Before the alarm clock rang, Sawamura Shawa woke. 5:42 in the morning. Room 201 of Corpo Asanagi was still wrapped in pale violet darkness. Spring sunlight filtering through the window barely tinted the walls. Shawa rose from her futon and straightened her black short hair with her hands. The bedhead made it look even more disheveled than usual. Looking in the mirror, her deep brown eyes reflected the shadow of exhaustion. Thirty-four years old. That was her age. Those eyes had already lost what it meant to be young. But she had to get up. She made her way to the kitchen and slipped her arms through a white shirt. The fabric was cheap, but she'd carefully ironed it last night, so there were barely any wrinkles. Her navy pants were the same. She checked herself in the mirror. Simple, plain, but clean. No flashiness, no warmth—just a woman who was there. She looked at her left wrist. Hidden beneath her watch was a faint blue bruise. A remnant of her former married life. It was a scar as indelible as the wound left in her heart. She opened the refrigerator. Its contents were bare minimum. Bean sprouts, cheap chicken breast from yesterday, eggs. On a part-time income of about 84,000 yen a month, she couldn't afford more. Child support allowance added about 42,000 yen monthly, child allowance about 10,000 yen, bringing her total to roughly 134,000 yen. After rent of 58,000 yen, utilities of about 12,000 yen, food of about 35,000 yen, communication fees of about 5,000 yen, and school-related expenses of about 5,000 yen, she had roughly 11,000 yen left over each month. If her daughter Hikari needed anything, that month would run in the red. She prepared her daughter's lunch box. Two rice balls, a rolled egg, leftover edamame from yesterday. She wanted her daughter to eat food made with care. She wanted to pack the "warm family" she'd lost into that lunch box, at least. At seven o'clock, she went to wake her daughter. Hikari was eight years old. Third grade. Still bearing the softness of childhood in her face, she was roused by her mother. "Hikari, wake up. It's time for school." "...Yeah." A short reply. Shawa studied her daughter's expression. Recently, she felt something was disappearing from her daughter's face. A childlike radiance, slowly fading away. At 7:30, she sent her daughter off to school. She watched her back disappear through the front gate. Hikari vanished into the school building with the other children. Her small figure seemed even smaller than usual. Back home, she descended the stairs toward the bicycle parking area. Midway, the door on the first floor opened, and Horiuchi Teruyo, the building manager, appeared. "Good morning, Shawa. Hasn't Hikari been looking a bit pale lately?" Probably in her seventies. Horiuchi, her white hair neatly kept, had been living alone since her husband died eight years ago. She always looked out for Shawa. "I'm fine. Thank you very much." Shawa offered a brief thanks. There was distance in her voice. She was uncomfortable receiving kindness. Taking something meant having to give something back—a burden. But Horiuchi smiled anyway. "Don't push yourself too hard. If there's anything you need, just say so anytime." Those gentle words caught on something in Shawa's chest. But she said nothing more and pulled out her bicycle. With heavy steps, she headed toward Fresh Nikawa Setsuki Branch. As she pedaled, Shawa thought: *(I can't rely on anyone. If I do, I'll just get hurt again.* She had learned enough from her former marriage. The fragility of trust. The brittleness of love. So now she had decided to live alone—just her and her daughter. The streets of Setsuki City were slowly waking to the spring sunlight. About 45 kilometers west of central Tokyo. This suburban city of roughly 120,000 people had once thrived as a bedroom community, but now quietly walked the slope of decline. Large-scale residential development centered on Okasaki Plateau had occurred in the 1970s during the tail end of Japan's high-growth period, and the population had peaked at 150,000 in 1990. But now, with the withdrawal of commercial facilities, the population was shrinking. An aging rate of 29 percent. In this city, there were said to be about 1,400 single-parent households like Shawa's. She arrived at Fresh Nikawa Setsuki Branch. A supermarket standing along the prefectural road. Sales floor of about 800 square meters, 22 employees. Shawa worked the register and stocking. 1,050 yen per hour, four days a week, five hours per day. "Good morning." In the break room, her coworker Tanaka was reading the newspaper with a coffee in hand. Probably in his late thirties. A bright man with good attention to others. A full-time employee in charge of the produce section at this store. "Morning. Thanks for all your hard work." Tanaka looked up from his newspaper and smiled at Shawa. His face radiated something like kindness. "Thank you as well." Shawa bowed and put her bag in the locker. Everyone was kind like Tanaka. And that kindness exhausted her. It felt like she always had to perform perfectly on the stage of human relationships. Shift from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Standing at the register, attending to customers. Repeating "Thank you very much" over and over. A smile plastered on her face, while her heart wished only for solitude. She returned home at 6 p.m. after work. Back at Corpo Asanagi, Hikari was staring blankly at the television without doing her homework. "Hikari, what about your homework?" "Don't feel like it." Her daughter's reply was listless. Shawa felt her chest tighten as she studied her daughter's profile. Something she wanted to say. Something to encourage her. But she didn't know what words to use. *(Am I being a good mother?)* That question rose up again and again. While preparing dinner, Shawa occasionally watched her daughter. Her daughter's face, lit by the television's glow, seemed to be looking at some distant world. The childlike quality was fading. That realization filled Shawa with deep anxiety. After dinner, once she'd put Hikari to bed, a voice came from downstairs. "Shawa, could you take some miso? I made too much." When she opened the door, Horiuchi stood there holding a large container. Inside was yellow miso. "Oh, no, that's okay. I'm sorry." Shawa was flustered. She was uncomfortable receiving things. But Horiuchi smiled anyway. "You don't have to carry everything alone. Everyone helps each other to live." Those words made Shawa's heart waver. In Horiuchi's face, there was only pure kindness. Not eyes seeking repayment—just the desire to help someone. "...Thank you very much." For the first time, she said it with her whole heart. Just a little more honestly than usual. At 9 p.m., Shawa sat alone in the living room drinking miso soup. The warm bowl transmitted its warmth to her palm, and the aroma of miso rising from the steam tickled her nose. Warm. It was just that, but for Shawa it stirred something nostalgic, calling up a distant memory. The taste of miso soup someone had once made for her. She had thought such things no longer existed in her life. *(Is it okay to rely on someone?)* But immediately, another voice echoed. *(But I'm afraid of being hurt again.)* Trust and pain were the same thing. If you believed in someone, eventually you'd be betrayed. If you loved them, eventually you'd lose them. Shawa knew this well enough. But that night, she was aware of something small. A tiny crack had formed in the wall of her solitude. The next day, a letter arrived from school. "Notice of Parent-Teacher Conference" The homeroom teacher's name was Hashimoto Seiji. Shawa stared at the letter, her feelings a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Her heart beat heavily, and she had a premonition that something important was about to begin. In this small community of Setsuki City, Sawamura Shawa's quiet life was beginning to move, little by little.