Chiama Hayasako, age 27. In a society where strong, independent women are still rare, she was a standout—an executive at a financial firm, sharp and decisive, armed with a finance degree from Imperial College London. Her overseas education had broadened her worldview, and since returning home, she'd become openly critical of the quiet, ever-present bias against women in the domestic workplace. She didn't just speak out—she fought back, and won.
By toppling a sleazy superior and taking his place, she had become something of a legend in the industry.
People's aura, after all, is defined by their wealth and their discipline.
Hayasako had crafted her life with obsessive precision: three ten-year plans, five three-year goals, spanning her career, hobbies, travel, and even health maintenance. Her success wasn't luck—it was the outcome of relentless self-management and an unshakable vision.
And yet, even with all that, she couldn't escape the age-old family pressure: marriage. Her parents worried constantly, calling whenever they could. To them, a woman who wasn't married after thirty was a leftover.
Hayasako didn't disagree with the importance of relationships—but she believed true happiness came from independence, not dependence.
Still, she didn't outright refuse their wishes. Marriage held meaning, and her parents' concerns were not groundless.
With a well-toned figure sculpted by years of training, elegance shaped by books and boardroom battles, sharp features and flawless skin, plus a top-bracket salary—Chiama Hayasako was the undisputed queen of the matchmaking scene.
Ever since her parents started introducing suitors, a parade of eager men had come knocking, all dazzled by her impressive résumé.
At first, Hayasako approached it with genuine intent. But her patience wore thin quickly. Most of the men were only looking for someone to make their own lives easier—calculating, self-serving, and more rigid with age.
Now, sitting across yet another pretentious suitor, listening to him talk himself up, Hayasako lost interest. She stood up without apology, ignoring his startled pleas to stay.
She wandered through the eternally busy streets of Tokyo, watching the sea of hurried strangers. For the first time, she felt a deep weariness toward life.
She couldn't go home—not yet. Otherwise, her parents would just nag her about "taking her future seriously." Better to shut off her phone for now.
With no destination in mind, she let the city guide her steps. The sky darkened. Rain began as a drizzle, then poured in sheets, washing the noise and glitter off the metropolis.
She ducked under an awning, shielding her head with her designer handbag. Her coat was soaked, hair and makeup ruined, water seeping into her shoes.
Her mood sank just as hard. She pushed back her dripping hair and sighed, sinking onto a stone step.
For the first time, home didn't feel like home. Work paid the bills, but brought no joy. Her parents only saw her single status. To them, she was the perfect daughter—except for that one glaring flaw.
Was it really a flaw? Hayasako gave a bitter smile.
Every bit of her success—discipline, ambition, grit—had been earned. No one is born flawless. It all came from hard work.
But love? Marriage? She didn't want to force herself into those anymore.
While lost in thought, a shadow appeared above her.
An umbrella.
She looked up. A young man—pristine white shirt, black bow tie—smiled down at her, holding an umbrella with a classic wooden handle.
"Your shoulders are soaked," he said gently.
He dabbed at her hair and shoulders with a handkerchief. Normally, Hayasako had a thing about personal space, but somehow this close contact didn't bother her. Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice—or the way he moved, like handling delicate porcelain.
"The rain doesn't look like it'll stop soon. Would you like to come inside and rest?" His tone was polite, posture humble, like a butler greeting a noblewoman.
Almost unconsciously, she nodded.
The young man quickly stepped down, holding out his hand—not to touch, but to act as a steadying rail should she wish to rise.
Only after standing did Hayasako get a good look at him.
Slicked-back hair, flawless uniform, calm smile like a spring breeze, clear eyes. He was ridiculously young. He could've been a student.
"This way, please," he said, and led her inside.
It was a proper Western-style restaurant. The lighting was warm, the décor tasteful and expensive, with Bach's English Suite playing in the background.
"Please, have a seat." He guided her to a quiet corner, pulled out her chair, then opened the menu and pulled out a notepad. "Would you like anything to eat?"
The sudden return to a transactional tone felt like a jolt—it broke the serene spell.
Right. This was a restaurant. He was a waiter. She was just a customer.
She started to decline, saying she'd already eaten. In truth, she was a bit hungry, but not in the mood. She shook her head.
"I understand. Please wait a moment," he replied. Despite her not ordering, he left with a thoughtful nod.
Hayasako frowned. Was he going to try and pressure her into buying something? Her irritation started to rise.
Moments later, the boy returned with a towel and a pair of slippers.
"Please dry off. Your shoes must be wet. You can change into these, if that's okay."
"...Thank you." She hesitated, then took off her boots. Her socks were soaked. The boy knelt, collected the boots, and placed the slippers at her feet.
"May I dry your coat and shoes with a warm air blower?" he asked, cautious and sincere.
Hayasako scrunched her toes—wet socks were miserable. Still, she deflected, "You've got other customers. Don't worry about me. I'll call you if I need anything."
"But you're my guest," he replied.
She blinked.
Then, mildly annoyed, she grabbed the menu and pointed at the most expensive item, "Fine, I'll order this. Now you can leave, right?"
"You don't need foie gras and caviar right now," he said gently, head lowered like a scolded child. "What you need… is care."
She froze.
He looked nervous but didn't look away.
She'd been stared at by plenty of men before. Their eyes always carried desire, like cheap perfume soaked in alcohol. But this boy's eyes… they held none of that murkiness. Just nervous kindness.
He stood there like a frost-covered tree in winter—fragile, but unbending.
Suddenly, she regretted snapping at him.
"Thank you, but I'm fine," she said softly.
Women needed armor to survive. Letting go only made them vulnerable.
"Every past chapter," he said quietly, "is only a prologue. No matter how long the night lasts, dawn always comes. When it does, please be well. I hope for that, sincerely."
Shakespeare's words hit her like a breeze from her college days.
She'd had two boyfriends back then—one French, one British.
The Frenchman was a romantic, full of surprises and poetry. He'd track the stars just to find the perfect night to stargaze. He once had over 300 friends send birthday messages from around the world. He wrote 'I love you' in different languages and tucked them into her books.
Every tomorrow felt like a candy with beautiful wrapping—sweet as peach, cool as pear, rich as dark chocolate.
They broke up, eventually. But it was worth it.
Her British boyfriend, Richard, wasn't romantic like that. But he gave her respect and sincerity.
No over-the-top gestures—but warm breakfasts, morning greetings, evenings by the fire reading Shakespeare. No grand promises—but real plans for the future.
But despite his elite education, he chose to return to the countryside and farm. That wasn't the life she envisioned, and so they parted ways.
Years passed. She climbed the corporate ladder, bought homes in the city. Richard married, had children, and now posted cheerful family photos from the farm. His smile? Just as sunny as she remembered.
She was richer, yes. But she could never buy back that kind of smile.
Hayasako's eyes misted. "Could you smile for me?" she asked.
The waiter blinked, then smiled—warm, genuine, like a beam of light.
Her heart skipped. She smelled lavender on him. She gazed at that sweet, youthful face and felt a strange mix of longing and sorrow.
She wasn't young anymore.
With a sigh and a knowing smile, she relented.
"I'm hungry. What do you recommend?"
"Our Ise lobster sashimi is a house specialty. Paired with Palmer champagne, it's an excellent choice," he said, opening the menu.
"I'll have that," she replied without glancing at the price.
"I'll take your coat and boots to dry, then."
"And the socks…" she added, cheeks flushing, as she bent to peel off her thin stockings. "Sorry to trouble you."
"It's no trouble at all. Your comfort is what matters most."
Table 13.
Elsewhere in the restaurant, another heartbroken woman grabbed the sleeve of a passing waiter. She'd been drinking and handed him a business card, half-hopeful, half-shy.
"Why don't we exchange names?" she asked.
"What's in a name?" the waiter replied, taking the card with a smile. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
The woman fell silent, lost in a memory—like a schoolgirl nursing a secret crush.
But when she looked up again, he was already gone.
Back in the staff room, Yin Ze dried the soaked clothes with a hairdryer. Glancing at the business card she'd handed him, he even ordered a cab to take her home.
In this job, you didn't just attract customers—you became someone's emotional lifeline.
That's the reality of service work in Japan.
Out in the kitchen, the head chef paused mid-prep of a massive king crab.
"Four pounds of lobster sashimi? Again? What's going on tonight? Everyone's ordering the expensive stuff!"