Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

The city of Kyoto was an unremarkable one, its streets lined with sagging, weary towers. The sky emotionless like the leaden cement and the clouds blank. Between the city square and the rail station, there lies a small insignificant cluster of houses. Grey, wooden, frail. With every gust of wind, they creaked and shuddered. Fifty years have passed since the last renovation, to supply the area with electricity. The district is designated as A400.

Within A400, there lived a certain Mr. and Mrs. Hatsu, and their son, Kenji. The relationship between the family and their neighbors remained amicable for decades. The Hatsus were well respected within the community for their hard work, but also envied for their fortunes. The district was small, and the feelings between each family, intimate.

***

Kenji, shivering in his jacket, stepped from the front porch onto the streets. The cold wind rustled the trees, clothed in white, as if their branches sailed on the rough seas. The blast hit the boy with a numbing sharp blow. Snow falling down, down, down. Gently assembling into one pool of ice and water. Winter has come earlier than predicted, and the weather became pitiless.

After crossing two streets, Kenji quickened his pace. Beside him, pedestrians stared mindlessly forward, their ears plugged with the same electronic earbud. He paid no attention to them, and hurried towards a glass door decorated with a greasy bronze doorknob. The knob turned and a gush of warmth engulfed him eagerly. A thick aroma of roasted coffee surrounded Kenji. He disliked the faint taste of tea and preferred the strong excitement from coffee. He ordered a cup and sat down by the window side.

The sun created a halo around the silhouette of the dark buildings. The contrast brightened the yellow glow and blinded the view of onlookers. Kenji yawned and turned his back towards the window. The crowd thickened; it flowed through the passages like a thick muddy stream, clogging at each intersection. Kenji eyes the electric clock.

“7:35, school is going to begin soon.”

In fact, every public clock was electric. It saved time for the busy salaryman to read. But most of all, there was no ticking. The old clocks at home ticked and ticked, one , two, one two, tick, tock, one tick, two ticks. It constantly reminded him of the time passing by.

The snow had stopped, and Kenji once again stepped towards the freezing concrete floor. Chills went down his back and coldness seized his breath, strangling his lungs.

He stopped.

The school gates towered over Kenji. The metallic structure glistened under the beaming light. The sun had crawled above the barricade of skyscrapers. The school was quite modern despite its looks. The last renovation was only five years ago, but it was decided that the outside architecture should be kept the same as when it was founded. The sleek modern skyscrapers imposed on the shorter, yet grander school premise.

Kenji was never really interested in school. It bored him, the teachers, the courses, the students. The problem was not that he failed in academics, but rather the opposite. The programmed voice of the teachers reading a script to mindless absorption of the students. He wasn’t interested by the constant flow of facts waiting to be memorized.

A group of students walked past him; the silence bothered him. Their eyes were fixated on their phones. There was no conversation between the friends. He felt a nudge on the back and turned around.

“What are you loitering around for Hatsu, you’re going to be late!”

Before Kenji stood a brutish fellow, slightly taller than himself. Shinjiro Takahashi, a stubborn athlete, is an old friend of Kenji. He was the exact opposite of Kenji in stature, but their relationship remained stable and exceptionally well.

“Hold on, I’m coming…” His voice trailed off amid the crowd of students.

I sat down, by the window, in the back row to the left of Shinjiro. Gazing out at the clean campus, I saw the number of students start to dwindle as each went to their respective classes. I felt the air in the room contract and compact; it squeezed my body and quickened my breath. The tension rose. The professor walked in, but the chatter continued.

“Silence!,” demanded a short burly man with a thick mustache.

Like a sponge drenched in fresh water and its every fiber grasping onto every minute drop of moisture, so the voices in the room drained away. Uneasiness danced on every person’s face, toying with their expressions. The world tightened, clutching my body, arms, legs, face relentlessly. The middle\-aged man stared solemnly.

He gazed upwards and spoke with a slight nasal tone, “It is indeed unfortunate that so great a man died, but here lives the future and he is the past.” The class murmured among themselves, degrading and disapproving the life of that man. “He was too active”, they roared in union, “And too weak for the position.”

The man in question was Mr. Shiba, the Prime Minister and a charming nationalist. He was a proactive individual, taking part in every international and domestic affair. Extreme stress greatly burdened his life and brought it to an abrupt end. At the news of his death, the general public was greatly alarmed and engulfed in fear. This sensation was mainly caused by the nature of Shiba’s actions.

Prime Minister Shiba poked and involved himself with every matter, made ties and bitter relationships with many nations, and abused many neighboring countries with the aid of the USA. He brought trouble with every action he committed; his death only worsened the situation. Japan fell into insecurity and desperation.

The bell rang and school ended. I packed up my belongings and headed for the front gate. My mind boiled with thoughts; they steamed and pushed on my skull. Without a leader, the country was helpless against foreign aggression.

On the way out, I saw Shinjiro walking in the opposite direction and turned my gaze to the other direction. I, filled with exhaustion and tiredness, hurriedly ran through the streets and back home. Ignoring the close, yet incomprehensible droning of the crowd, I reached my neighborhood. Rather, it was a congregation of a small collection of outmoded buildings. The area was quite poor compared to the other parts of the city; however, there was an abundance of lush foliage and each family tending to their own yard.

It was a disturbing day, my thoughts raced through my mind. I became absent\-minded. Upon reaching the vicinity of my house, I tripped over a protruding root. I glanced up, up…

I realized the antiquity of the great trees. Each arm leaned down, it yearned to embrace the lifeless earth and return from where it came. The trees were all cherry blossoms, delicate yet also lifeless in winter. They groaned and shook in the wind, aging faster by the day while sitting in deep contemplation. Its roots, covered by the snow, stretched down into an endless abyss. Beneath the imposing branches, there lies a bed of winterberries. The stout shrubs slept on the cold damp floor, creeping into every crevasse. Drops of bright flaming red dotted the grey figure of the bush. Each fruit burst with saturation, taking away the color and robbing the vitality of its surroundings. A sharp disparity between the bare, majestic Sakura and the active, burly winterberry.

I stood there, astounded by nature. It enraptured me, every minute detail. The vegetation enveloped me in a great prison, trapping me with awe.

It was the first time I had stopped and respected the grandeur of nature.

The news spread like a flame, every burst increasing in speed and force. It burned and scorched, leaving society tattered and weakened like the fine, fragile soot of a smoldering tree. Society was ablaze. Each pillar crumbling— smashing the ground and roaring like thunder. Above, the clouds covered the sun and the rows of cars below hummed with frustration.

I wanted to scream, yell, cry in exasperation. There was too much life, and too little time. All was drowned in the madness and confusion of the world around. On the side of buildings, hung large platinum TVs. It blared out against the tumult below.

“PM dead. Country in disarray. Immediate actions necessary.” Jets roared across the sky, thunderous echoes.

The universe fell silent. People paused, and stared. They glanced up from their phones and simply stared. The silence was deafening. It was as if the plane robbed each person of their voice and captivated them. Like an old photograph, time stopped and it felt as if there was a tangible, thick cloth covering the city. And thus, Death of a man deafened Man.

Walking to school, I followed the exact same path to school everyday. I traced and retraced, until every inch held a memory of my weight and the print of my shoes. My morning routine remained the same as always, simple and direct. There were no unnecessary movements, three thousand two hundred forty one right steps and one less left step. Exactness and precision was key to efficiency. Spending days calculating, planning my time for the next green light, next hour, next day, next week, next month, next year.

Upon reaching the gates, I saw a young boy standing to the right of the entrance. He held in his arms a dense stack of papers crammed together. Beneath him was a small tin, worn out by time and bruised by rust. Within its gaping hole, there was a pile of coins–each worthless, yet together a significant amount. The boy handed out the pamphlets to every interested passing student and demanded of them only a single token as payment.

Intrigued by seeing my fellow peers gazing amusedly at the sheets of paper, I, too, went and bought a copy. What was on the paper that captivated so many. I glanced down. Major Developments! New plan of action. I squinted at the small font below–Citizens from ages 17\-30 Report to City Center Plaza in 3 days at 7:30AM and then showed a map of the entire city. Indeed it was a strange request; was this a draft for war or a head count? I pondered, but soon forgot the matter entirely.

I awoke to the sound of my alarm, the city was bustled about and the trees aroused by the rough winds. Two days passed, and the third began. I got dressed, ate, and went outside. Just when I was about to turn the corner, I saw Shinjiro hurriedly rush in the opposite direction. I ignored him and continued down the road towards the school campus. However, along the way I saw more streams of people going in the same direction, and opposite of mine. They flowed like a stream on the streets, gushed at each intersection–being stopped by road light–and fed into an ever widening river, gaining in momentum. I became concerned and suddenly remembered the words on the pamphlet. The watch on my wrist read 7:18. I turned and ran.