I remember the way the sky looked that evening—bruised and swollen with clouds that never broke. It had been hot all day, but the wind had picked up as the sun fell behind the barracks. You’d think it would feel different, knowing you wouldn’t see another sunrise. But time doesn’t bend the way you expect it to. It just keeps moving forward, minute by minute, like any other day. And that’s the strangest part.
The mess hall was already full by the time I got there. The other boys—most of them not much older than I was—were gathered around tables like it was a celebration. Bottles of sake were passed around, uncorked with urgency. There were jokes. Laughs. Even a song or two. But it all felt forced, like we were all actors trying to sell the same lie: that we were proud, unafraid, and ready.
I took a seat in the corner and stared at the cup in my hands for a long time. I couldn’t drink. Not yet. I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn’t stop. Not the drinking, necessarily. Just the unraveling.
Across the room, someone smashed a lightbulb with the butt of his sword. Another threw a chair through a window and howled like a madman. It wasn’t anger—not exactly. It was something deeper. Desperation. We had spent months pretending to be samurai, but the masks were slipping now. No one really wanted to die. We just didn’t have a choice.
One of the officers stood up and began shouting verses of a military hymn, slurring every word. A few others joined in. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it had been sewn shut. All I could think about was my mother’s hands—how they looked when she pulled noodles, or folded laundry. I hadn’t seen her in two years. My father had written me one letter. Just one. I carried it in my breast pocket.
Yamamoto, my bunkmate, was crying openly now. No one said a word. There was no shame in it—not tonight. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. That was the only comfort we had. Each other.
Some of the boys left the room quietly. I followed a few of them outside, where the wind was stronger. I found one of them staring at the sky, whispering a prayer. Another knelt and began writing his will by moonlight, his hand trembling. I lit a cigarette and watched the ember glow as I inhaled. I had always thought I would die in battle, not like this. Not as a human bullet.
When I returned to the hall, someone was dancing alone, wild and glassy-eyed, knocking over flower vases. Others sat motionless, heads on the table, silent. It was no longer a party. It was a wake.
Before I went to bed, I folded my letter home. I didn’t write anything grand—just a simple thank you, and I’m sorry.
And then I laid down, not to rest, but to wait.