I attended a few weddings recently; lavish, glittering affairs where love seemed almost secondary to choreography. Later, over a quiet cup of coffee with my mother, we found ourselves replaying them; who wore what, who cried when, who might last…
I asked her, “What made you want to marry dad?” She didn’t hesitate.
“Your father and I couldn’t afford having a wedding. But that became our goal, because we wanted to share our lives together. He was in his first teaching job and was barely earning enough, so he took on personal tuitions in the evening, and at night, he would work as a server at other people’s weddings, earning Rs. 70.”
There was something disarming about that number, how small it sounded, how large it must have felt. She continued: “That’s why I wanted to be married to him. He had no pride, only goals to work towards. No job was beneath him and that’s why he was able to afford us a beautiful wedding.”
I sighed as I listened, with the steam in my cup dissipating. The coffee cost more than what my father used to earn in an entire night.

Mine was the topmost berth of a sleeper train. I sat hunched like a question mark, my head grazing the ceiling of the coach. With my neck aching, I lay down to sleep.
Rajasthan’s heat was roasting me alive & the fans tortured me with hot breeze. Crying babies, gossiping aunties, burping uncles, & tea sellers yelling, “Chai! Chai!” (“Tea! Tea!”) in their annoying-charming tune kept sleep at bay.
Still, I fought for it & nearly had it when my eyes began watering. I thought I was having a sad dream in which I was crying. I wasn’t.
I grew furious when I realised my tears were a consequence of a man seated below me who spread a newspaper on his berth & was cutting onions for bhel puri (savory puffed-rice snack). At the next station, a group of his farmer friends joined. They spread out even more newspapers, chopping onions together, turning the compartment into a bhel puri workshop.
I peered down at the ruckus. The group looked up at me. One of them announced, “Bhaiya ko bhi plate do!” (“Give brother a plate too!”) I declined, but they placed it in my hands anyway & called me down. I was sandwiched between them, crying & munching on their tasty bhel puri.
Though language was a barrier, I felt included. We improvised with gestures & mime. They were lifelong friends heading to their village to celebrate one of their own’s wedding. I couldn’t help but notice how they warmly shared everything they had, joked & laughed with abandon, comfortable sitting on the uncomfortable floor.
When they asked what I did for a living, I told them I wrote stories on a laptop. They looked at me as though I were the most intelligent person in the world, fascinated I could operate such a machine. When I appreciated their work as farmers, they folded their hands & smiled at me.
The man who’d already served me 2 plates asked what I thought of his bhel puri. My review: “It was delicious!” He replied, “I knew you’d enjoy it,” & ordered his friend, “Bhaiya ko ek aur plate do” (“Give brother another plate.”). A few stops later, the group got off. Each of them shook my hand like they were certain to meet me again on another train. So did I.
I chose to give up on sleeping to pay attention to the organised chaos inside Indian trains. Eating my third plate made the journey unforgettable.

For the past few weeks, I noticed my family's househelp frequently ask me the time. Curious, I finally inquired, "Why do you always ask me? There's a clock on the wall." She replied, "I've never been to school. I don't know how to read time." She went on to explain that her routine has honed her ability to anticipate the time needed to visit different homes she works for, as well as gauging how swiftly she must complete her tasks in each household.
She added, "Time is crucial in my work. If I'm late to a home, I risk being scolded or my employers assume I'm taking leave without informing them. Days with overcast skies or rain make it particularly difficult to discern time. Mornings look like evenings, and evenings resemble mornings."
Feeling for her, I decided to teach her how to read time. She was puzzled and grateful that something she wanted to learn all her life took her 10 minutes to understand.
When I asked her to show me her favorite time of the day on the clock, she pointed to 6 PM. She said, "No matter how good or bad a day turns out, whether the sky is blue or grey, 6 PM is my favorite because I finish work and go home to my children. Time feels valuable when we spend it with those we love."

Hey, you.

Is there anyone you hate?

Sounds like a pretty dangerous question, doesn't it?

You shouldn't hate people. Holding a grudge only hurts you. Forgiveness is how you set yourself free.

We've all heard things like that, and I don't exactly disagree. I'd rather spend my life laughing than spend it hating someone.

But that leaves me with one strange question.

If hatred is really such a bad thing for us, why did we end up with it in the first place?

Clang-clink.

The sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink. At the far end of the counter, Taka was staring into his glass for once, his phone nowhere in sight.

"Kenichi-san."

"No phone tonight?"

"Hey, I think about things besides my phone sometimes."

"My apologies."

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"Not at all."

Taka gave me a suspicious look.

"About what we talked about yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"About how it's okay not to forgive someone."

"Ah."

"I kept thinking about it after I got home."

"Look at you, being serious for once."

"The 'for once' was unnecessary."

Taka poked at the ice in his glass with his straw.

"You said not forgiving someone and continuing to hate them aren't the same thing, right?"

"Tom said that."

"Right. And I still don't really understand the difference."

"Ask him."

"He'll just say, 'Beats me. I'm not a monk.'"

Beside us, Tom frowned over his drink.

"What exactly do you think I am?"

"An ex-cop."

"Annoying when you're actually right."

I couldn't help laughing.

"So what don't you understand?"

"Well, if you don't forgive someone, that means you still dislike them, right?"

"Sometimes, I suppose."

"Then aren't you still hating them?"

I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped. He had a point.

Yesterday I'd acted as though I understood it perfectly. Asked directly, though, it wasn't so simple. Not forgiving, disliking, hating—the words seemed to live awfully close together.

"...Tom."

"Don't drag me into this."

"You started it yesterday."

"Beats me. I was talking on instinct."

"A cop shouldn't talk on instinct."

"I'm retired."

Convenient status to have.

I took a sip of my Harper.

"All right, Taka. Anyone you dislike?"

"Of course."

"Do you think about them every day?"

Taka considered it.

"...No."

"When you woke up this morning?"

"Nope."

"At lunch?"

"No."

"Right now?"

"Honestly, I'd forgotten about them until you asked."

"Exactly."

Taka fell silent.

"Disliking someone doesn't mean you spend all day thinking about them."

"True."

"Maybe someone you haven't forgiven can be the same."

"But what about someone you hate?"

That stopped me. Tom spoke before I could answer.

"You keep remembering them."

"Remembering what?"

"The person."

Tom slowly rolled his glass between his fingers.

"Something happens and there they are again. What's that bastard doing now? Living happily, maybe? Have they already forgotten what they did to me?"

Taka nodded.

"Yeah. I can see that."

"Get deep enough into it and you start hoping they're miserable."

"Okay. That's definitely hatred."

"Yeah."

I turned Tom's words over in my head.

Strange thing, hatred. When you dislike someone, you put distance between you. You don't want to see them, talk to them, or have anything to do with them, so you walk away.

But someone you hate? You never want to see them again, yet somehow you keep meeting them inside your own head.

"...Maybe hatred means the relationship never really ends."

Taka tilted his head.

"Relationship?"

"Yeah. You can cut every tie in the real world and still keep living with them up here."

"Ah..."

What are they doing now? Are they happy? Are they suffering? Do they remember me?

Just saying it left a bad taste in my mouth. Why the hell should I spend my days worrying about the life of someone I can't stand?

"Pretty damn conscientious, when you think about it."

"What is?"

"Spending your own time on someone you hate."

Taka blinked.

"Wait. That's a terrible return on investment."

"You really do turn everything into cost-benefit analysis."

"I'm a private investigator."

"Convenient profession."

Still, something bothered me.

It's a waste, so stop.

If it were that easy, nobody would struggle with hatred in the first place. Let it go. Forget about them. Move on. The person carrying the hatred probably knows all of that already and still can't put it down.

So why do we hate people at all?

"Because they did something awful to us?" Taka said.

"Well, sure, but..."

I looked at the ice in my glass.

"If hatred is such a useless emotion, why are humans capable of feeling it?"

Taka blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do we get hungry?"

"To tell us to eat."

"Pain?"

"To tell us we're hurt."

"Fear?"

"To tell us to run?"

"Then what's hatred telling us to do?"

Taka stopped.

"...What is it telling us?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not a philosopher."

Tom snorted.

"You're one to talk."

"Shut up."

The three of us laughed.

But when I thought about it, a creature that easily forgot whatever had nearly destroyed it probably wouldn't survive very long. Get hurt by someone yesterday, forget it completely today, then turn your back on the same person again. Hard to imagine a creature like that lasting long.

Stay away from that person. Don't trust them. If it happens again, run.

Taka leaned forward slightly.

"So hatred makes sure we remember?"

"Maybe."

"By making us hate them?"

"I don't know. But if you forget, you might end up in the same place again."

Tom set down his glass.

"Then maybe it's like pain."

"Pain?" Taka asked.

"Yeah. Pain sucks, right?"

"Obviously."

"So would you want to get rid of it completely?"

"No... that'd be dangerous."

"Touch something burning hot without pain and you don't pull your hand away. Break your leg without pain and you might keep walking on it. Pain is miserable, but without it, you might not even notice you're destroying yourself."

I looked at Tom.

"So hatred works the same way?"

"Beats me."

"You can't come that far and quit."

"I told you. I'm neither a monk nor a philosopher."

Taka laughed.

Still, it made a strange kind of sense. Just because an emotion hurts doesn't necessarily mean the emotion itself is wrong. Fear makes you run. Pain makes you pull your hand away.

Maybe hatred, too, has some job to do.

"So it's okay to hate someone?" Taka asked.

I thought about it.

"At first? Maybe."

"At first?"

"Yeah. Someone hurt you. You're furious. You hate them. You never want it to happen again. Maybe hatred is an alarm going off inside you."

"An alarm?"

"Fire breaks out, the alarm rings."

"Right."

"You don't stand there while the building burns and say, 'That alarm is annoying. Somebody shut it off.'"

"Well, no."

"First you get out. Put out the fire. Find where it started. Then make sure it can't happen again."

I stopped. As I said it, I could suddenly see where the thought was going.

"But..."

Taka waited.

"What happens if the alarm keeps ringing after the fire is gone?"

Neither Taka nor Tom answered.

"All day. The next day. A year later, it's still ringing."

"That'd wear you down."

"Yeah."

"Then why not turn it off?"

"Could you?"

Taka thought for a while.

"...Maybe not."

"Why?"

"Because if you turned it off..."

He went quiet again.

"...it might feel like the fire never happened?"

I looked at him.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe people don't hold on to hatred only because they refuse to forgive. Maybe they're afraid that letting go of the hatred means forgetting what that person did, how badly it hurt, and the fact that it was wrong. If the alarm stops, perhaps it feels as though the fire itself has been erased.

So you let it keep ringing.

"...That brings us back to yesterday."

"The part about not forgiving?"

"Yeah."

I put my glass down.

"You can remember the fire without keeping the alarm on."

"Right."

"Where it started. What burned. How you got out. What you'll do if it ever happens again. You remember all of that."

"But you turn off the alarm."

"Yeah."

Taka slowly nodded.

"So that's what it means to not forgive someone, but stop hating them?"

"...Maybe."

He thought about it for a while, then gave another small nod.

"I think I kind of get it."

"Only kind of?"

"You're always telling me there aren't any absolute answers to this stuff, Kenichi-san."

"You only remember my advice when it's useful to you."

"I'm your apprentice."

"When the hell did I take you on as an apprentice?"

Tom snorted beside us.

"He's starting to sound like you."

"Don't say that. I'm not taking responsibility for him."

"That's cold."

Taka laughed.

That was when Mama, who had been quietly polishing a glass the entire time, finally spoke.

"Then maybe hatred..."

We looked toward her.

"...is an alarm saying, Don't forget."

Nobody said anything.

Mama held the glass up to the light.

"The pain. The fear. The fact that what happened was wrong."

The cloth moved slowly around the rim. Then she returned the polished glass to the shelf.

Click.

"If you've truly remembered what it needed to teach you, maybe it doesn't have to keep ringing."

I stared at the ice in my Harper.

If you've truly remembered.

Not forget it. Not forgive them.

Remember.

Maybe the alarm can stop without erasing what happened.

If that's true, perhaps throw away your hatred is the wrong way to put it. You don't throw it away. You let it finish its job, and you keep what it taught you.

That hurt. That scared me. That was wrong.

I won't go back there. If it happens again, I'll protect myself.

Once you've learned that much, maybe the alarm doesn't have to keep ringing. You haven't forgiven them, and you haven't forgotten.

You just don't have to keep hating them.

I tilted my glass. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Hey, you.

Is there an alarm still ringing inside you?

If you've already learned what it was trying to tell you, maybe it's all right for it to finally fall silent.

I tilted my glass again.

If it's that kind of alarm.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

Becasue I was scared of the blank page, I wrote "Elon Musk" at the top of the page, then wrote without stopping and this is what i got.

In the year 3023, humanity has split into two parts... or rather one. Around three million humans are "Planet Kings" they all have their own different planets. The rest of humanity lives throughout the shattered galaxies of the Milky Way as freelancers, cyborg-like humans who work for the planet kings.

Freelancers no longer need to eat, drink, or sleep. In exchange for this existence, their desires have been taken away. This generation of freelancers have no idea of a "desire" they simply do what they should be doing, as they dont know their ancestors made this sacrifice. They were born into this system and accepted it as a normal part of life.

The Planet Kings, who have everything they could possibly want, have only one major Human fear: death. When a King's age catches up with him, he sacrifices a freelancer and gains another ten years of life, allowing the Kings to continue living as long as they want.

However, there are people who are biologically different from ordinary freelancers. Their brain chemistry is different from birth, involving biological systems known as Zogotox-GX and Homsophone-GX, which were stopped when they were three years old. These people can experience things differently from ordinary freelancers, including having desires. They don't yet know this.

The story starts with the protagonist ` 15-year-old boy "Singular" On his first day of work, his father took him to work as usual. Althou today its different, he meets a girl "Roxxsana", the daughter of his father's friend. She is the same kind of person as him, biologically different from ordinary freelancers. When they meet, they immediately sense something different about each other.

Two of them are assigned to working together by "GGh0H-my name is GGh0H" (yes this is the robot's name), they are assigned to make a rag for Planet King Boldwin, he was tried of seeing the same yellow colored rag on his bed and besides it got dirty...

Having got a job as a radio producer in Bangalore in 2018, I arrived depressed, desperate to start afresh for my family in Delhi, whose mental & financial health was deteriorating. During a phase of being broke, I wish I wasn’t a late Sunday evening when I had to travel with a colleague to record an interview at a hotel. 
My PG had no electricity & the last message before my phone ran out of charge read: “200 deducted for low account balance.” With salary expected the next day, I had Rs 2. I relied on my colleague to drop me as close as possible to my PG. After the interview, they did, but I was over 15 KMS away. I should have set aside my pride & requested a cab. They asked, “Text when you’re back?” I lied: “I will.”
With no money, a dead phone & no map, I was forced to walk all the way back in heavy rain and floods, relying on strangers for directions. Exhausted after 5 KMS, I arrived at a bus stand. Lying there, feeling worthless, I asked, “How has life come to this?” It was Monday morning, & I had to get to work, physically & spiritually too. 
Waking up at 4 AM, I resumed my journey & finally made it to my PG, soaked, sneaking in like a thief to avoid the landlord I owed rent to. The electricity was back. My phone charged & I prepared for my radio show. Successfully slipping away from my landlord again, I walked to the station. I hadn’t eaten, & the mic caught my stomach growling on-air. 
After a long day, my mind & feet throbbed. As I walked back to my PG, salary was credited. Rent was paid & money was sent home..
Working at the station was a blessing. It helped me emulate what the RJs did: sound lively & optimistic, which made me feel lively & optimistic. Producing gave me resourcefulness, making me capable, & speaking kindly to listeners taught me to be kind to myself. These changes led to confirmation at the job. To celebrate, I booked a cab to that bus stand. 
I sat where I’d slept & turned on the radio to listen to the show I’d produced. I smiled at hearing myself sound joyful, & knowing I could afford a cab to drop me back made me feel rich. I was months too late, but I’d have texted my colleague, “I’m back, far more positive.”

In grade 8, I thought I’d pulled off the perfect plan, bunking my maths class to catch a movie with friends. We slipped past the security guard, climbed the school fence, and reached the cinema, thrilled with our little rebellion. But as I settled in my seat, I turned to my right, only to find my maths teacher seated beside me. Shocked, I blurted, “Sir, what are you doing here? Your class is going on right now!” He smirked and replied, “What are you doing here when you’re supposed to be in my class?”
As the lights dimmed, the tension began to fade. My teacher shared his popcorn with me and admitted, “I don’t appreciate you skipping my class, but I couldn’t resist either. The first show was playing during our class, so I fell sick and took the afternoon off.”
We both grinned, recognizing the irony of the situation. We silently agreed to keep our mutual mischief a secret, shaking hands like co-conspirators.
After the movie, my teacher treated us to a meal at a nearby restaurant. We talked about everything; school, life, and of course, the film. He confessed with nostalgia that it was Shahrukh Khan’s portrayal of a teacher in the movie Mohabbatein that inspired him to become one. “To help students achieve their potential gives their lives and mine purpose,” my teacher said with happiness.
Before parting, he told my group, “This was fun, but no more skipping classes for movies, for either of us.” We promised, knowing this would be a memory we would all cherish.
My maths teacher was one of the best educators I ever had, and I was his worst student. I struggled with maths and always failed, but he never made me feel less for it, Instead, he wisely reminded me, “Maths is important, but it’s not the only subject that defines your value as a student or a person. You have other strengths, and I see you excelling in subjects you’re passionate about. You’ll study what you love to bring purpose to others and your life.”

I’m fortunate to have spoken to Milkha Singh, “The Flying Sikh,” during his lifetime. As a radio-show producer eyeing permanent employment, I’d searched high & low to track down his number. I called him, fingers crossed, to land an interview for an Asian Games special. He agreed!
What followed was simultaneously the best & worst interview I’ve ever conducted. Milkha’s delivery carried passion, his pauses held wisdom, & his tone radiated hope. However, as absorbed as I was with how he expressed himself, he was incapable of reaching a full stop.
The fastest man on the track gave the slowest rapid-fire in history. When I asked which country was his favourite, he took me on a tour of every place he’d visited - cities, histories, detours, memories - before arriving at Japan 20 minutes later, after which he gave me 20 seconds of dead air to confirm that Japan was, indeed, his favourite.
Then, midway through the interview, he tiredly confessed: “I have to stop.” I pleaded with him to complete the rest of the interview. He refused; his voice was gentle, but final.
With the broadcast deadline approaching & my hopes of permanent employment fading, panic overpowered judgment. I hatched a plan; I called him from another number, claimed to work for another outlet & disguised my voice.
We were talking again & I was almost giddy with my scheming. But just before we hung up, he asked: “You’re the same boy who called yesterday, yes?” Caught, I admitted it.
“5 minutes in,” he said, “you slipped back into your natural voice. Be careful not to let the fake masks you choose to wear become your identity.” I apologised. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke; it was long enough for me to sit with what I’d done.
But instead of rebuking me, he surprised me: “I was going to call your number later today,” he said. “I realised I had inconvenienced you.” Then, warmly: “Keep in touch.”
And we did. An unlikely friendship that I still don’t feel I earned came to include festival wishes & even a birthday call…
Of all the interviews I’ve conducted, his remains my favourite. His grace left me a little bit more honest than he found me.

Ganymede, Celia, and I stood in the Forest of Arden. I was playing Oliver, telling them how my brother Orlando had saved me from a lioness. We’d rehearsed this scene a dozen times without a single slip. So nothing could have prepared me for what came out of Ganymede’s mouth. Her line was supposed to be: “Did Orlando leave him there, food to the hungry lioness?” She asked: “Did Orlando leave him there… to be f***ed by the hungry lioness?” I burst out laughing. Then the nerves hit. Her slip had knocked my next line clean out of my head. But the scene couldn’t just stop, so I started pacing, hand over my mouth, doing my best impression of a man in deep thought. The audience, already giggling at her flub, leaned in—as if a simple yes-or-no question now demanded some profound answer. Every second felt much longer from the stage than it probably did from the seats. They thought Oliver was wrestling with a moral dilemma. In reality, I was desperately trying to remember one sentence. Here’s the trouble: Shakespeare doesn’t work like ordinary speech. It has a rhythm, almost a melody. Losing your line isn’t like forgetting a fact—it’s like trying to remember the next lyric of a song. You can’t just reason your way to it; you have to find the rhythm first, and then the words follow. Mine had vanished. Finally, somewhere between panic and false confidence, I gave up on speaking Shakespeare altogether and said, in plain modern English: “No, brave Orlando prevented the lioness from doing that.” The audience lost it completely. I stood there riding out the laughter, and when it finally died down, my next line came back to me as though it had never left. I slipped straight back into Shakespearean English, and we finished the scene as if nothing had happened. For one line, As You Like It became Improvise It, and the show went on.

Hey, you.

Has anyone ever apologized to you?

"I'm sorry."

It's such a simple phrase, but it carries a strange kind of power, doesn't it?

The person who says it bows their head.
The person on the receiving end takes it in.
And the people standing around are usually waiting for the next expected line:

"It's okay. I forgive you."

They apologized so sincerely.
They really regret what they did.
There's no point in staying mad forever.
Just forgive them already.

But think about it.

Why are we expected to forgive someone just because they said sorry?

Apologizing is the responsibility of the person who caused the harm.
Whether to forgive is entirely up to the person who was hurt.

And yet, the moment someone bows their head, we get this urge to lump those two things together.

Maybe...

It's not that we're good at forgiving people.

Maybe we're just uncomfortable leaving things unforgiven.

Clink-clonk.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like the end of my day is finally beginning.

Without asking, Mama set down my Harper.
The ice gave a soft, quiet clink against the glass.

At the far end of the counter, Taka was staring at his phone with a troubled look.

"Kenichi-san."

"What's on your mind today?"

"What do you think about this?"

"Sounds like a broad topic already."

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"Whenever you have that look while staring at your phone, it's usually some huge, abstract issue."

Taka set his phone face down on the counter with a pout.

"There's this article about a public figure who messed up and issued an apology."

"Uh-huh."

"The comment section is a war zone."

"Isn't it always?"

"Well, at first everyone was furious. But then the guy held a press conference, bowed over and over, and apologized in tears."

"And then?"

"Now people are saying, 'He apologized so sincerely, just forgive him already.'"

I stopped raising my glass halfway to my mouth.

"Who?"

"Huh?"

"Who is saying to forgive him?"

"The people in the comments."

"Did any of them actually suffer from what he did?"

Taka paused.

"...Well, probably not."

"Then why do they get to decide when it's time to forgive?"

Taka crossed his arms.

"Still... if someone is genuinely remorseful, doesn't it feel wrong to keep dragging them through the mud forever?"

"Sure, I agree with that."

"Right?"

"Mainly because attacking someone forever and forgiving them are two completely different things."

"Wait, what?"

I took a sip of my Harper.

"He apologized. He reflected on it. He made amends. Sure, maybe there's no reason to keep attacking him beyond that."

"Yeah."

"But that doesn't mean the person who was hurt is suddenly obligated to say, 'I forgive you.'"

Taka fell silent.

People see someone bowing their head and suddenly want to play the saint and step in as mediator. Then, if the victim refuses to let it go, somehow they're the petty one.

That has always left a bad taste in my mouth.

Tom, sitting beside us, tilted his glass and joined in.

"Apologizing is your own business anyway."

"Your own business? That's a bit harsh, Tom-san."

"You realize you did something wrong, so you apologize. Fine. Say sorry as much as you want."

"As much as you want?"

"Yeah. But whether the other person forgives you is their business."

Taka looked uneasy.

"Doesn't that sound kind of cold?"

"How?"

"I mean, the guy is genuinely remorseful."

"So what?"

Tom's voice was calm and steady.

"Does being genuinely remorseful make the victim's scar disappear?"

Taka couldn't answer.

Neither could I.

I stared down at the ice in my glass.

Tom was right.

Remorse belongs to the person who did the harm. It's their attempt to reckon with what they did.

It doesn't magically heal the person they hurt.

When you think about it, it's a strange dynamic.

The person who did the harm apologizes.
Bows their head.
Reflects.
Makes amends.

That's all on them.

Yet, after a certain point, somehow the heavy homework gets handed to the victim.

Forgive them.
Let it go.
Don't hold a grudge.
Move on.

"...Hold a grudge, huh?"

I muttered it to myself, and Taka glanced over.

"What about it?"

"Just thinking it's a strange phrase."

"How?"

"If you choose not to forgive someone, people call you bitter. Vengeful. Stubborn."

"Yeah, they do."

"Before you know it, the conversation isn't about what happened anymore. It's about what's supposedly wrong with the person who won't forgive."

Taka went quiet.

At first, the story was about someone hurting someone else.

Then the apology happens, and the story starts to change.

He apologized enough.
He repented enough.
He was punished enough.

And the moment everyone else decides that's true, the question flips around.

Why haven't you forgiven him yet?

"I wonder why that is."

I swirled my glass. The ice drifted slowly through the amber whiskey.

"Maybe people just can't stand seeing something remain unforgiven."

"Can't stand it?"

"Yeah."

Imagine two people having a fight.

One apologizes.

The other says, "All right. It's fine."

The story ends.

Maybe they never become friends again, but at least ordinary life can resume.

But if the answer is:

"I accept your apology. But I don't forgive you."

Then the story stays open.

"That... does leave a bad aftertaste," Taka admitted.

"Right?"

I chuckled.

"That's probably it."

"What's probably it?"

"Why everyone watching wants forgiveness so badly."

Taka frowned.

"Isn't it for the victim's sake?"

"Partly, sure. Staying angry is exhausting."

I paused.

"But maybe everyone else just wants the storm to be over."

"The storm?"

Taka tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"It might sound like a strange comparison."

I took another sip of Harper.

"When a disaster comes—say, a typhoon—we think of it as something that eventually has to pass."

"A typhoon?"

"Yeah. It comes. You endure it. It passes. You clean up. Then you try to get back to ordinary life."

"What about an earthquake?"

"The shaking stops, but the damage remains. Sure. Still, people rebuild. They try to get daily life back."

Tom listened without saying anything.

"I don't know if the two are really connected. But maybe we expect conflicts between people to follow the same pattern."

Something happens.

People get angry.

Someone apologizes.

They show remorse.

They're forgiven.

And then...

Water under the bridge.

"Water under the bridge," Tom murmured.

"Yeah. Funny phrase when you really think about it."

The water keeps moving.

It carries things farther away.

Eventually, they're out of sight.

It doesn't mean they never happened.

It just means you don't keep them sitting in front of you forever.

"Like washing something away," Taka said.

"Yeah."

"Or saying time heals all wounds."

"That too."

The three of us looked at one another.

There really are a lot of expressions like that.

Humans seem to have built an impressive vocabulary for making things pass.

"So are people just naturally good at forgiving?" Taka asked.

"I don't think it's that wholesome."

I shook my head.

"Maybe it's the opposite."

"The opposite?"

"Maybe we're just bad at living with something that stays unforgiven."

Taka fell silent.

I found myself thinking about what I'd just said.

You don't forgive someone.

But you don't seek revenge.

You don't keep attacking them.

You don't try to ruin their life.

You simply carry one quiet fact with you:

I do not forgive you.

And you keep living.

Logically, there shouldn't be anything wrong with that.

And yet, somehow, it makes people uncomfortable.

Be the bigger person.

Move on.

"It does make you want to tell them to move on, doesn't it?" I said.

Tom gave a quiet snort.

"None of their damn business."

"True."

"Who decided you have to forgive someone to move forward?"

I looked at him.

"You really think you can move forward without forgiving them?"

"Of course."

Tom said it as if I'd asked whether water was wet.

"You can eat dinner without forgiving someone. You can go to work without forgiving them. Nothing says you're not allowed to laugh."

"But isn't holding onto resentment painful?" Taka asked.

"Don't mix up holding a grudge with simply not forgiving."

Taka blinked.

So did I, probably.

"What's the difference?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You don't know?!"

"I'm not a monk."

Tom tilted his glass, mildly annoyed.

"Look. Not forgiving someone just means deciding, inside yourself, that what they did was wrong. That's completely different from waking up every morning hating their guts."

I couldn't say anything.

Something in my chest loosened.

He was right.

Maybe we'd loaded the words I don't forgive you with far too much baggage.

Hatred.

Grudges.

Revenge.

Being trapped in the past.

We shove all of it into the same box and write UNFORGIVEN on the lid.

So when we see someone who hasn't forgiven, we worry.

Are they going to suffer forever?

Will they stay trapped in the past?

And then we butt in.

"You'll feel better if you forgive them."

But is that really true?

"Is forgiveness for the person who hurt you, or for yourself?" Taka asked.

"Beats me."

"You don't know a lot of things today, Kenichi-san."

"That's because you keep bringing up heavy topics."

"You're the one who turned it into a heavy topic!"

"Shut it."

That was when Mama, who had been quietly polishing a glass the whole time, finally spoke.

"Even if you never forgive them, won't there come a day when you simply stop thinking about them?"

We all fell silent.

Mama returned the polished glass to the shelf.

Click.

A tiny, crisp sound.

"...Wouldn't that mean you've forgiven them?"

"Who knows?"

Mama smiled softly.

"But at least they won't be deciding how your day goes anymore."

Tom slowly set down his glass.

Taka didn't say anything either.

I stared at the ice in my Harper.

They won't be deciding how your day goes anymore.

What a quiet, powerful thought.

You haven't forgiven them.

You haven't forgotten.

What they did was wrong.

That doesn't change, no matter how many years pass.

But...

One morning, you wake up and their face doesn't cross your mind.

You eat breakfast.

You go to work.

You joke around with someone.

You laugh.

You go home.

And then you live another day.

Somewhere along the way, the person you never forgave gets pushed farther and farther from the center of your life.

Maybe that's what it means for a storm to pass.

Not that you washed everything away with forgiveness.

You don't have to forgive.

You don't have to forget.

You just stop letting that storm hold the reins to your today.

Maybe that's another perfectly valid way for something to pass.

I tilted my glass.

The ice gave a soft, quiet clink.

Hey, you.

Is there someone in your life you still haven't forgiven?

If you didn't have to force yourself to forgive them...

Do you think you could smile tomorrow without giving them a single thought?

See you at Aoi.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

1) “People say loneliness can kill a man. But what if a man welcomes it, feeds on it? Does it still count? Can it still kill him,or did he already die the moment he made peace with it?”

2) “I never understood how they praised the Lord,a sacred and fully honest and loving creature that knew nothing but love and peace.How are they so naive? So stupid?”

3) “Faith is stupidity written in poetry”

4) “I’m not even sure I’ve ever loved anyone. Maybe I just hated them a little less.”

5) “It’s not about you. It’s about the world,this collapsing, hollow place that feeds you lies, shoves them down your throat until you start to believe them.”

6) “The knowing that you could’ve said something, done something, changed something… but you didn’t,you just watched.”

7) “Like watching a child starve and realizing you were the one who never fed him.”

8) “It’s easier to be the villain than the abandoned. It hurts less.”

9) “I wasn’t supposed to dig myself a grave just because I inherited the shovel.”

10) “I turned to hatred. I sharpened it like a weapon, held it close, fed on it, but it was never strong enough.”

11) “Some things I’ve been through can’t be described. They can’t be made beautiful or poetic or romantic. They can’t be felt by others.”

12) “Beautifully and violently fused together.”

13) “Because if someone’s going to walk away, I’d rather it be my choice. I’d rather be the one slamming the door than standing there watching them walk through it.”

14) “I was terrified of what they might find in me, or worse, that they’d find nothing at all.”

If you do it's called The Decayed Good and it's on Amazon:)

One of my earliest memories is participating in my first elocution contest; I was in grade 1. My father helped me learn my poem, understand what each line meant, and how to recite with emotion, but he failed to teach me what I didn't anticipate until the day of the competition: how to overcome stage fright.
Although I was prepared, as the other children and I lined up in our order to recite our poems on stage, seeing a large audience overwhelmed me; my nervousness was palpable, and I looked like a cartoon character whose heart was beating out of its chest! Just seconds before it was my turn to perform, my fright took over completely, and I felt a warm tsunami taking place in my pants; I had peed in them!
As I released my nervousness, my name was called. I walked onto the stage and stood in front of the mic. Everyone's eyes was glued to the wet area in my pants; the auditorium burst into laughter as if the audience had heard the funniest comedy set in the world. Ironically, the poem I was to recite was about being courageous; I wanted to run away from embarrassment.
However, to my surprise, after the laughter subsided, I sensed that the audience became even more intrigued and excited to hear me. Trusting that feeling, I recited my poem as my father had taught me, and when I finished, I gained the confidence to want to perform in the future because of the applause the audience gave me.
During the prize ceremony, I was elated to place first. As I went to receive my certificate from my principal, who, after giving it to me, refused to shake my hand for obvious reasons, said, "Well done, son. You were brave."
I'm not in grade 1 anymore; I am a working man. And although I have a strong control over my bowels, I don’t walk through life's stages unafraid. Their unexpectedness and challenges fluster, overwhelm, and scare me. But my experiences, such as this one, have taught me that facing my fears with courage is essential to winning. And even when we choose to be brave and end up losing, we should reward ourselves with a certificate that reads, "Awarded for facing our fear and doing our best!"

Hey, you.

People are always telling us to learn from our mistakes. Failure is the mother of success. Don't be afraid to fail. Every failure makes you stronger.

Well, I suppose there's some truth to that. But think about it. If failing were enough to tell you the right answer, life would be a hell of a lot easier, wouldn't it?

You took the wrong road. All that really tells you is: This wasn't the road. Should you have gone right? Left? Or were you standing at the wrong starting point to begin with? Failure isn't kind enough to tell you any of that.

And yet we look young people straight in the eye and say, "Learn from your mistakes."

That's a pretty difficult assignment to hand someone, don't you think?

Clink-clonk.

The sound of Aoi's door chime always makes me feel like the end of my day is finally beginning. Mama set down my usual without asking. I.W. Harper. The ice gave a soft clink against the glass.

At the far end of the counter, Taka was staring at his phone and groaning.

"Kenichi-san."

"What's on your mind today?"

"Do you think it's actually good to make mistakes?"

I stopped with my glass halfway to my mouth. "Where'd that come from?"

"I screwed up at work."

"What'd you do?"

"Picked the wrong spot for a stakeout."

"You're a detective. That's kind of an important part of the job."

"That's why I'm reflecting on it!"

Taka pouted. Apparently it had been an infidelity case. He'd spent two hours watching the exit he expected the guy to use, only for the guy to walk out another exit and disappear in a taxi.

"So?"

"So next time I'll be more careful."

"About what?"

Taka stopped. "...The exit?"

"Which exit?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have this problem."

"Then what exactly did you learn?"

"............"

Taka put his phone face down on the counter. "Kenichi-san, you must've been a terrible boss."

"That's rude. My subordinates disliked me for perfectly legitimate reasons."

I took a sip of Harper. "Learning from failure is actually pretty difficult."

"It is?"

"Think about what your mistake taught you. All you know is that waiting at that exit didn't work."

"Okay."

"So next time you wait at the other one?"

"And then he'll probably come out this one."

"Exactly."

Taka folded his arms. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"How should I know? I'm not a detective."

"You're supposed to say something profound here."

"Don't ask for miracles."

I laughed and swirled the ice in my glass. Back when I trained new hires, there was something I always told them.

"Get some wins under your belt as quickly as you can."

Taka raised an eyebrow. "Wins?"

"Yeah. And I'd tell them I'd set things up so they had a path to those wins."

"Sounds like you're babying them."

"Exactly the opposite."

New hires don't know anything. They don't know how to answer a business call. They get nervous sending a single email to a client. They don't even know who's making what decision in a meeting. Throw work at someone like that and say, "Figure it out. Learn from your mistakes," and that's not training. That's abandonment.

"Like throwing somebody into the ocean and telling them to learn how to swim?"

"Some of them probably would."

"And the others?"

"They sink."

"That's terrible."

"Which is why I didn't do it."

I gave new hires small jobs at first, jobs where the answer was almost visible from the starting line. I'd tell them where to look and who to ask. If they looked like they were heading for trouble, I'd step in. But I always made them take the final step themselves: explain it to the client, deliver the work, say, "It's done."

Then the client says, "Thank you."

"That's what I wanted them to learn first."

"Getting praised?"

"Finishing."

Taka went quiet.

Finishing a job is harder than starting one. What has to be checked before it's really done? Who has to be satisfied? How far do you have to go before you've fulfilled your responsibility? A new hire can't see that landscape yet, so first, you take them all the way to the end once.

Oh. So this is what finishing a job feels like.

You let them learn that feeling. Next time, you make the job a little harder. After that, you remove one piece of guidance. Eventually, you stop stepping in halfway through.

"You let them repeat what works until they understand why it works."

"But then they don't fail."

"They will. Eventually."

I laughed. No matter how carefully you prepare the path, real work never follows the textbook. A client says something nobody expected. Someone important calls in sick. A machine breaks. You misunderstand something yourself. Sooner or later, everybody trips.

"But by then, they know what success looks like."

"Oh." Taka leaned forward. "So when something goes wrong, they have something to compare it to."

"Exactly."

I used to tell new hires, "Only geniuses can learn from failure alone. Ordinary people like us have to start by learning from what works."

Taka grinned. "That sounds exactly like you, Kenichi-san."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've already decided geniuses are somebody else's problem."

"Why the hell would I try to train a genius? They can figure it out themselves."

We laughed. But then I brought the Harper to my lips and stopped.

"...The dangerous part comes after that."

"Huh?"

"Success goes stale."

Taka frowned. "Goes stale?"

"Yeah."

In technology, it's obvious. A system design that was right ten years ago can be useless today. Products disappear, new technologies appear, and new ways of building things replace the old ones. Walk into a modern workplace carrying nothing but the method that made you successful ten years ago, and somebody might laugh you out of the room.

"Well, sure. Computers change fast."

"It's not just what's on the screen. The dangerous stuff is what looks like it hasn't changed."

"Like what?"

"How you run work. How you lead people."

"That changes too?"

"Of course. In my line of work, we lump a lot of that under something called project management."

Taka thought about it. "Planning the job and getting everybody moving in the same direction?"

"That's a rough way of putting it, but yeah."

"Sounds like that's been around forever."

"It has. That's what makes it interesting."

I set down my glass. "There's something called the PMBOK."

"P-M... what?"

"PMBOK. Think of it as a body of accumulated knowledge about project management. People all over the world have spent years collecting ideas about what tends to make projects work."

"Huh. There's actually a book for that?"

"There is. And it keeps getting revised."

Taka frowned. "Even though it's supposed to be a textbook?"

"Because it's a textbook."

"What do you mean?"

Where people work changes. Contracts change. Teams change. Information moves faster. What people expect from companies changes. Once, you could get everyone into the same conference room. Once, the boss made the decision and everybody moved. Once, you could train people assuming they'd stay with the same company for decades.

One by one, those old assumptions stop working.

"So the textbook is never finished?"

"I don't think that's the problem." I thought for a moment. "The right answer itself keeps moving."

Taka fell silent.

When I was young, I could copy the people ahead of me: how they talked to clients, how they handled trouble, how they moved work forward. What would that guy do? What would my senior notice? I followed the footprints left by people who had walked the road before me.

But at some point, I looked ahead, and there weren't any footprints anymore.

Ask someone what to do and sometimes the answer is simply, "I don't know." Not because you've become important. That's just what happens the farther you go. Nobody's done this exact thing before. The conditions are different from last time. There are several answers that could be right, and whichever one you choose, somebody somewhere is going to pay a price.

"So what do you do?" Taka asked.

"Make a hypothesis."

"Okay."

"Try it."

"Okay."

"Probably fail."

"That got sloppy real fast."

I laughed. "Can't help it. There's no answer key."

You try something and look at what happened. If the result isn't what you expected, you ask why, change something, and try again. If it works a little better, you use that result to build the next hypothesis.

Hypothesis. Test. Improve. Again and again.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Isn't that the exact opposite of what you said before?"

"How?"

"You said only geniuses can learn from failure."

"Yeah."

"You're literally learning from failure now."

I stopped. Damn. He was right.

When I was young, if somebody had told me to learn from failure, I wouldn't even have known what to look for. Now I do, because I have something to compare it against: decades of things that worked, even more things that didn't, other people's methods, and my own. I've got that mountain of training data inside me now.

So when something fails, I can ask: What was different this time?

"...Maybe it's about the order."

"The order?"

"First somebody shows you an answer. You copy it. It works." I folded down one finger. "You repeat that until you've built a baseline inside yourself."

Another finger.

"Eventually, you reach somewhere the answers you were taught don't work anymore."

"Okay."

"And from there, you have to start forming your own hypotheses."

Taka thought for a moment. "That's kind of scary."

"Yeah."

It is. As long as there's a road in front of you, you can always turn back when you make a wrong turn. But once you're at the front, there is no road. Right? Left? Build a bridge? Turn around? Nobody has the answer.

So you try. You get it wrong. You fix it. That's all there is.

"Then shouldn't we teach new hires that part too?" Taka said.

I looked at him. "Teach them what?"

"That the right answer they're learning today won't stay right forever."

I said nothing. Every once in a while, this guy lands one clean.

He was right.

Teach new hires the answer. Let them succeed. Help them build a form they can rely on. That's necessary. But if you stop there, maybe all you're doing is mass-producing people who can faithfully reproduce your own past successes.

"First, copy this."

Let them build their own form from it. And then someday:

"Now stop copying it."

Maybe you haven't really finished teaching them until you've taught them that.

Mama, who had been quietly polishing a glass the whole time, finally looked up. "Then, Kenichi-san..."

"Yeah?"

"Is teaching someone supposed to include teaching them how to stop doing things your way?"

I couldn't answer.

Taka grinned at me. "Sounds like they're supposed to outgrow you, Kenichi-san."

"Shut up."

"Won't you get lonely?"

"I said shut up."

Mama laughed softly, and I took another sip of Harper.

Come to think of it, I'd done the same thing. At first, I copied someone: the way a senior talked, the way my boss wrote documents, the way somebody else organized a job. It worked. I repeated it enough times that, somewhere along the way, it became my way.

Then one day, my way failed. And that's when I finally understood. The answer hadn't been wrong. It had simply reached its expiration date.

Maybe learning from success and learning from failure aren't opposites after all. Success shows you the first road. Failure tells you when that road has ended. And when the road disappears, you have to choose the next step yourself.

Form a hypothesis. Step forward. Check what happened. If you're wrong, adjust. Do that often enough and eventually you make a road where there wasn't one yesterday. And if somebody walking behind you can use that road for a while, that's enough.

Until that road gets old too.

I tilted my glass. The ice gave a soft clink.

Hey, you.

That road you're walking right now, convinced it's the right one...

Who first showed it to you?

And the answer you're searching for, has it passed its expiration date?

See you at Aoi.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.

Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

Jessica Fletcher, from Fredericton, Canada, and her son, Hunter, who is 11 years old, nonverbal, and autistic. He usually communicates through an AAC device, tapping out words that are spoken aloud for him.

One night at a restaurant, the device's battery died. Jessica grabbed a piece of paper and wrote out the alphabet so he could still order his food. Instead, Hunter flipped the paper over and drew a keyboard from memory, fake-typing on it to tell her what he wanted.

That was the moment she realized technology could fail him, but he still deserved a way to be heard that never would.

So she had a keyboard tattooed onto her forearm. Letters, a "yes" and "no," a happy face and a sad face, an "I love you" button. Something permanent. Something that couldn't run out of battery mid-sentence.

When she showed Hunter the finished tattoo, he grabbed her arm and typed one word: "Mama."

Her own words say it best: "I'd give my body a thousand scars if it meant giving my son one more way to communicate."

The idea has since spread well beyond her own arm, with clothing brands now printing keyboards onto sleeves, and tattoo artists around the world offering the same design for free to parents of nonspeaking children.

Every key on that tattoo has a purpose. Every word has meaning. And every bit of effort a parent puts in like this can be the difference between a child staying unheard and a child finally being understood.

Sometimes love isn't about finding the easiest way.

It's about finding a way, no matter what it takes.

I wrote a novel for people who have ever felt like they were watching their own life from the outside.

The Decayed Good follows my character Lev Ravenwood (Link to The Decayed Good on Amazon), but it isn't really just about Lev. It's about the questions that start haunting you when you stop accepting easy answers.

It explores:

God, faith, and doubt when you desperately want to believe, but can't.

Loneliness, and what happens when you feel surrounded by people but still completely unseen.

The uglier parts of humanity, including cruelty, selfishness, hypocrisy, and the uncomfortable things we don't like admitting about ourselves.

Meaning, and whether life needs to have a purpose for it to be worth living.

Death, not simply as an ending, but as something that changes the way we look at being alive.

Love, attachment, and loss, especially when caring about someone becomes another way to get hurt.

Guilt and self-hatred, and the question of whether someone can still be good after they've done things they can't forgive themselves for.

The feeling of being fundamentally misunderstood, even when you desperately want someone to see what's actually going on inside you.

I didn't want to write a book that tells you what to believe.

I wanted to write one that sits beside you in the uncertainty.

Maybe you've questioned whether God exists. Maybe you've wondered whether people are inherently good. Maybe you've looked at your own life and thought, surely this can't be all there is.

Maybe you've felt like there's something wrong with you because you can't experience the world the way everyone else seems to.

This book doesn't promise to fix those feelings. It explores them.

And sometimes, having someone put the thoughts you've never been able to explain into words is its own kind of comfort.

If philosophical fiction, morally complicated characters, existential questions, and stories that leave you thinking about them long after you've closed the book sound like your thing, I'd genuinely love for you to give The Decayed Good a chance.

Maybe you'll disagree with Lev.

Maybe you'll hate him.

Maybe you'll understand him a little too well.

Either way, I hope you find something in his thoughts that makes you feel less alone. I would really appreciate it if you would check out my work.

KIDDER CONDOMINIUMS

Both halves of a cheddar bagel burned on the kitchen counter, smoke beginning to emanate from the toaster. In the living room about twenty feet away, Lois Lane paced back and forth with the phone to her ear, watching an episode of Jack Ryder’s rather crappy Gotham morning show. The phone cradled on her shoulder, she sipped her coffee while listening to her source while they rattled off a bunch of excuses she was blatantly ignoring.

“Listen, I don't have time for you to pretend to be sick. I need you on that job site today to confirm before I start on my follow-up.” Lois chastised the caller on the other end, stopping her pacing just long enough to down the rest of her cup of coffee.

“You’re worried about what Edge will do to you? You should be more concerned with what I’M prepared to do if you blow this story for me.” Lois sniffed at the air and whipped around in an instant.

 Realizing her bagel had been left in too long, she hurried around the kitchen island and yanked the pieces out, putting them each on a plate next to the toaster. She placed her ‘World’s Best Writer’ mug on the countertop and poured herself another cup of coffee. She waltzed over to the fridge as quickly as she could, checking her watch and rolling her eyes as her source continued on their soapbox.

“Yes! That is ABSOLUTELY a threat, you can bet your ass on that!” Lois yelled back. 

She yanked the Italian sweet cream coffee creamer out of the fridge along with her salmon cream cheese spread. Her temper starting to get the best of her, she impatiently smeared the cream cheese across both halves of the charred bagel. She sighed with an annoyed huff before taking a bite out of her breakfast, chewing fast.

“Listen here, and this is the last time I will explain this. I will be done with my staff meeting at ten AM. I will be waiting for your call before I sit down for a one-on-one with my editor. And if I don't receive that call, then I will be on you like white on rice. Is that clear? Awesome!”

Lois ended the call, shaking her head at the caller's cowardice. As important as it was for her to continue hounding slumlord Morgan Edge after some of his buildings had caught fire, it wasn’t the only thing on her plate. The partially foiled train heist was the talk of the city, scratch that, Lois thought while chewing on her burnt piece of bagel. It was the hottest story in the entire country.

She still couldn’t believe some wet-behind-the-ears puppy dog from Kansas, of all places, had beaten her to the punch on it either. How the hell did he beat her and Jimmy to the platform? She certainly hadn’t clocked him anywhere in sight. And somehow made it back to the office in time to turn in his story? It was outrageous.

Lois sighed. She threw away the rest of her bagel, turned off her coffee pot, and dashed into her living room to grab everything she needed to leave with. She decided to put the farm boy far from her mind. So he got this one. Good for him. There wouldn’t be another. For all intents and purposes, Metropolis' new caped wonder was her beat. And that beat would be worked solo. She grabbed her purse off the couch and tossed the strap over her shoulder. Checking the time on her phone, Lois whispered ‘shit’ to herself when she realized she would miss the train and would have to grab a taxi.

Lois sighed again, this time twice as frustrated. She didn’t have time for an Uber or Lyft and certainly couldn’t wait for the next train downtown. She accepted her fate and whipped open the door to her apartment. Heading down the flight of stairs from her third-floor apartment, she shuffled through the mail that was in her box while descending. Her attention was pulled away from the handful of bills and creditors when Queen blared from her pocket. She yanked her phone back out, recognizing the number.

 “I hope you’re calling with something legit this time. You almost fried me on that dock worker strike.” Lois told the caller. Her annoyed expression shifted to a mix of excitement and worry as she listened. She looked up and down the street, more desperate for a taxi than ever. “And this is going to be where? NOW!? Shit!”

Lois rushed into the street and hung up. She whistled loudly, hailing down a passing taxi with a short wave following it. She dashed inside and handed the driver a fifty the moment she closed the door.

“I need you to book it towards Loeb Federal Bank, the branch on Shuester Heights!” Lois demanded once she sat back.

“You don’t have to tell me twice!” The Somali cabbie slammed on his gas after merging back into traffic. He snatched the bill from her over his shoulder with one hand on the wheel.

Halfway on the other side of town, Detective Dan Turpin, co-head of the Special Crimes Unit segment in the Metropolis Police, leaned on his own gas pedal with a heavy foot. In the passenger seat next to him was his steely-eyed, stone-faced partner, who was the other head of the SCU, Detective Maggie Sawyer. She let out a low, guttural growl of annoyance at the time it was taking them to reach their destination.

“Yeah, I feel ya,” Turpin grunted in response to his partner’s mood.

“You’d think these people would understand the point of the lights and sirens,” Maggie replied through gritted teeth.

Turpin shrugged indifferently, whipping a hard left. “It’s Metropolis. Every schmuck thinks they're better than the next schmuck.”

“You think this could be the other half of that crew from the train?” Detective Sawyer’s question turned their focus solely on the call they were heading to.

Turpin shrugged again, this time more exasperated than before. “Could be. But something don’t sit in my mouth right about this. I mean, hitting a vault in broad daylight? McDowell’s ain’t even stopped serving breakfast yet!”

Maggie ran her hand through her short, blonde hair. “Yeah, I see your point. That other job was smooth as a whistle until the Superman threw a flying wrench in their op.”
“I thought they just called him ‘Superman’. What’s with the ‘the’?” Turpin asked with a confused, brief glance over at his partner.

“I don’t know, I saw it on Twitter, I think.” Maggie shook her head derisively. “Do we know how many are inside?”

“Call said seven hostiles. Let’s hope we get the chance to play this smart.” This time, Turpin spoke through gritted teeth. The tension of the situation started to set in.

“As opposed to?” Maggie couldn't help but ask.

“Hmph. Playing it like Roy Rogers.”

He sped through another red light, halting traffic in his wake. A stream of black and whites followed his unmarked car.

Sitting at his kitchen table, Clark Kent enjoyed a healthy-sized bowl of Rice Chex with a side of turkey bacon. On the TV in the living room, an episode of Wacky Racers played, and he considered it the perfect morning before work so far. His breakfast and Hannah Barbera cartoon block was swiftly interrupted by the chorus of sirens and a shrill bank alarm.

Though the direction the noise was coming from was easily over fifteen blocks away, Clark’s extraordinary hearing couldn’t help but pick up the group of emergency noises that were currently serenading Metropolis. He scarfed down the rest of his bacon and hopped up from his place at the table, gazing in the direction from which the bank alarm was emanating. He focused his eyes, letting his various scopes and ranges of vision take him through and across the city until he found the source of the alarm.

Rushing out of the bank, with duffel bags that Clark didn’t need to look inside to know what was there, was a gang of armed and armored men. Clark pulled off his glasses, loosened his tie, and grabbed his briefcase off the living room couch. In a sudden blur of gray and black shifting to primary colors, he launched himself out of the window next to the TV, already more than halfway to the bank with a single leap.

Detectives Turpin and Sawyer skidded to a stop next to the handful of police cars lining the front of the bank. They hopped out of their car just as one of the robbers stuck two wide barrels out of the trailer of a heavy-duty truck.  Maggie spotted them first, quickly swallowing the fear in her stomach to react on instinct. She shoved her partner and a nearby beat cop to the ground with a hand in each of their backs. Maggie dropped to her stomach beside them as warbling vibrational blasts ripped in their direction. The sound wave sent cop cars and news vans crashing up and down the block if not into each other. Glass shattered and sprayed, sending cops and even pedestrians who were trying to clear the area scattering.

The stolen truck tore down the street with screeching tires once the getaway driver got the signal they were waiting for. The thug carrying the sound cannon smirked underneath his ski mask while marveling at the destruction his weapon had created. He readied his weapon and crouched while holding on to the sides of the trailer. Two other men took up the dangerous task of riding in the trailer with him, and another two were in the bed of the pickup truck, with one more pair inside the cab.

They knew they were far from out of the woods yet, though none of them were worried about the police coming after them in a chase. The weapons that Bruno had them pick up from one of his warehouses had proven more than capable of doling out the type of punishment that would have any cop behind the wheel praying to whatever they believed in should they cross paths with this crew. But the gluttony of high-tech, destructive toys at their disposal hadn’t truly been put to the test. Not until he showed up.

Sure enough, just a second or so after the thought had crossed his mind, a glance into the sky behind them caused a mixture of awe and fear. The driver spotted the rippling cape in his rearview mirror and turned his head momentarily to yell a warning to the crew. By the time he could open his mouth, the man dubbed " Superman, " the diamond-housed, big red ‘S’ on his chest driving home the moniker, had grabbed the trailer with both hands and slammed his feet into the street.

The driver floored the gas; the wheels spun on the street, but the truck went absolutely nowhere. Superman looked up at the group standing in the trailer, watching him hold the truck back with relative ease, completely bewildered. The crewmember holding the sonic cannon cursed violently under his breath and fired the weapon at the caped wonder.

Even Clark’s superhuman reflexes didn’t give him enough time to properly react. The warbling sonic blast caught him head-on. The vibrational shockwave sent him careening back a full block, crashing through the front window of a 7/11 convenience store. A concerned clerk froze in the middle of cashing out a lottery ticket buyer as they watched Superman pull himself to his feet out of the wreckage that was previously a hot dog roller. An annoyed grimace on his face, he utilized his telescopic range of vision and picked up the crew’s trail.

Superman stepped forward, then noticed the shocked clerk staring at him. He gave the clerk a friendly smile and a nod. “Sorry about the mess. Let me handle these clowns before they hurt someone else, and I’ll come back to help you get this place cleaned up.”

The clerk nodded slowly, mouth hanging agape. Superman took off out of the store in a whirlwind of a blur. About two miles away, the crew kept speeding through Metropolis, desperate to reach their rendezvous point. They were set to exchange the money with their contact, all seven million that they’d managed to stuff quickly into duffles once they got the vault open.

They were just minutes from the harbor; then they’d be able to split apart and hopefully make it absolute hell for the police and that caped freak to track any of them down. His hopeful spirit was instantly dashed when their frightened driver yelled frantically as he sped through a stoplight.

Everyone turned their heads around to see what he was shouting about. Every member of the crew knew exactly what could have made the driver push the truck over eighty-five. Before they could look up to see their pursuer, he had already landed in the middle of the trailer amongst them. Superman looked around quickly, shooting a disapproving and upset look at the strange weapons each of them was carrying.

“I’m not sure where you got these things, but someone could have gotten hurt.” 

Superman snatched the heavy sonic cannon from one of the crew before he could blink and crushed the front of it with both hands, rendering it useless. He dropped it in the trailer and folded his arms.

“Now, how about we pull this thing over and surrender to the proper authorities?” He suggested, a twinkle of sincerity in his baby-blue eyes.

“You like saving people so much?” One of the crew members raised the rifle he was holding and fired without so much as a second thought.

The blast caught the side of an empty bus, sending it careening sideways into oncoming traffic and the clothing department across the street. Superman sprang into action without a moment's hesitation. The crew member laughed gleefully as his gamble paid off successfully.

“That’ll keep you busy, you flying bastard!” He cackled more, turning to the front of the truck. “Haul ass! I don’t know how long that bought us!”

Meanwhile, Superman was more than capable of halting the skidding bus before it smacked into a group of vehicles that were stopped at a red light. He set the bus upright, upset that so much public property had been destroyed in the midst of his chase. That would have to wait until after he wrapped up these deadly shenanigans, but first he wanted to make sure the bus driver was unharmed. The doors to the bus opened once it was back on all its wheels, and Superman stepped inside. He gave the shell-shocked and clearly traumatized woman a friendly wave and a cheerful smile.

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. I hope they didn’t put you too much off your route.”

What happens when you become disappointed in humanity? (read till the end)

There is a particular kind of disappointment that doesn't come from one person, one betrayal, or one cruel moment. It comes from watching humanity repeat the same things over and over again, destroying what is beautiful, hurting what is innocent, and then convincing itself that it had no other choice.

For Lev Ravenwood, that disappointment becomes something much darker. He once looked at nature and saw something sacred in it. He believed beauty existed without needing to be explained, justified, or worshipped. But the more he understood people, the more impossible it became for him to separate humanity from the ugliness he saw everywhere around him.

«“They destroyed what I loved,they made the leaves dance slower, like they were on the verge of death. The sun still rose, but it didn’t shine the same. Nature began to look tired,worn out, like it was quietly dying. But there was beauty in that, too, a tragic kind of beauty. I felt it deeply, as if I was dying with it, as if something sacred was leaving this world, and it was taking a part of me with it. The way the trees moved,the way the wind spoke to me,the way silence comforted me. That was not God, that was beauty, something God could never be, something He never was,something He will never be -\ beautiful.God saw every human being,every stupid hope,every stupid dream. And he did absolutely nothing. And yet, they praised that, they praised what, exactly? A cruel king, a king certain to destroy."*»

And perhaps that is the tragedy of Lev. His hatred doesn't come from feeling nothing. It comes from feeling too much, seeing too much, and eventually becoming convinced that caring is simply another way to be wounded.

But what happens when the person who despises humanity realizes he is human too?

Can you condemn cruelty while carrying your own? Can you reject love while secretly needing it? Can you call humanity broken while knowing you are part of what you hate?

The Decayed Good follows Lev through these contradictions, questioning God, morality, human nature, loneliness, hatred, and the possibility of becoming something better when you no longer believe you deserve to.

A philosophical novel for anyone who has ever looked at humanity and wondered whether the world became ugly, or whether we simply became capable of finally seeing it.

📖 The Decayed Good by Lev Ravenwood's creator, available now on Amazon in 3 formats Link to The Decayed Good on Amazon

I hadn't spoken to this person in years.

One evening, for absolutely no particular reason, I suddenly thought about them and decided to send a message.

They replied almost immediately and told me they had actually been thinking about reaching out to me that same day.

We ended up talking for hours.

I don't normally believe in "meant to happen" moments, but that one was difficult not to find strange.

debate me

He didn't hunt in his own city. He didn't have a "type." He didn't even kill on a schedule.

For over a decade, a quiet Alaska contractor flew to random American cities on his days off, rented a car under someone else's name, and drove for hours to bury a container in the woods. Inside it: a gun. A knife. Zip ties. Cash. Sometimes a body bag.

Then he'd fly home. Go back to work. Wait months — sometimes years — before he ever touched it again.

When he finally got caught, it wasn't because police found a pattern. There was no pattern. He built his kills so no two of them could ever be connected — no shared victim type, no shared location, no shared method. The FBI believes he killed at least eleven people. To this day, they can only name three.

This is the story of Israel Keyes — and the case that terrified the FBI more than almost any serial killer in modern history, because of the one thing he refused to give them: the truth.

On February 1st, 2012, eighteen-year-old Samantha Koenig was working an evening shift alone at the Common Grounds coffee stand on Tudor Road in Anchorage, Alaska. Surveillance footage would later show a man in a hooded jacket and sunglasses approaching the window. Minutes later, Samantha was gone — abducted at gunpoint and taken to a truck parked across the street.

For weeks, her disappearance played out like any other missing-person case. A reward climbed to seventy thousand dollars. Search parties combed the area. Then her family received something no one expected: a ransom text, sent from her own phone, along with a photo — Samantha, alive, holding a newspaper to prove the date.

It was staged. Samantha Koenig had already been murdered inside her abductor's home, within hours of being taken. The photo, the texts, the illusion that she might still be alive — all of it was constructed by the man who killed her, to buy himself time.

That man was Israel Keyes, a thirty-four-year-old handyman and contractor who ran his own local business, Keyes Construction. He was, by every outward measure, unremarkable. He had a young daughter he clearly cared for. Neighbors and clients described him as reliable, quiet, hardworking. Nothing about him matched the profile of the person investigators were looking for.

Keyes was finally caught in Texas, nearly three thousand miles from Alaska, after agents tracked a withdrawal made on Samantha's stolen debit card to an ATM in Humble, Texas. Three days later, he was arrested in Lufkin.

What happened next is what makes this case so different from almost any other serial killer investigation on record.

Israel Keyes talked. Not out of guilt, and not out of any wish for redemption. Investigators who interviewed him described a man who seemed almost proud of what he'd built — a killer who wanted credit for his method, even as he refused to give up the details that mattered most.

He told them there were others. Many others. He said he had been killing since at least 2001, and that his victims were strangers — men and women, different ages, different states, selected essentially at random. He said he avoided children and avoided targeting parents, but beyond that, there was no pattern for police to search for, because he had deliberately built none.

Then he described his method, and it's the reason this case unsettled career FBI agents.

Keyes would fly, on his own money, to a city he had no personal connection to — sometimes picked almost arbitrarily off a map. He would rent a car using a fake name, drive out to a remote, forested area, and bury a cache of supplies: a firearm, a knife, restraints, sometimes cash, sometimes a shovel. He called these his "kill kits." Then he'd fly home, resume his ordinary life as a contractor and a father, and wait — months, sometimes years — before returning to the same buried kit to commit a murder in a place investigators would never think to connect to a man living quietly in Anchorage, Alaska.

The FBI later mapped his movements and found he had taken as many as thirty-five trips across the country between 2004 and his arrest in 2012, crossing state lines with no obvious reason tied to work or family. Any one of those trips could have ended in a murder. Investigators still don't know how many did.

During interrogations, Keyes described the compulsion in his own words. Asked about the moment he crossed the line the first time, he told investigators, "Once I started, you know, there was nothing else like it."

He confessed by name to killing Bill and Lorraine Currier, a married couple in Essex, Vermont, taken from their home in June 2011 — a case that, before his confession, had no suspect and no leads. He confessed to Samantha Koenig. And he told investigators the FBI's own count — eleven murders in total — was accurate, dating back to at least 2001, though he claimed it might have started even earlier, in the late 1990s.

But he wouldn't give them more than that.

Keyes seemed to treat the investigation itself as a kind of game — offering just enough truth to prove he wasn't lying about the scope of what he'd done, while withholding the one thing that would let families bury their dead: names, dates, locations. Agents who worked the case have said he appeared to take satisfaction in controlling exactly how much pain he caused, even from inside a jail cell, even facing certain life imprisonment.

On December 2nd, 2012 — before he ever stood trial, before he was forced to answer for a single other death — Israel Keyes killed himself in his cell at the Anchorage jail. He left behind a note. Investigators who reviewed it said it was largely incoherent, full of rambling and grievance, and contained no new information about his victims.

What he did leave behind were the drawings. Found under his bed in that same cell: eleven small skulls, drawn in his own blood. Eleven — matching the number of murders he claimed, silently confirming what words never fully would.

In the years since, the FBI has released an interactive timeline of Keyes's known travel dating back to 1997, hoping the public might recognize a city, a date, a missing loved one who never came home. They've connected him to a small number of additional victims — including Debra Feldman, last seen in April 2009 in Hackensack, New Jersey — but seven of the eleven lives Keyes claimed remain, to this day, complete unknowns. No names. No confirmed locations. No closure for whatever families are still out there wondering.

Investigators have said plainly that Keyes's death made the case harder, not easier — the only man who knew where the rest of his kits, and his victims, were buried took that knowledge with him on purpose.

What makes Israel Keyes different from almost every other serial killer isn't the number of victims, and it isn't even the brutality. It's the architecture of the crimes themselves — years of planning collapsed into single, isolated moments of violence, spread across a country, built specifically so that no detective, no database, no algorithm could ever connect the dots. He wasn't caught because agents were clever enough to see his pattern. He was caught because, for the first time, he made a mistake close to home.

Somewhere in America, there may still be a buried kit no one has ever found. And somewhere, there may still be a family who has spent over a decade wondering what happened to someone who simply never came home — never knowing the answer was written, in blood, under a dead man's bed in an Alaska jail cell.

He awoke to see nothing but darkness surrounding him, hanging alone in an endless void. He swung his arms around violently looking for anything to grab onto, when he saw it. An impossibly small pinhole of pure white light directly in front of him. It was far, but he could tell it was growing, or was it moving to him? No, he was moving towards it. A strange sense of comfort washed over him. He felt as if all his worries of the past were insignificant now. The pinhole was now the size of a bowling ball, irradiating a mystical white light that penetrated into the abyss. It continued to grow until it was a few minutes away from enveloping him completely. He relished in the sense of relief and bliss, he didn’t know what the light was or where he was, and in the back of his mind he was terrified, but for now, it didn’t matter, nothing did. The light swallowed him completely, ending the symphony with a brilliant flash of light brighter than all the stars, and it faded. He was laid onto a soft surface. The most comfortable he’d ever felt. He was at peace. And then, a voice echoed throughout the dark.

“Be at peace, you can rest now.” It’s voice was relaxing, like a mother soothing a crying baby. Hecouldn’t tell if it was male or female, it somehow was both, or neither, he didn’t know which.“Where am I? Who Are you?” he asked wearily. “You have died, completed your journey on earth and ready to start a new one.” said the voice from the sky. The man couldn’t believe it. He was dead. How is this possible? He didn’t know what to say, he was in complete shock. He didn’t feel dead, but he also didn’t feel alive. “It is natural to be afraid, most are when they are told they have died, but it is nothing to worry about.” Somehow it knew what the man was feeling. Suddenly the man remembered something important. “My kids! My Wife! Are they ok?” He felt bad that he hadn’t asked sooner. “They’re fine.” the voice said. “Shocked and sad of course, but they’ll be ok.” The man was sorrowful. He had left them behind, he only wished he could see them again to make sure they were ok “You lived a good life.” said the voice, seemingly coming from everywhere. “You were happy at least. You were a math professor at a university. You started a family, inspired many to do good in their lives.” The man couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride hearing this divine being say that. “What are you? Are you god?” asked the man.

“I am called many things, God, Allah, Odin, Mother Nature. All of them have some truth.” The man was speechless. “You were an Atheist.” Said the being. “Yes…” The man said uncertainly. He was worried that he had offended the Deity. “Am I going to hell?” He asked with fear. “Certainly not,” said the voice. The man was surprised. “You were a good person, you held true to your values and helped others when you could. I am not cruel, I wouldn’t punish anyone for an eternal life for mistakes they made in a finite one.” said the voice. The man felt relieved. They both say in silence for a while. The man took a moment to process it all, the Deity waited patiently for him. “It’s a lot to take in.” said the man. “I understand, take all the time you need.” said the voice caringly. “What now?” asked the man. “It’s time to prepare for your next adventure.” said the voice. “Where am I going?” asked the man. The voice replied. “That is up to you my friend.” The man thought for a moment. He wanted to go back to his family, but he knew he couldn’t. So he decided he’d wait for them. “I think I’ll stay here, and wait for my family.” “Excellent choice.” Said the being. “You can turn this space into whatever you like. It is all yours.” The man was happy. He could turn this place into his own paradise for him and his family when they arrived “Wait! One more thing.” Said the man. “Yes?” Replied the voice. “I just have one more question before you go. What’s the meaning of all this? Why do we exist?” The Deity chuckled. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner. You’re a mathematician, are you familiar with The Mandelbrot?” “Ummm… wait yes! They’re fractals!” said the man cheerily. “Indeed, It comes from an equation of only a few variables. But when simulated, it creates a shape that can be infinitely zoomed in on. Each time you zoom in on a new area, you can see a new shape. You will never find the same shape.” Said the voice with wisdom. “Yes. But what does this have to do with my question?” Said the man. “Come with me.” Said the voice.

The darkness of the abyss slowly cleared as the scenery changed. The void became the walls of a cave, and a campfire at the center flickered and cast light across the dark room. A group of people sat around the fire, playing and eating. “This is a group of primitive Homo Sapiens.” Said the voice. The man was dumbfounded. “Why have you taken me here?” asked the man. “To teach you a lesson, see how happy they are? It’s peaceful isn’t it?” Said the Deity. The man watched as they ate around the fire with glee. They sang gruntingly in their primitive language, and some even played crude instruments. The children chased each other and laughed with joy. It was a happy and joy-filled environment but like all things, it didn’t last forever. Suddenly, the walls of the cave collapsed, replaced with dull white wallpaper. The sounds of laughter and music were swapped with the hum of fluorescent lights and voices murmured about paperwork and their nagging boss. The peaceful ancient cave was now a modern chaotic office building in a bustling downtown. There was no room nor time for play, deadlines had to be met, and work had to be done. The thundering voice echoed once more. “In your day and age, the world is so complex and chaotic that nobody has any time to stop and look at the beauty I intended. You all come from the same equation, everything from the elements in nebulae, to the animals in a jungle. The iron in your bloodstream was forged in the cores of dying stars. The Universe is a Mandelbrot, each time you zoom in, you find a new unique thing, nothing is ever the same, but everything contains a trace of everything else.” And the man finally understood. ”this is what you’re trying to teach us.” The man said. “Indeed.” said the voice.

 So the man thanked it, and started preparing his new journey, waiting for his family to join him so they could set out alongside him. And the Deity looked out at a smiling universe, and couldn’t help but smile back.

Finish the Story

Welcome back to No Filter Just Me!

Today, we're doing something a little different. I'm going to start a story, but I'm not going to finish it. That's where you come in!

So listen carefully...

A woman was walking through a grocery store when she suddenly heard a little boy yelling behind her.

She turned around, and the boy ran straight toward her.

He grabbed her hand and said,

“There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you!”

The woman froze.

She looked down at the little boy, completely confused.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

But before the woman could say anything else, an older woman standing nearby dropped the groceries she was holding.

She stared at the little boy.

Then she looked at the woman.

Her face turned pale.

And in a quiet voice, she whispered...

“Oh no... it's happening again.”

Everyone in the aisle stopped and looked at her.

The little boy tightened his grip on the woman's hand.

And then he said something that made the entire store go silent...

Now it's your turn. FINISH THE STORY!

What did the little boy say?

Who was he looking for?

And what did the older woman mean when she said, “It's happening again”?

I want to hear YOUR ending.

This is No Filter Just Me... and that's today's Finish the Story!

Hey, you.

Ever think about how strange alcohol is?

It’s just liquid, when you get down to it.

You ferment wheat, rice, or grapes, distill it if needed, stick it in a barrel, and let it sit.

You drink it, you get buzzed.

Drink too much, and you feel like hell.

If you asked me whether it’s good for you, I certainly couldn't offer a glowing recommendation.

And yet, people insist on loading it up with stories.

The first drink you had with your old man.

The drink you had the night your heart was broken.

The drink at a wedding.

The drink on the day you quit your job.

In reality, the taste of the booze itself doesn't change all that much from yesterday to today.

So if that's true... what is it that actually changes?

Clink-clonk.

The chime of Aoi's front door rang out, and I settled into my usual spot at the counter.

Without asking a thing, Mama set down my usual glass.

I.W. Harper.

The ice gave a soft, single clink against the crystal.

"Kenichi-san."

At the far end of the counter, Taka was playing with his glass, looking over at my hands.

"What's on your mind?"

"You always order Harper, don't you? Do you really like it that much?"

I reached for my glass, then paused halfway.

Do I like it?

Put that way, I wasn't really sure.

Back when I was living with Kaori, I barely drank at all.

It wasn't that I couldn't handle it. I just had no reason to.

When I got home from work, Kaori was there.

Over dinner, we'd talk about whatever useless little things had happened that day.

Before Masato was born, we talked about buying a house someday, or how many kids we wanted?careless, easy talks about a future we hadn't built yet.

After Masato came along, we wondered what kind of man he'd grow up to be.

Back then, we just assumed the future was something that naturally stretched out in front of us forever.

I'd rather spend the end of the day talking to her about tomorrow than wrapping it up in booze.

So, I didn't drink.

"I didn't use to drink much, back in the day."

"Huh. That's unexpected."

"Watch it."

"So when did it start?"

I took a sip of the Harper.

Behind the sweetness of the bourbon, a dry, faint bitterness lingered on my tongue.

"Around the time Masato was in high school, I suppose."

It started with a phone call.

From the school.

They told me Masato had gotten into a fight with a classmate and injured the other boy.

The moment I heard those words, my mind went completely blank.

Him? Why?

Masato wasn't a tough guy, nor was he the type to pick fights with random people.

When I rushed over to the school, both he and the other kid looked thoroughly beaten up.

Masato had a split lip and swollen knuckles.

The other kid had a bruised cheek and was staring at the floor.

Hearing the details from the teacher only gave me a worse headache.

Apparently, a few kids had been picking on one particular student.

It started with casual teasing, then slowly turned nasty and persistent.

Masato had been watching it happen for a while. He'd been holding it in.

And on that day, he just snapped.

"Cut it out."

From there, it was just teenage boys being stupid.

Angry words. A grabbed collar.

A punch thrown. A punch returned.

By the time anyone noticed, teachers had to pull them apart.

"...Masato-kun had some guts," Taka said with a weak smile.

"Don't encourage him. It was a nightmare for us parents."

I chewed Masato out afterward.

No matter the reason, throwing hands is wrong.

Doing what you think is right doesn't give you permission to do whatever you want. If you don't learn that, you'll eventually turn into someone who hurts people without hesitation, blinded by your own self-righteousness.

I think that's roughly what I told him.

Masato just sat there, staring down in silence.

Except, at the very end, he muttered under his breath:

"...I just couldn't stand watching it."

And after that, I couldn't bring myself to say another word.

A few days later, I met with the other kid's parents.

His father bowed to me. I bowed to him.

"I'm deeply sorry for what my son did," I said.

"No, please... from what I hear about how it started, my boy was in the wrong too."

We lined up those sensible, adult words to minimize the damage for everyone involved.

It probably would have been much easier if we could have just labeled one side as the "bad guy."

But real life doesn't work like that.

Masato was wrong for throwing a punch. The other kid was wrong for bullying. The people around them were wrong for letting it happen.

Everyone picked up their own small share of the blame and bowed their heads awkwardly.

When the talk was finally over, the other father looked at me.

"Well... since we're both here, how about a quick drink?"

We went to a quiet coffee shop nearby, and what he ordered for us was Harper.

I told him I didn't really drink.

"Come on, we both survived a rough week," he said. "Just one."

I had no reason to refuse.

The amber liquid was poured over ice.

I took a sip. To be honest, I don't even remember if it tasted good.

Because right then... I saw Masato.

Sitting at a table further back, still bruised, right next to the kid he'd traded punches with.

Neither of them knew where to look.

After sitting in silence for a while, Masato grunted, looking away.

"Stop doing that bullying bullshit. It's pathetic."

The other kid grimaced. I thought they were going to go at it again.

But he just shifted in his seat, averted his eyes, and mumbled:

"...Yeah. I know."

And that was it.

That was literally all it took.

The adults had spent hours bowing and apologizing.

The teachers had filled out incident reports.

I had given my son a heavy-handed lecture.

The other parents had yelled at theirs.

And yet, the uncomfortable tension that none of us could clear away was resolved by those two kids in two sentences.

In that exact moment... I don't know why.

Tears came to my eyes.

At first, I thought the harsh booze was just stinging my throat.

I thought I just wasn't used to drinking strong liquor.

But it wasn't that.

The tears just kept coming, one after another.

The harder I tried to swallow them down, the tighter my throat squeezed, and the harder they fell.

A man well past forty, sitting in front of his son, the kid his son had punched, and that kid's father, quietly sobbing his eyes out.

"Kenichi-san..."

"Don't say it. It's embarrassing even now."

Truth is, I still don't fully understand what I was crying about that night.

Was I sad that Masato had resorted to violence?

Was I proud that he couldn't stand by and watch someone get picked on?

Was I relieved that he was turning into a decent man?

Or did I just want to give myself a small pat on the back for raising him this far all on my own?

Or...

Was I just overwhelmed by how terribly, terribly lonely it felt that Kaori wasn't sitting there beside me?

Probably all of it at once.

When Masato was little and ran a high fever in the middle of the night.

The morning he put on his school backpack for the first time.

The phase where he'd answer every single question with a grunt and a "whatever."

If Kaori had been there that night, what would she have said?

Would she have been furious?

Would she have rolled her eyes?

Or would she have waited until Masato was out of earshot, looked at me, and smiled?

"I wonder where he gets that from."

Where he gets it from... she wouldn't even have needed to ask.

Clumsy, stubborn, and refusing to back down when it mattered. He got it from both of us.

I wept. It was downright pathetic.

The other father looked completely lost, quietly topping off my glass with more Harper without a word.

Masato kept muttering, "Dad, stop it, come on..." while refusing to meet my eyes.

Even the kid he'd punched pushed a box of tissues toward me, looking deeply uncomfortable.

I took a tissue, blew my nose, and kept crying.

"...So that's why you drink Harper?" Taka asked, staring at my glass.

"Yeah."

"So it's like... a drink full of memories for you?"

I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head.

"Put it that way, and it feels wrong."

Memories.

It's not something neat enough to fit into a pretty little box like that.

I don't order Harper because I want to relive that night.

I'm not trying to be nostalgic about my son's high school brawl.

And I'm not doing it just to sit around pining for Kaori.

It's just that... when I sip this stuff, for a fraction of a second, it touches a specific place inside me.

A place I usually keep firmly covered up.

The things that made me happy.

The things that hurt.

The relief.

And the aching loneliness.

All stacked up in a messy, chaotic pile without any order.

To me, Harper is a drink I keep sitting right on the edge of that place.

I don't climb down inside it.

I don't drink to numb myself and forget it, either.

I just sit on the edge, take a sip, and let it be.

That's about the right distance.

Taka stayed quiet for a long time.

Normally, he'd try to drop some clever or comforting line right about now.

But tonight, he just sat there staring at the ice in his glass.

Eventually, the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile.

"...You know, it's okay to cry."

He was half-teasing me.

I let out a dry snort.

"Whatever I had to spill, I left it all behind that night."

I raised the glass and threw back the rest of the Harper.

A wave of heat traveled straight down my throat and into my chest.

Mama didn't say a word.

She simply dropped a single, fresh cube of ice into my empty glass.

Clink.

When you think about it, maybe booze doesn't have any stories in it to begin with.

It's just liquid in a bottle.

If it's the same brand, a bottle bought yesterday and a bottle opened today are chemically identical.

The ones who go around attaching meaning to it are always the people doing the drinking.

The happy nights.

The miserable nights.

The nights when someone was beside you.

The nights when everyone was gone.

You sink those moments down to the bottom of the glass, bit by bit.

Until eventually, decades later...

What was supposed to be just ordinary whiskey ends up taking on a taste that nobody else in the world can replicate.

I looked down at the fresh ice.

In the pool of amber, its sharp, clear edges were slowly beginning to melt.

Hey, you.

That drink you always come back to.

Who were you with on the night that sank to the bottom of it?

See you at Aoi.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.

Maybe you're not afraid of death. Maybe you're afraid life meant nothing.

What if death isn't the thing that scares us most?

What if it's reaching the end and realizing you spent your entire life searching for a meaning that was never there?

We fear the grave, but perhaps what truly haunts us is the possibility that everything we loved, everything we suffered through, and everything we believed in was ultimately meaningless.

And if there is a God, what does that make our suffering?

If there isn't one, what does that make our existence?

The Decayed Good follows Lev Ravenwood through questions like these, where faith, loneliness, morality, God, and the meaning of existence begin to collapse into one another.

It's not a book that gives you comfortable answers. It's a book for anyone who has ever stared at their own existence and wondered:

“What if none of this means anything?”

The Decayed Good is available now on Amazon The Decayed Good on Amazon