Tokyo Is a Cage

Never had the city lights appeared so dull.

Haruka sat on the side of her childhood room window, looking at the thumping veins of Tokyo stretching out into the evening. Skyscrapers glowed with light, trains rattled overhead, and people on the sidewalks marched like automatons. But in this glass, all was muted.

As if looking into a world that she no longer belonged to.

She hadn't been released on her own since she got back. Her parents didn't need to lock the doors. They kept her in order with smiles, with "we just want the best for you" and "let's get you back on track." They confiscated her phone, saying she had to detox. Her day planner was filled to the minute—grad school advisor interviews, mock classes, meetings with professors her dad knew from school.

There were no fights.

No shouting.

Only the suffocating weight of polite duty.

"Dinner in ten," her mother's gentle voice called from below.

Haruka didn't answer.

She looked down at the notebook in her lap. Blank. Again. For the fourth night in a row.

She had tried. She had lit a candle, made tea, even placed her old fountain pen beside her for comfort. But the words that once flowed as naturally as breathing—second nature—would not flow.

She once wrote to live. Now she could not write at all.

The silence within her was no longer peace. It was a prison.

Meanwhile, in the other part of the city, Kaito stood in front of a slim apartment complex in a venerable section of Tokyo. Above him, the sky was thick with smog, a greyish-pale dome that absorbed the stars. He looked over the piece of paper in his hand once again—an address in his writing.

He rapped on the door.

A fifty-year-old woman opened the door, looking at him with cautionary interest. She had her hair tucked back into a sloppy bun and was wearing a frayed apron that smelled faintly of ginger and miso.

"Sumimasen," Kaito bowed. "I lived next door when I was a child. My name's Kaito. My grandmother was Suzuki Yuki."

Recognition flashed in the woman's eyes. "Yuki-chan's grandson?" she smiled. "You've grown up. You used to ride your bike around here in circles until you crashed into my mailbox."

Kaito smiled softly. "Sounds like me."

She stepped aside. "Come in. I just brewed tea."

They sat on zabuton cushions in the tatami. Yellowed frames from old photographs rested against walls, the pungent scent of steeping green tea wafting between. She poured one for him, and then poured herself a cup too.

"So," she asked softly, "what brings you back here?"

Kaito didn't respond hastily, then stuck his hand into his overcoat pocket. He produced a creased note—thin and worn around the edges—and dropped it onto the table.

"I'm looking for a girl," he whispered. "Misaki Haruka."

The woman blinked. "Misaki. I remember. She came to see you with you. Always tagging behind you like a shadowy little creature."

Kaito smiled weakly. "Yeah."

"I haven't seen her in years, though," she went on, voice thick with apology. "Not since your family moved away."

I know," he nodded. "But I thought. perhaps someone around here still kept in touch? Perhaps her family stayed in contact with the old neighbors?"

The woman nodded, considering. "Her father does still teach at the university, doesn't he? I catch glimpses of him now and then in the faculty newsletters. Very well regarded. Serious, though. That girl. she was always so shy."

Kaito's hand clenched tighter around the tea cup. "She still is.".

"But you located her again, didn't you?" the woman demanded, eyes flashing with intuition. "Or you wouldn't be looking now."

Kaito looked down. "I did. But I lost her again. And this time, I don't know how to locate her."

In her bedroom, Haruka sat in the dark. The lights were off, the notebook shut. Only the city's light filtered through the blinds, casting faint stripes on the floor.

She looked up at the ceiling, counting cracks she used to draw with her eyes when she couldn't sleep.

Her chest constricted. Not from sorrow—but from the slow disassemble of self.

The Haruka who had laughed with Kaito in the snow, who had served melon bread to tourists, who had felt safe for the first time in years—that girl was now a dream. A temporary escape. A stolen breath. And now she was once again in the world that taught her how to disappear.

She reached out to take hold of a pen again, hand shaking. She unscrewed it and pressed the tip against the page.

Nothing came out.

No lines. No pictures. No voice.

Just silence.

Haruka's eyes were shut. For the first time in days, she said something aloud.

".Kaito."

The act of saying his name caused her throat to ache.

She had missed his silly jokes. The way he talked without requiring her to respond. The way he listened when her sandals were not aligned. The warmth of his arms when all came crashing down.

Kaito left the neighbor's residence with no solid lead, but one thing was definite—Haruka's father still worked at the university. And if that were true, then Haruka must have been dragged back into that group.

He had no plan.

But he could not sit idle anymore.

As he emerged into the street, cold wind sweeping through the alleyways, he pulled out his phone and accessed the Notes app.

There, at the end of a lengthy list of entries, was one final unsent message to her.

Although I may not be able to locate you right away, I'll keep looking. You used to say that I made you feel safe. So I'll remain here. However long it takes.

He stared at the message for a long time.

Then he sent it.

Although he knew she couldn't read it.

Not yet.

But someday.