"Wedding invitation"

July 15th, 2026

At the fast food - 9:30 AM

Morning in Tokyo was supposed to smell like fresh bread and cherry blossoms, or at least clean air and vending machine coffee.

Instead, Ian was welcomed by the unmistakable cocktail of grease, burnt buns, and cheap disinfectant as he clocked in for another shift.

The automatic doors whooshed open. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The sound of oil bubbling, timers beeping, and pop songs playing on repeat made up the soundtrack of his waking life.

He entered the kitchen silently. The other crew gave him a glance, some curious, some tight-lipped.

Then came the familiar, nasal voice:

"Ian."

Manager Kuwabara stood by the office door, arms crossed, like a warden waiting for an inmate.

Ian didn't stop walking. Didn't look up.

"About yesterday," Kuwabara said, trying to mask the bitterness in his tone.

"We still need to talk." He added.

Ian simply nodded once, clipped and emotionless.

"Yeah. Later." He said.

Without another word, he grabbed his apron, tied it tight, and headed to the grill. He'd scrubbed it the night before. It was still spotless. But cleaning was better than talking. Always had been.

He grabbed a wire brush and got to work. The grill hissed beneath his hand. It was soothing, in a way — the resistance, the scrape, the rhythm. His own world, quiet and manageable.

Until...

"Yo, Ian."

A voice from behind him. A younger coworker, maybe 18, maybe 19. Always forgot his name.

Ian kept brushing.

"There was a delivery earlier this morning," the kid said, slightly awkward.

Ian's brow twitched.

"So?" Ian replied. His voice hinting his uninterested manner.

"It's for you. I think it's… uh, personal?" The kid answered.

That got Ian's attention. He turned.

"A delivery? To me?"

The kid nodded. Then held up a white, delicately sealed envelope with gold trim and a wax stamp in the shape of...a heart in shadow colored?

Ian squinted. "Are you sure that's mine?"

"Said your full name on it. Ian Everhart. Came with your shift ID, even. Manager signed for it." The kid said.

The kid held the letter out and then left quickly, clearly eager to escape whatever awkwardness was brewing.

Ian stared at it.

It looked like a wedding invitation — the expensive kind. Creamy texture, real wax seal, a shimmer to the paper. But what unsettled him more was the smell.

A faint, lingering scent of perfume.

Floral. Sharp. Sweet.

Too familiar.

He swallowed hard. Something heavy coiled in his stomach.

On the envelope, handwritten in elegant black ink:

"I always knew this was your favorite perfume of mine."

And below that, in brighter, bubbly cursive:

"I want you here in my grand wedding <3"

Ian blinked. Stared at the letter again. Read it twice. Three times.

Then,

"What… the hell."

He looked around. No one was watching him. The fryer hissed in the background. The dining area murmured with customers eating cheap meals. Everything moved on like nothing had happened.

But he didn't.

Ian opened the cabinet above the prep station, slid the letter inside, and shut it quietly.

He didn't read the rest. Didn't want to.

"Probably some joke," he muttered under his breath. "Wrong address. Dumb stunt. Who the hell would invite me to a wedding?"

His jaw tightened.

"Let alone wear perfume like that..."

He shook his head violently, like trying to shake a ghost off his shoulder.

That scent… it clawed at him. Tugged at the attic door in his memory — one he'd nailed shut a long time ago.

"Focus," he told himself.

He turned the grill back on. Grabbed frozen patties. Pressed them into the heat with robotic precision.

And yet, no matter how loud the kitchen got ,no matter how hot the grill burned, he could still smell it.

That scent.

That letter.

That cursed heart drawn at the bottom.