A new beginning

The moment Emma stepped out of Narita Airport, the reality of her decision hit her. Tokyo was nothing like New York. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents—grilled yakitori, freshly baked melonpan, and something faintly floral that lingered in the breeze. Neon signs flashed in the distance, their bold kanji characters indecipherable to her. She clutched her suitcase handle a little tighter.

This is it, she thought. A whole year in a foreign land.

She had taken the job on impulse—a temporary journalism assignment covering Japan's emerging art scene. It was supposed to be an adventure, an escape from the monotonous routine back home. But now, as she watched the bullet train speed past in a blur, she felt small, like a single brushstroke in an unfinished painting.

A short taxi ride later, Emma arrived at her tiny apartment in Shinjuku. It was smaller than she expected—just one room, a kitchenette, and a narrow balcony overlooking a street lined with vending machines and ramen shops. She dropped her bags, exhaling deeply.

"You wanted an adventure," she reminded herself.

After a quick shower, she decided to explore, hoping to shake off the jet lag. The streets were alive with energy—salarymen in crisp suits, teenagers with dyed hair and oversized hoodies, couples sharing taiyaki by the train station. Everything felt new and thrilling.

Then it happened.

Turning a corner, she nearly collided with a man carrying a camera. He stepped back just in time, but not before his shoulder brushed against hers.

"Sumimasen," he said, his voice deep and quiet.

Emma looked up—and froze.

The man standing before her had striking, sharp features softened by his dark, slightly tousled hair. His eyes, a deep brown that seemed almost black, studied her with quiet intensity. He was tall, dressed in a simple black sweater and jeans, a vintage camera slung around his neck.

She scrambled for a response. "Uh—sorry! I mean, no—sumimasen!"

The corner of his lips quirked upward, almost like he was amused. He glanced at her, then at the city behind her. "Not from here," he noted in perfect English.

Emma blinked. "Was it that obvious?"

His small smile deepened. "A little."

A pause. She should have walked away, but something about him—his presence, the quiet way he carried himself—kept her rooted.

He gestured toward her notebook, which she had tucked under her arm. "You're a writer?"

"Journalist," she corrected. "Here for a year."

He nodded, thoughtful. Then, as if making a decision, he extended his hand. "Ren."

She hesitated for only a second before shaking it. "Emma."

And just like that, her story in Tokyo truly began.