As night settled over the city, Ayumi descended into the neon-lit basement of a building. Nestled in a corner of the bustling entertainment district stood a small bar called Lapis. She’d been working behind the counter there for five years now, always wearing the same pasted-on smile.
She dropped her son, Ryo, off at daycare in the morning, worked late into the night, came home before dawn to cook breakfast. A kiss on his sleeping cheek. A few hours of rest. Then repeat.
She no longer spoke of dreams.
“Future? As long as my son’s happy, that’s enough for me.”
At some point, she’d gotten used to saying that.
That night, as usual, Ayumi wiped down glasses and listened to the customers’ stories. Everyone drank to forget something. They laughed. Sometimes they cried. Among them was an older man—quiet, sipping whiskey, occasionally opening a small notebook to gaze at something within.
“…I’ll be back,” he said softly before standing and leaving.
But on his seat, he had left behind a single envelope.
“…A letter?”
Plain white, no name, no sender. Inside, however, was a handwritten message, densely packed with emotion.
“I still can’t forget the night you smiled.”
It was a letter full of feelings someone never got to say—someone who once loved, and watched from afar.
As she read, Ayumi’s chest began to warm.
—That night, you spoke of your dreams.
—No matter what the world looked like, your voice was light itself.
By the time she finished, the image that surfaced in her mind was of a version of herself she’d nearly forgotten. Back in university, chasing her dream of becoming a stage actress. Late-night rehearsals with a struggling theater troupe. The moment she gave it all up when she became pregnant with Ryo.
But those fragments returned—summoned by the words of that letter.
“Maybe… someone really was watching.”
A few days later, the man returned to the bar. Ayumi tried to return the letter, but he shook his head gently.
“There’s no one left to give it to. But… I’m glad you read it.”
Then he added quietly,
“Your voice still carries light, you know.”
Ayumi could only bow deeply, unable to speak.
That night, stepping outside, she saw the sky turning pale before dawn. The neon lights of the city were beginning to fade. In that “in-between” space, she saw herself clearly for the first time.
Her dream wasn’t confined to the stage anymore. It was in placing a little flag in Ryo’s breakfast. In humming along at his daycare recital. In helping someone’s day begin with a smile.
That was her stage now.
“Welcome home, Mommy!”
Ryo came running the moment she opened the door.
“Mommy sang today! For someone!”
“Really? Mommy can sing?”
“Hehe, just a little bit.”
Their laughter echoed, wrapped in the morning light.
What she found between the neon lights wasn’t her past—
It was her future.
