold and sharp: "What's the price?"

Because he knew—there was always a price.

Heisenberg's lips pressed into the faintest of smiles—acknowledging the inevitability of the question.

"Your research," he said. "The one the Japanese Ministry of Technology withdrew funding from. I am aware that your project has been… terminated."

The words scraped against Wasaru's pride, raw and exposed.

"Our board believes your research holds extraordinary promise—far beyond the short-sighted concerns of your former sponsors. They wish for you to continue it—" He paused, then extended his gloved hand. A card, white and unmarked save for a single number, rested between his thumb and forefinger.

"—under CERN's banner."

The card slipped into Wasaru's hand without resistance.

"I'll remain in Japan for one week," Heisenberg said, adjusting his cuffs as he turned toward the door. "That is your time to decide."

Without another word, he left.

And Wasaru—

—was left alone.

Alone, with only the rhythmic beep… beep… beep… and the weight of a decision too heavy for one man's soul.

In his palm, the card felt cold. Smooth. Final. A number. A lifeline. Or a noose.

…

If it were his old self—

The man he used to be—

He would have accepted the offer without hesitation.

But now—

Now, it felt like nothing more than another excuse.

An excuse to chase his dreams under the comforting lie that it was the only way to save his son.

Wasaru stepped into his office—

—or rather, the wreckage that remained of it.

The room, once a sanctuary of his intellect, lay in ruin. His desk—once a fortress of ambition—lay overturned, its surface scarred and broken. His chair—shattered to splinters, reduced to nothing but jagged fragments of wood. The floor—

—was a graveyard of his research. Crumpled papers, torn charts, and shattered prototypes lay strewn in chaos, the final remains of a dream he had long abandoned.

No—

Not abandoned.

Destroyed.

By his own hands.

He dropped to his knees, the cold, unforgiving floor biting against his skin as his palms pressed into the ruin.

His hands—

—trembled, bruised from the destruction he had wrought. Yet they searched—

—sifted—

—crawled.

He moved through the debris like a man clawing through the rubble of a fallen world—seeking something he had to find.

Then—

His fingers struck something solid.

Not paper.

Not glass.

But something else.

Something hidden beneath the layers of chaos.

With shaking hands, he swept the scattered papers aside, revealing a large envelope—forgotten, yet preserved, like a relic from another life.

The handwriting on its surface—

—was hers.

Delicate. Elegant. Timeless.

"The First Song of Our Meeting"

The world narrowed.

His breath—unsteady, shallow—caught in his chest.

With the reverence of a man unearthing a sacred artifact, he opened the envelope. Inside—

—a vinyl record.

The garden welcomed him, the air thick with the scent of summer.

The sun—warm, golden—spilled through the leaves, casting soft, dappled shadows across the moss and stone.

The bamboo fountain—shishi-odoshi—tipped and knocked with its hollow, rhythmic tok, a heartbeat of nature's time.

Cicadas—

—cried, weaving their endless song into the summer breeze.

The water—

—whispered, rippling as it kissed the stones.

And Wasaru—

—sat before it all.

The phonograph stood beside him—an old companion, worn and loyal.

The vinyl, smooth and black, slipped onto the turntable, the needle descending with a soft, fragile click.

Then—

The first note—

—spilled into the air.

A single, mournful chord.

A lament.

A memory.

Moonlight Sonata.

The music—

—wasn't just a sound.

It was her.

Her laughter—soft, radiant—echoing through forgotten rooms.

Her touch—warm, fleeting—dancing across his skin.

Her voice—whispering dreams beneath a sky filled with stars.

It was—

—the first song they had ever shared.

The first step in their dance.

The first moment he realized—

—he could never live without her.

A flame flickered—

The cigarette, lit between his lips, smoldered as he drew in, the smoke curling through his chest before unfurling skyward in a thin, silver ribbon.

His eyes—

—closed.

The warmth of the sun—

The chorus of summer—

The song—

And her—

—all enveloped him.

The phone—

—felt heavier than it should.

The card—

—white, stark, unforgiving—

—felt colder than it should.

The number—

—simple. Singular.

One call.

One choice.

The screen lit up.

The number dialed.

A soft, distant ring.

Then—

A voice answered.

Wasaru—

—spoke.

And sealed his fate.