Feast of Shadows

Chapter 1: The Full Rice Bowl

Reiko pressed the rice cooker’s lid down until it clicked and began to steam, a delicate cloud carrying the familiar aroma of morning. Dawn light filtered through the kitchen shoji screen, painting pale rectangles on the tatami floor. In these quiet moments before her family woke, Reiko’s life still felt orderly and whole. She rinsed a handful of grains that remained in the bin, fingers remembering the texture of abundance. For years, she had risen before the sun to prepare breakfast—steamed rice, miso soup, and pickled radish—an unchanging ritual in a changing world. Today should have been no different, yet an uneasy whisper tugged at her mind like a draught through a cracked window.

As she set the table, Reiko glanced at the household altar in the corner of the living room. A small lacquered shrine held a faded photograph of her late parents and a porcelain bowl meant for rice offerings. The bowl was empty. She winced at the sight. It was said that a meal wasn’t truly a meal without rice—gohan, the word for cooked rice, was synonymous with life’s sustenance itself. Leaving the ancestors’ bowl empty felt like a silent omen. With a soft sigh, she placed a solitary spoonful of fresh rice into the bowl, an apology and a prayer. Though the amount was pitiful, the gesture momentarily soothed her, restoring a sense of respect and normalcy.

Her husband, Takeshi, emerged from the hallway, already in his crisp white shirt and navy slacks. He paused to inhale the scent of breakfast, a routine comfort. “Smells good,” he murmured, though Reiko did not miss the flicker of concern in his eyes when he noticed the smaller-than-usual mound of rice in his own bowl. Their 16-year-old son, Noboru, shuffled in next, his hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep. He offered a gruff “Ohayō”—good morning—before sliding onto his cushion. Reiko managed a gentle smile as she poured tea for them all.

They ate mostly in silence, broken only by the clink of chopsticks against ceramic. Takeshi flipped open the morning newspaper beside his plate. As he sipped his miso soup, a headline caught his attention. “They’re saying the shortage is getting worse,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His eyes scanned the lines with a deepening frown. “Stores limiting sales… price controls…”

Reiko’s hand paused in mid-air, rice ball trembling between her chopsticks. She had deliberately avoided watching the news too early, not wanting to sour the morning. Shortage. The word landed heavily in the space between them. Noboru glanced up from his bowl, suddenly alert. “Is it really that bad, Papa?” he asked.

Takeshi exhaled and folded the paper shut. He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he looked at Reiko. “After you see Noboru off to school, maybe go by the supermarket. Try to get another bag of rice. If you can.” His tone was gentle but edged with worry he couldn’t hide.

Reiko nodded slowly. “Hai… I will,” she replied. In truth, she had planned to do so anyway. For weeks now, rumors had circulated among the housewives in the neighborhood about panic-buying and thinning supplies. She had noticed the shrinking stacks of rice at the local store, the increasing number of empty shelves where the cheaper domestic brands used to sit. Yesterday, she’d come home with a 2-kilogram bag of imported Thai rice—the only option left. Its long translucent grains were alien in her kitchen, needing more water to cook, the texture never quite right. Takeshi had eaten it in polite silence, but Noboru had pushed his bowl away in frustration, complaining that it “tasted like nothing.” The memory pricked Reiko with shame, as if she had failed in her duty as a mother to provide the simplest comfort: the taste of home.

She rose to clear the dishes. Noboru gulped down the last of his tea and stood to fetch his school bag. “I’ll go,” he mumbled. Normally, Reiko would remind him not to forget his bento lunch, but today she hadn’t prepared one—there wasn’t enough rice left for rice balls, and she hoped to find some at the store later. Instead, she had hastily given him some money to buy bread or noodles at the school cafeteria. The omission pained her. No bento for my son… It was unthinkable until now.

At the genkan entryway, she helped Noboru straighten his uniform collar. “Be careful and have a good day,” she said softly. The boy nodded, avoiding her gaze, embarrassment flickering across his face now that he was nearly as tall as she was. He stepped into his shoes and disappeared out the door with the clatter of footsteps down the apartment stairs.

Takeshi gathered his briefcase. “I’ll be home late,” he said as usual, but then added, “Don’t worry too much if you can’t find any. We’ll manage somehow.” He attempted a reassuring smile, placing a hand briefly on Reiko’s shoulder. She felt the weight of his trust and concern in that light touch. In their 20 years of marriage, he had always been a steady man—reserved with his emotions, dutiful in his routines. His confidence had been a pillar for her. Now, even that pillar showed hairline cracks.

“I’ll do my best,” Reiko replied. She walked him to the door, watching as he slipped on his leather shoes and stepped out into the crisp morning. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving her in the stillness of the empty home. She looked back at the breakfast table: two bowls scraped nearly clean, and Noboru’s bowl with a few untouched grains clinging to the side. Wasting even a single grain felt wrong. Carefully, Reiko picked up the bowls and carried them to the sink. She rinsed the uneaten rice from Noboru’s bowl and caught the grains in her palm, then went to the open window and sprinkled them out for the sparrows. Tiny brown birds were already perched on the power line outside, their keen eyes scouting for sustenance. They swooped down the moment the rice fell, a flurry of wings fighting over each grain as if it were treasure.

Reiko watched the sparrows peck at the remnants of her family’s meal. Usually, feeding the birds brought her a small joy, a sense of charity. Today it felt like an omen: even the birds were hungry, their chatter sharp, competitive. The sky beyond was a pristine blue, oblivious to human troubles. She wondered if somewhere in the countryside, beneath that same sky, golden rice stalks had once swayed heavy with grain. Where did it all go? she thought, a hollowness nesting in her chest. The news had said last year’s heat wave ruined much of the harvestwashingtonpost.comwashingtonpost.com. But there was supposed to be an emergency stockpile, government reserves for disasters. Where was it now, when ordinary families could barely fill their bowls?

Shaking off these dark reflections, Reiko tidied the kitchen with methodical care. She wiped the table, washed the dishes, folded the breakfast cloth. These small acts gave her comfort, a sense that she still commanded her little world. Yet, as she cleaned, she noticed how quiet the apartment was. Usually, she relished the quiet after her loved ones left—time for herself to read or tend to small pleasures. Today the silence rang in her ears, heavy with uncertainty.

Before leaving for the market, Reiko slid open the closet where she kept her reusable shopping bags. On the top shelf sat an old tin box decorated with a faded pattern of maple leaves—a keepsake from her childhood in the rural north. Inside, she had squirreled away a modest emergency supply: two cans of tuna, a jar of pickled plums, a half-full bag of rice she’d bought weeks ago and vowed to save. For a true emergency, she had told herself, thinking of earthquakes or typhoons. Surely not for something like this. Not for simply feeding her family in peacetime.

She checked the bag’s weight in her hand: perhaps enough for one more day or two if stretched. A deep furrow etched her brow. With resolve, she left the tin box untouched and closed the closet. Today, she told herself, the stores will have rice. They must. She refused to believe that this quiet domestic morning was the prelude to something worse. Reiko took her coat and shopping bags, offered one more glance at the empty rice bowl on the altar, and stepped out into the uncertain sunshine of a Japan she no longer fully recognized.

Chapter 2: Cracks in the Facade

The supermarket parking lot was jammed by mid-morning, an uncommon sight for a weekday. Reiko usually did her shopping on Tuesdays, when the local market held sales on produce and the aisles were calm. But today was Thursday, and a dense crowd had already gathered at the entrance, mostly women around her age clutching carts or tote bags. They stood not in the usual loose cluster of casual shoppers, but in a tight line that snaked along the storefront. A brittle tension hung over them, a quiet panic evident in shuffling feet and darting eyes.

Reiko joined the queue, heart thumping with anxious anticipation. As minutes passed, more people arrived and tacked themselves to the line’s end, until it curved around the corner of the building. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A woman just ahead of Reiko muttered to her companion, “They said on TV last night that some stores in the city sold out completely… People started buying in bulk after that earthquake scare.”

Her friend clicked her tongue. “I went to three places yesterday. Not one grain left. If I come home empty-handed again today…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but the desperation in her voice made Reiko tighten her grip on her own bags.

As the automatic doors opened and admitted people in small batches, Reiko finally stepped inside. The fluorescent lights illuminated a scene of controlled chaos. She bypassed the produce section and headed straight to the aisle where rice was usually stacked in neat heavy bags. Upon turning the corner, she felt her stomach drop: the shelves were mostly barren. In place of the usual colorful variety of brands and sizes, there were only a few lonely bags scattered here and there. A sign in bold red letters read: “Limit 1 bag per customer – ご購入はお一人様一袋まで.”

Two women were already crouched low, grappling over a 5-kilogram sack of premium Koshihikari rice, each refusing to let go. Their voices escalated, sharp and shrill: “I saw it first!” “My family hasn’t had any rice for a week!” Neither relented even as a store clerk approached, palms out in placation. Reiko edged around them cautiously. Her eyes scanned the shelf for anything at all. There—a single 2-kilogram bag of imported rice sat forlornly at the back of the bottom shelf. She dropped to her knees and reached for it.

Suddenly another hand shot out from the side, nails digging into the plastic packaging at the same moment. Reiko turned to see a middle-aged man, face drawn tight, eyes feverish. He tugged hard, trying to yank the bag away from her.

“Please,” Reiko gasped, her voice unexpectedly loud. “That’s all I could find. Please—I have a family…”

The man’s lips curled in a snarl. “So do I,” he spat, wrenching the bag. For an absurd moment, Reiko found herself in a tug-of-war on the dusty floor of the supermarket. Her heart hammered not just with fear but with disbelief—was this truly happening? The world felt inverted; such vulgar struggle over a mere sack of rice, an item so ordinary it had been taken for granted all her life.

A flicker of resolve lit within her. She would not return home empty-handed. With a surge of anger she didn’t know she possessed, Reiko jerked the bag toward herself, catching the man off balance. He stumbled, and his grip loosened just enough for her to pull the rice free. At that moment, the store clerk intervened, stepping between them.

“Sir, ma’am, please,” the clerk pleaded, sweat beading on his forehead. “We’ll be bringing out more stock shortly. There’s no need to fight.”

The man glared at Reiko, breathing hard. For a second she feared he might actually strike her. Instead, he spat a curse under his breath and stalked off down the aisle, perhaps hoping to catch the next pallet of supply. Reiko remained crouched on the floor, clutching the bag to her chest as if it were a newborn. Her hands trembled. She felt a sting in her eyes and realized, with shock, that she was on the verge of tears. Not here, she thought, swallowing hard. Not in front of all these people. She forced herself up to standing.

In her arms, the 2kg bag of rice—imported from Vietnam, the label read—seemed almost weightless, yet it anchored her with a mix of triumph and guilt. Around her, the aisle was strewn with signs of the scramble: a torn plastic wrapper, a single grain glinting on the linoleum. The two women who had fought over the Koshihikari were gone; one of them must have won, or perhaps a manager had confiscated their prize altogether. Reiko didn’t want to know which. She just needed to leave.

At the checkout, a young cashier gave an apologetic smile as she rang up the rice and a few other items Reiko had mindlessly gathered (a bottle of soy sauce, some dried fish—things still available, though prices had crept higher). “大変ですね… It’s tough these days, isn’t it?” the cashier offered, glancing at the meager haul. Reiko nodded, forcing a polite smile, unwilling to reveal the hollowness she felt inside.

Outside the store, the sunlight had grown harsh. The weight of the morning’s struggle bore down on Reiko as she walked across the parking lot. The bag of rice was tucked securely in her tote, yet she found herself constantly checking that it was still there, a paranoid tick—her fingers pawing at the bag’s outline through the fabric. She passed a mother scolding her child for whining about wanting a sweet. The mother’s voice was strained: “We’re lucky to have food at all. You be grateful.” Nearby, an elderly man on a bicycle had attached two large bags of rice to his bike rack; he rode slowly, wobbling under the uneven load as he exited the lot. Reiko realized she was holding her breath until he safely made it past the curb, half expecting someone to run up and snatch the bags from the old man.

Her own car was an older silver sedan. She opened the trunk and placed her shopping inside with unusual care, as if handling fragile glass. Once behind the wheel, Reiko allowed herself to breathe deeply. Her hands still shook slightly on the steering wheel. She closed her eyes and willed the tension to ebb. In that brief darkness, other senses sharpened: the distant car horns, the smell of exhaust mixed with the sweet scent of rice lingering on her clothes, and beneath that, the sour note of her own fear.

Images from inside the store replayed in her mind—the desperation in that man’s face, the wild look that had passed over her own reflection in the freezer glass when she fought back. It felt like she had seen a stranger within herself, someone driven by primitive need. The civilized propriety of her upbringing, of life in a peaceful neighborhood, had evaporated in an instant, revealing something raw and carnivorous beneath. It disturbed her profoundly, more than the scuffle itself. Is this what we are becoming? she wondered. Animals scrambling for feed.

Starting the engine, Reiko noticed the fuel gauge hovering near empty. With a soft curse, she decided to stop by the gasoline stand on the way home. As she pulled in and waited her turn at the self-service pump, she saw a familiar figure at the next pump: Yukiko, a fellow housewife from her apartment block and one of Reiko’s closest friends in the neighborhood. Yukiko’s face, usually so cheerful, was today drawn tight. Even so, when she recognized Reiko, she waved and forced a smile.

Reiko stepped out after fueling and greeted her. “Yukiko-san, hello. How are you managing?” It was a gentle way of asking the more direct question: Have you found any rice?

Yukiko sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I went out at 6 a.m. to the wholesaler in the next town. Stood in line for two hours.” She patted the trunk of her car. “Got one bag. Only imported left, but it’s something.” Her eyes searched Reiko’s face and then her car. “You?”

Reiko nodded. “Same story. One bag of import.” She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “It was… chaotic at the supermarket. I almost didn’t get anything.”

At this, Yukiko’s forced smile faltered. She stepped closer and spoke in a near whisper, as if confiding forbidden gossip. “One woman at the wholesaler told me some people are reselling rice online at triple the price. Can you believe it? Taking advantage of everyone’s misery.” Her lips pressed together in disgust. “It’s like the country’s going mad. Yesterday, I heard a rumor that a delivery truck was robbed on the highway by a group of men. They stole every bag of rice it carried.”

Reiko’s eyes widened. “Robbed? Like bandits?”

Yukiko nodded gravely. “The police are keeping it quiet, but my cousin works for the shipping company. He said they found the driver tied up, the truck empty. This kind of thing… in Japan, of all places.” She shook her head, tears of anger or fear glistening briefly.

Reiko felt a chill despite the warm late-morning sun. She found herself glancing around the gas station lot, half expecting shadowy figures to lurk behind the pumps. But there were only ordinary people: a man in a suit hurriedly filling a red gas can, a pair of young women in office attire chatting nervously as they paid for their fuel. Ordinary people in an extraordinary time.

“We’ll get through this, won’t we?” Reiko said, attempting to reassure both her friend and herself. “The government will fix it. They have emergency stockpiles… they’ll import more. This can’t last.” She remembered news of shipments coming from abroadwashingtonpost.com, an unprecedented measure since the old rice crisis decades ago. Surely relief was on the horizon.

Yukiko managed a nod. “Let’s hope so. I tell my kids it’ll be fine, but…” She trailed off, then mustered a brighter tone. “Anyway, take care, Reiko-san. Let’s keep in touch. If either of us hears about a new stock arriving, we’ll tell each other, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Reiko agreed. They exchanged a quick embrace—something neither of them usually did in a gas station, but at that moment it felt necessary. Then they parted, each returning to our cars to ferry our precious cargo home.

As Reiko drove back through her neighborhood, she noticed subtle changes that had crept in over recent days: the convenience store on the corner had a hand-written sign on its door, “No rice available”; an old man who usually tended the small community vegetable patch now stood idly by the fence, as if unsure what to do with himself without seedlings to water; two housewives conversed in hushed, agitated tones outside the pharmacy, one gesturing with a hand that clutched a thin wallet. The veneer of calm that usually defined this suburb was cracking. Reiko felt as though she were seeing beneath a layer of reality that had always been there, invisible until now—the fragility hidden under routine comforts.

Pulling into the narrow parking space by her apartment building, Reiko turned off the engine. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror: a loose strand of hair stuck to the sweat on her temple, and her eyes… they looked different, she thought. Sharper, maybe. Harder. With a deep breath, she gathered her bags and headed inside.

In the stairwell, the clamor of a television spilled from one of the first-floor units. An excited announcer’s voice: “...政府は緊急備蓄米の放出を決定しました… the government has decided to release emergency reserve rice…” Reiko paused on the landing, listening. A pang of relief mingled with apprehension coursed through her. They’re releasing the reserves. That meant things were truly dire, but at least help might come. The voice continued, “…231,000 tons to ease the strainwashingtonpost.com, starting next week. However, experts warn this may not immediately stabilize prices—”

A crash interrupted the report—a dish shattering perhaps—and a woman’s shout, furious and despairing: “Next week? We need it now!” Reiko recognized the voice: Mrs. Satō, a usually gentle neighbor, now roaring at the TV or perhaps at some unseen bureaucrats. Reiko didn’t linger. She hurried up the last flight, her heart heavy.

Inside her apartment, she locked the door securely behind her and set the grocery bags on the kitchen floor. The silence in her home felt different now—no longer merely quiet, but tense, expectant. The refrigerator’s hum seemed louder, the clock’s ticking more insistent. Reiko unpacked her purchases. When she lifted the sack of rice from the bag, she hesitated. On impulse, she carried it to the altar in the living room. With reverence, she poured a small measure into the porcelain offering bowl, covering the bare bottom with a thin layer of grains. They gleamed white and pearlescent in the dim light.

She pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. O-Mamagoto-sama, she prayed silently—an old-fashioned invocation to the spirit of rice, taught by her grandmother. Please, let this be enough. In the stillness, she almost imagined a response, a rustle like wind through stalks of rice. But it was only the blood rushing in her ears.

When she opened her eyes, the apartment felt smaller, as if the walls had crept inward. Reiko realized she was exhausted. The day’s battles had only begun, yet she felt as though she’d fought a war. Cracks were forming—in society’s facade, and in something within herself. She wondered, as she measured out rice for the evening meal, what other parts of her orderly life might soon fracture under the strain. Outside, a crow cawed harshly from a rooftop, as if in warning.

Chapter 3: Hunger and Heat

A heavy, listless heat descended on the city as unseasonably warm weather took hold. By afternoon, the apartment was sweltering. Reiko slid open the balcony door in hopes of catching a breeze, but the air outside hung motionless, shimmering above the asphalt. Spring felt like summer, the sunlight too harsh, as if nature itself had turned hostile. She remembered the news saying last year’s brutal summer sun had withered the rice cropswashingtonpost.com. Now that same relentless heat seemed to be seeping into April and May, mocking the nation with its brightness while people sweated and rationed food.

Reiko dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief and checked the rice cooker. She was cooking the imported rice for dinner, careful to rinse it thoroughly and let it soak longer. Still, when the timer clicked off and she lifted the lid, the texture looked off—clumping strangely, a few hard grains at the edges. She fluffed it gently with the paddle, releasing a puff of steam. Normally she would savor that aroma, but tonight it smelled nearly empty, lacking the sweet nuttiness of the domestic rice they loved.

She set out three bowls, deliberating how to distribute the rice. There was not quite enough for three full portions as they were used to. So she scooped a modest serving into each bowl, then added a little more to Noboru’s. Growing boy, after all. She could take less. In the kitchen, she had prepared more side dishes to compensate: cheap soba noodles chilled and tossed with sesame oil, a small omelet cut into slices, and a miso soup rich with seaweed and tofu. Perhaps if there were enough variety, the missing rice would be less conspicuous.

When the family assembled for dinner, an awkward silence fell. Noboru eyed the spread and frowned, immediately noticing the smaller helping of rice. Takeshi cleared his throat. “Itadakimasu,” he said, initiating the customary thanks for the food. They all clapped their hands together and repeated the phrase, but it felt hollow.

As they ate, the clink of dishes was louder than their conversation. Reiko chewed slowly, forcing herself to relish each bite of rice as if to convince herself it was fine. But the foreign grains were dry on her tongue. Across from her, Noboru poked at his food. He wolfed down the noodles and egg, but only halfheartedly picked at the rice. Finally he muttered, “Can’t we have real rice? This tastes like sand.”

“Noboru,” Takeshi warned softly, shooting him a look. “That’s all your mother could get. Be grateful.” His tone was firm, but there was an undertone of fatigue. Reiko could see the day had worn on him too; normally composed, he now rubbed the bridge of his nose often, a gesture of stress.

The boy didn’t drop his gaze. “At school everyone’s complaining. They say we’re gonna have to eat bread and pasta like Westerners soon.” He said the word “Westerners” with a tinge of scorn. “My friend Kenji’s family got a sack of that cheap Thai rice and it made them all sick. His mom said it was animal feed quality.”

Reiko set her chopsticks down, the food in her mouth suddenly tasteless. She wanted to snap at Noboru for his ingratitude, but she saw the fear and frustration behind his eyes, poorly masked by teenage bravado. Instead, she spoke carefully, “We should be thankful we have any rice at all. A lot of people have none right now. I’ll try to mix this with other things to improve it. Perhaps barley or sweet potatoes, like in the old days.”

“Old days,” Noboru scoffed, pushing his half-eaten rice away. “This isn’t wartime, Mother. Or is it?” He let out a bitter laugh that unsettled Reiko; she had never heard such cynicism from him. At sixteen, Noboru had always been a quiet boy, shy around strangers but sweet with family. Lately, though, a sullen edge had surfaced in him. He spent more time closed in his room, sometimes with a few friends she didn’t know well. The times… the times were shaping him into someone she struggled to recognize.

Takeshi intervened, his voice taut. “Enough. Finish your meal. We won’t waste food in this house.”

Noboru glared, anger flashing. For a moment Reiko feared he might shove the bowl aside, even defy his father openly. But after a tense pause, he picked up the bowl and began to eat the remaining rice with deliberate bites, washing each down with gulps of cold tea as if it were medicine. Reiko’s chest ached at the sight. She realized he was forcing himself mainly to avoid further conflict, not out of respect for the food. The rice that was once the heart of their meal had become a bitter chore.

When dinner was over, Reiko cleared the table in silence. Noboru retreated to his room, claiming homework as an excuse. Takeshi retreated, too, though only as far as the living area, where he sat in front of the TV to catch the evening news. Reiko could hear the broadcaster’s voice rising and falling in formal cadences as she washed up. Words drifted in: “Prime Minister… appeal for calm… emergency imports… price gouging under investigation… community relief centers…” Each phrase was a fragment of the larger chaos outside their walls.

She dried her hands and stepped into the living room, drawn by the images on the screen. Grainy footage showed a crowd of protesters outside a prefectural office, holding signs and shouting slogans. The camera panned over police trying to maintain order. A subtitle identified it as a scene from another city—Osaka—where frustrations had boiled over into a rally against the handling of the rice crisis. Reiko watched in numb fascination as an older man in the crowd yelled, “We can’t feed our families! Shame on the government!” His face was contorted with rage and despair.

Takeshi noticed her watching and quickly switched off the TV, the screen flickering to black. “It’s just sensationalism,” he muttered. “The media is stirring fear. Protests won’t solve anything.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. Reiko could see the worry etched in his forehead even as he dismissed the news.

She sat down next to him on the tatami, folding her legs under her. “Takeshi…what are they saying at your office? Did anything happen today?”

He hesitated. Being a mid-level manager at a logistics firm, he usually kept work troubles to himself so as not to burden her. But after a moment he sighed. “It’s not good. Supply lines are all tangled. Some of our clients can’t get shipments of basic goods because trucks are being diverted to move rice around, or because drivers are afraid of mobbing. One client… an online retailer… apparently a bunch of their inventory was stolen from a warehouse. Not just rice—other food, even diapers and instant noodles. People are grabbing anything.” He shook his head. “My boss is worried that if this continues, companies might start cutting staff hours or salaries to cope with losses.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he added, “They’re already talking about suspending bonuses this season.”

Reiko placed a hand gently on his arm. The possibility of financial strain on top of everything made her stomach tighten, but she tried to keep her voice steady. “We’ll manage. We have some savings. And this will pass, it has to. Once the emergency stocks are distributed…” She trailed off, hearing the uncertainty in her own words.

Takeshi covered her hand with his. In that small gesture, she felt both his gratitude and his guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I wish I could do more. I hate that you have to fight in supermarkets and worry about every grain.”

His apology melted something inside her. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “We do what we must for the family. Everyone is struggling, not just us.” Looking around their apartment—the modest but comfortable furnishings, the warm lamplight, the photos of birthdays and vacations on the shelf—Reiko felt a surge of protectiveness. This was their world, built over years of effort and love. How could it be threatened by something as banal as a shortage of rice? It seemed almost absurd. And yet, it was happening. Already, the strain was evident: in her husband’s drawn face, in her son’s sullen rebellion, in her own gnawing anxiety that refused to abate.

They sat in silence for a while, taking what solace they could in each other’s presence. Outside, the sounds of the neighborhood drifted through the open balcony door: a baby crying down the hall, the distant wail of a siren (ambulance or police, it was hard to tell), a chorus of cicadas beginning to trill early in the heat. Those cicadas—Reiko marveled at hearing them in spring. It was as if the seasons themselves had fallen out of order. The relentless whine of their song only added to her restlessness.

Later that night, after Takeshi had retired early to futon and lamp-light, Reiko lingered at the altar. In the semi-darkness, the grains she’d offered gleamed faintly. She knelt and bowed her head. Her whispered words slipped out, barely audible: “Otōsan, Okāsan… give me strength. Show me what to do.” She listened, but only the cicadas answered, their shrill cry rising to a fevered pitch in the night air.

In bed, Takeshi’s soft snores signaled an uneasy sleep. Reiko lay awake, her yukata damp against her back. She couldn’t recall when she last felt truly rested. Each night lately brought fretful dreams—of endless lines at empty shops, of Noboru crying with hunger as he had when he was little, of cracks appearing in the walls of their apartment that she tried in vain to patch. Often she jerked awake just after something terrible happened in the dream—sometimes a fire, sometimes an earthquake shaking the ground—and in those moments between dream and reality, she felt a foreboding so deep it stole her breath.

Tonight was no different. When she finally slipped into a fevered sleep, her dreams were vivid and merciless. She saw herself as a girl in her hometown up north, running through golden rice fields at harvest time. The stalks were taller than she remembered, and they began to twist around her ankles like grasping hands, slowing her down. She realized the grains at their tips were blackened and empty. As panic set in, the blue sky above turned a scalding white. Suddenly, she was no longer in the field but back in her apartment kitchen. The rice cooker was whistling shrilly. She opened it and found nothing but ash inside. Ash that began to billow out, filling the room, choking her. In the dream, she tried to scream but the ash poured into her mouth, silencing her.

Reiko awoke with a start, a strangled gasp in her throat. The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight. She sat up, her heart pounding as if she’d just sprinted miles. Takeshi slept on, oblivious. She carefully rose, stepping over him, and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her throat was parched.

As she drank, she gazed out the window above the sink. The moon hung low and yellow, almost full, casting a pale glow over the rooftops. In that light she noticed something on the balcony railing—a large crow perched silently, watching her with one glittering black eye. The bird did not caw or move, it just observed. Reiko felt a shiver despite the heat. Crows were intelligent creatures; in folklore they were messengers or omens. What message did this one carry tonight? She could see its sharp beak and the faint ruffle of feathers in the slight breeze. They locked eyes for a long moment. Then, without a sound, the crow spread its ink-dark wings and flew off into the night.

Reiko stood there long after it had gone, the unease from her nightmare still clinging to her. She had the uncanny feeling that something had been foretold, but she lacked the key to decipher it. Only one thing was clear: hunger was no longer just a physical sensation in her household; it had become a spiritual presence, an unwanted guest haunting every corner of their lives. And it was growing.

Chapter 4: Fraying Threads

Over the following week, routines continued to erode. School was intermittently canceled; Noboru’s high school sent messages about “safety concerns” due to sporadic unrest on the streets. On days classes were held, he came home with unsettling stories: a fight in the cafeteria when rice balls ran out, a classmate suspended for selling rationed bread at a markup, whispered plans among some older students to loot a rumored food hoard. Each tale chipped away at Reiko’s confidence that adults were the only ones succumbing to the madness. The disease of desperation spared no generation.

Takeshi’s company shortened its hours. He started coming home earlier, which under normal circumstances might have been a welcome change. But now he walked through the door with shoulders sagging, as though the weight of the city’s troubles were strapped to his back. With more free time, he scoured news on his phone, pacing the living room while reading aloud tidbits to Reiko—most of it bad. Government helplines jammed with calls, a rise in theft and domestic violence, a black market flourishing on social media where a kilogram of rice cost as much as a luxury dinner.

“It says here a group of university volunteers set up a ‘free kitchen’ downtown,” Takeshi mentioned one evening. “Cooking donated food for those who can’t afford meals.” He tried to sound positive, but the implications were dire: charities usually needed for homeless were now feeding ordinary families.

“That’s kind of them,” Reiko replied softly, folding laundry as a distraction. She felt guilty that they still managed to eat three times a day, however sparse, while others might be going without. She had stretched their provisions with creativity: rice porridge for breakfast, bulking it with sweet potato; okonomiyaki pancakes for lunch made mostly of cabbage and flour; dinners heavy on soup and light on grain. They had even opened the last jar of pickled plums from her mother’s garden—each sour morsel giving a burst of flavor to trick the palate into forgetting how bland and meager the staples had become.

But these deprivations, however uncomfortable, were bearable compared to the emotional toll within the household. Each day felt a little more strained. Takeshi grew quieter, prone to brooding silences. Noboru, on the other hand, simmered with restless energy. With school so irregular, he spent long hours shut in his room. Reiko heard him playing music—angry, loud music unlike the gentle J-Pop he used to enjoy—or on voice calls with friends, the muffled cadence of their speech suggesting secret plans. She worried but felt powerless to intervene; when she knocked to offer snacks or simply check in, his door would crack open just enough for a monosyllabic reply before closing again. “I’m fine. I’m busy.” Busy with what, she could only guess.

One sultry afternoon, as Reiko returned from hanging laundry on the balcony, she nearly collided with Noboru in the hallway. She hadn’t even realized he’d left his room. He was dressed in his outside clothes—black jeans, a T-shirt—and carried a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Surprised, Reiko asked, “Are you going out? There’s no school today.”

He avoided her eyes. “Just meeting Kenji and the guys for a bit.”

Reiko’s stomach tightened. She had a flash of the scenes he described from school, and what Yukiko had confided about robberies. “Where are you going?”

“Just… around. Nowhere far.” His tone was evasive, almost sullen.

Alarm flared in her. “Noboru, please be careful. I’ve heard there are troublemakers out. Maybe you should stay home—”

He cut her off, an edge in his voice. “I can’t stay cooped up here all day. I’m not a child.”

Reiko stepped back at the force of it. She looked at her son—truly looked at him. He stood taller than her now, a few strands of dark hair falling over determined eyes. His jaw was set in a way that reminded her of Takeshi’s stubborn face when they disagreed. But deeper than that, there was a hardness, a desperation, that did not belong in a boy of sixteen. It frightened her.

Before she could gather her thoughts to respond, Noboru brushed past her. As he did, his backpack bumped against her leg with a dull clunk, as if something solid and heavy were inside. She froze. “What’s in your bag?” she asked, heart lurching.

“Nothing. Just stuff.”

His dismissive answer only fed her suspicions. Reiko reached out and grabbed his arm instinctively. “Noboru—”

He jerked free with unexpected strength. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he snapped. Then, seeing the hurt and fear in her face, his expression softened for just a moment. He added more quietly, “I’ll be back by dinner. Don’t worry, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he hurried out, the door rattling shut behind him.

Reiko stood in the empty hall, her hand still half-raised, her heart pounding. That clunk… what could he be carrying? A bottle of water? A bunch of old books? Or something more sinister, a voice whispered in her mind. The memory of the man stealing rice from the truck, the fights in stores, the talk of gangs… Could her Noboru be mixed up in any of that? She tried to dismiss the notion as absurd. He was a good boy, just frustrated. But these days, goodness had a way of eroding under necessity.

She waited in tense silence until the echo of his footsteps down the stairwell disappeared. Minutes later, Takeshi came out of the bedroom, drawn by the noise. He was on a scheduled day off, though hardly relaxed. “Was that Noboru leaving? Where’s he off to?”

Reiko forced a calm she didn’t feel. “Out with friends. He said he’d be back by dinner.” She hesitated, debating whether to mention her worries about the bag. Takeshi had enough on his mind. But this concerned their son’s safety. “He seemed… on edge. I’m worried he might get into trouble.”

Takeshi frowned, concern sharpening his features. “What kind of trouble?”

She faltered, not wanting to speak her fears aloud. “I don’t know. He didn’t say much. But if he sees others doing reckless things… you know how teenagers are. They don’t always think of consequences.”

Takeshi sighed and rubbed his face. “I’ll talk to him when he gets back. Maybe it’s just cabin fever. Being home with us, in this atmosphere…” He didn’t finish, but Reiko felt the sting. This atmosphere—the gloom, the anxiety permeating their home. It was true; the crisis had cast a long shadow over their family’s mood.

As the day dragged on, Reiko busied herself with chores to quell her unease. She trimmed the basil plant on the windowsill, its leaves wilting in the heat. She wiped down the empty rice bin, as if cleaning it might will it to refill. Each task was small solace. By late afternoon, with Noboru still out and Takeshi napping fitfully on the futon, Reiko wandered into the bedroom she shared with her husband. In the closet’s top compartment, pushed behind winter blankets, she retrieved a plain wooden box. Inside lay a few keepsakes: old letters, her marriage certificate, and tucked in an envelope, some cash emergency funds. She counted the bills—just enough perhaps to buy rice at the exorbitant black-market price Yukiko mentioned, if it came to that. But they’d been trying so hard to avoid going that route, hoping the official channels would normalize things.

Fanning herself with a hand, she also considered another item in the box: a thin gold necklace set with a tiny pearl—an heirloom from her mother’s mother. It wasn’t particularly expensive, but it had sentimental value. Could she part with it if her family’s survival depended on it? Pawn it for money to buy food? The fact that her thoughts had come to this startled her. Just weeks ago, such an idea would have been melodramatic, absurd. Now it was a practical question. Gently, she closed the box and hid it away again, unsettled that she even had to contemplate these measures.

Dusk fell and with it came a distant sound of commotion through the open window: perhaps a crowd yelling or the roar of an engine. It was hard to tell. Every so often, since yesterday, Reiko had caught faint echoes of unrest. The city was a patchwork of hot spots where tensions flared. Their ward had been relatively calm so far, but it felt like only a matter of time.

When Noboru finally returned, night had fully settled. Reiko heard the front door slide open and sprang up from the kitchen table where she’d been tensely waiting. Takeshi, too, folded away his newspaper and came to the entryway.

Noboru stood there in the genkan, illuminated by the single lamp in the hall. He was sweating and smelled faintly of smoke. Reiko’s heart jumped to her throat at that scent—smoke, metallic and acrid, clinging to his clothes. Takeshi must have noticed too. His voice came out alarmed, “Why do you smell like that? Were you near a fire?”

Noboru avoided their eyes, stepping out of his sneakers. “There was… some trouble near the station. A trash bin was burning. It’s nothing.”

Reiko moved closer, reaching out but stopping short of touching him. “Are you hurt? What happened?” She scanned him quickly: his clothes were dusty, a small tear at the hem of his shirt, and a purplish bruise was forming just above his left wrist. She gently took his arm. “You’re injured.”

Noboru pulled away, more gently this time, shaking his head. “It’s fine, just got jostled.” Only now did he look at them—truly look, as if gauging how much to tell. In his eyes, conflict raged: the urge to confide warring with pride or fear. Finally, he muttered, “Some idiot threw a Molotov at the kombini by the station. People panicked. I fell when everyone ran.”

Reiko felt faint. An arson attack at their local convenience store? It was unthinkable, yet here was the proof in the soot on her son’s clothes and the fear in his eyes. Takeshi cursed under his breath. “That’s it. It’s not safe out there. From now on, you stay home, Noboru. No more going out doing… whatever you were doing.”

Noboru’s face flashed with indignation. “You can’t just lock me up! I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was helping—” He bit his tongue, but it was too late. His parents caught the word.

“Helping? Helping who? Doing what?” Takeshi’s tone sharpened.

The boy pressed his lips together, silent. Reiko noticed his backpack, now slung on the floor. A corner of something metal peeked from it—a glimpse of a handle. Her breath caught. She moved swiftly, kneeling and opening the flap before Noboru could stop her. Inside was a crowbar, small but solid, along with an empty glass bottle, a rag soaked in gasoline, and a lighter. She recognized the items instantly, her blood running cold. These were tools of destruction. Her vision swam as she looked up at her son, betrayal and dread swirling in her.

Noboru’s face had gone pale. “It’s not… what you think,” he stammered.

Takeshi’s anger exploded. He grabbed the backpack and yanked it fully open, exposing the incriminating contents. “Not what we think? So you just carry a damned crowbar and a petrol bomb for fun?” His voice was loud enough that Reiko worried the neighbors would hear, but in that moment it hardly mattered.

Noboru’s fists clenched. “We weren’t going to hurt people. We were just—”

“Just what?” Takeshi roared. “Looting? Burning shops? Is that what it’s come to?”

“No!” Noboru shot back, matching his volume. “You don’t understand! Kenji’s little sister collapsed from hunger yesterday. They hadn’t had rice in days. We found out a warehouse near the docks was hoarding sacks to sell on the black market. We went to take what we could. For our families, for people who needed it!” His eyes blazed with a fervor that shook Reiko—she saw righteousness and fury there, an almost fanatic light. “The trash bin fire was a diversion. We got away with three bags. I gave one to Kenji, one to an old woman in our complex who lives alone. The third is—” He reached behind the shoe cabinet and produced a tied plastic sack that Reiko hadn’t noticed. With a thump, he set it down. The sack crinkled and a few white grains spilled out. It was filled with rice.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Reiko’s mouth opened but no words came. She felt simultaneously horrified and grateful and sick. This was stolen rice. Her son had stolen rice. But he did it… to feed people, including possibly them. Her legs felt weak and she sank to a sitting position on the floor, mind reeling.

Takeshi was breathing hard. He looked as if he’d been struck. “Do you realize what could happen to you? You could be arrested. If that fire had spread… someone could have died. This—this is criminal, Noboru!”

Noboru lifted his chin defiantly. “Is it criminal to want to eat? To want others not to starve? The real criminals are those hoarding and price gouging!” His voice cracked, and suddenly, alarmingly, tears glinted in his eyes. “You adults… you just sit and complain and do nothing while everything falls apart!” He gestured at the TV, the news, the world beyond. “Me and my friends, at least we tried to fix something, even a little. Even if it means breaking rules. I won’t apologize for that.”

Reiko pressed a hand to her mouth, her heart splitting between pride and fear. He reminded her of someone—a memory surfaced of her own father, who had been a student protester in the late 60s, marching for change with idealism in his heart. But her father had warned her how those dreams can curdle into nightmares. She looked to Takeshi, whose anger now battled with shock. He stepped forward, and for a moment Reiko thought he might strike Noboru—something he’d never done. Instead, he took the crowbar from the bag and hurled it across the room. It skittered on the floor with a harsh clang.

“Are you out of your mind?” Takeshi hissed, voice low and trembling. “This is not how we solve things. We do not steal. We do not burn.”

Noboru flinched at the noise but stood his ground. “Then how do we solve it? Tell me, Father. You just follow the rules, wait for the government, pretend everything’s normal, while mothers line up at dawn for crumbs and fathers worry about pay cuts. How long until we have nothing? Until we’re like that old lady who fainted on the street yesterday?” His words lashed out, and Reiko realized how much bitterness had been brewing in her son. “I refuse to sit and watch us decay. If no one will help us, we’ll help ourselves.”

Silence fell, heavy and bitter. Reiko found tears slipping down her cheeks, each one hot with conflicting emotions. She moved towards Noboru and before he could resist, she pulled him into an embrace. He was rigid at first, but then she felt him shudder—a sob escaping as he buried his face in her shoulder for one fleeting moment of lost boyness. “My son,” she whispered, “I’m so scared for you.” Her tears dampened his hair. “I understand why… why you did it. But I’m so scared.”

Takeshi turned away, running a hand through his hair. His voice, when it came, was rough but quieter. “We won’t turn you in or anything, of course.” That such a statement even needed saying was surreal. “But promise us, Noboru… no more. No more vigilante raids, no more danger. Please.”

Noboru pulled back from Reiko, eyes red but defiant flame dimming to embers. He looked at his parents—his father’s haunted face, his mother’s pleading gaze—and his shoulders slumped. “Alright,” he murmured. “No more.”

Reiko prayed he meant it. Takeshi bent to pick up the spilled grains and the bag of rice. He hefted it, weighing what their son had brought. “This… we’ll share it. We’ll give some to Yukiko-san’s family, and to others in need.” He spoke slowly, deciding how to reconcile moral law with survival. “Keeping it all would make us no better than the hoarders.”

Noboru nodded silently, seeming relieved that his prize would not be rejected outright, yet also not kept selfishly. Reiko realized this was a compromise neither ideal nor wholly satisfying to anyone, but it was the only path to maintain some semblance of principles.

That night, after tension had somewhat cooled and Noboru retreated to wash up and sleep, Reiko and Takeshi found themselves sitting together, staring at the half-filled sack of illicit rice on their dining room floor. It represented a victory and a defeat all at once: a stinging proof of how dire things had become that good people were driven to crime, and how lines of right and wrong were blurring in the darkness of crisis.

Takeshi broke the silence. “I never imagined… our boy.” He rubbed his temple. “What are we going to do, Reiko? If this continues…”

Reiko placed her hand over his. “We hold together. What else can we do?” Her voice was quiet yet steeled by a resolve born of that night’s storm. She felt something change inside her, a thread of the previous fabric of her life fraying beyond repair, but beneath it, oddly, a core toughening. Like steel forged in fire. She hated that they were tested this way, but now they had to adapt or break.

Outside, thunder rumbled unexpectedly—a spring storm brewing to break the heat. Reiko listened to the distant sky growling, and in her heart she heard an echo. The storm wasn’t only in the clouds; it was inside their home, inside her. Every family in the city was weathering some version of it. The question remained: what would be left once the storm passed?

Chapter 5: The Breaking Point

A thick pall of gray hung over the city the next morning. The promised storm had rolled in before dawn. Now rain pelted the streets in a relentless drone, as if the sky were trying to wash away the grime of fear that layered everything. Reiko stood by the window, watching fat droplets bead on the glass. The world outside was blurred, silhouettes of buildings and trees bleeding into one another. Normally, she found rainy days calming—a chance to slow down, sip hot tea, lose oneself in a novel. But today’s rain only heightened her unease. It kept people indoors, yes, but it also meant long hours confined with one’s anxieties.

She slid the window shut against the damp air and turned back to the room. Takeshi had left early, braving the weather for an emergency meeting at work. Noboru was still asleep, catching up on rest after the previous day’s ordeal. Reiko hadn’t woken him for school; the news announced closure due to “ongoing public safety concerns.” In truth, she was glad to keep him home, safe under her gaze, at least for now.

In the still apartment, Reiko tried to busy herself. She sorted through their pantry and remaining stores. Thanks to Noboru’s stolen contribution and careful rationing, they had enough rice for a couple more weeks if they remained frugal. Other supplies were running low though—no eggs, one pack of tofu, vegetables down to a few limp carrots and half a cabbage. Tomorrow she would have to venture out again, face the lines or whatever new chaos awaited. The thought made her chest tighten, so she pushed it away, focusing instead on preparing a simple okayu rice porridge for lunch, fortifying it with dried anchovies and ginger.

As she stirred the pot, a shattering sound jolted her—glass breaking somewhere outside. Reiko rushed to the balcony and peered down. Through the rain’s curtain, she saw a group of people running down the street, splashing through puddles. One, a young man, carried something under his jacket. Behind them, the small electronics shop on the corner had a smashed window. An alarm was wailing into the downpour, but no one came. Looters, likely—taking advantage of the empty morning streets. Reiko’s hands gripped the railing. This was her neighborhood, sliding into lawlessness before her eyes.

She was about to step back when another figure came into view: Mrs. Satō, the neighbor from downstairs, scurrying along the sidewalk with an umbrella, likely returning from some errand. The fleeing youths shouldered past her, knocking her down without a second glance. The old woman fell, groceries spilling—cans rolling into the gutter. Reiko gasped. Acting on impulse, she shouted from her balcony, “Oi! Stop!” Her voice was lost in the rain and alarm; the youths vanished around a corner.

Mrs. Satō struggled on the slick pavement. Reiko didn’t think twice—she threw on a raincoat and rushed downstairs. Outside, the wind whipped her hair as she ran to the neighbor. “Daijoubu desu ka? Are you alright?” Reiko knelt, helping the drenched, trembling woman sit up.

Mrs. Satō, in her seventies, looked up, rain on her lashes, bewildered. “Oh, Reiko-san… I’m fine, I’m fine,” she lied, wincing as she tried to put weight on her ankle. Reiko saw the twisted angle and suspected a sprain or worse.

“You’re hurt. Come, let’s get you inside.” Reiko gathered the scattered cans back into the woman’s shopping bag—a pathetic inventory: two cans of sardines, a small sack of rice (probably from the new rations), and a few daikon radishes. It reminded Reiko that others had even less than she did. She helped Mrs. Satō up, supporting her weight. The older woman leaned heavily, breath hissed between teeth. Together, step by slow step, they made it into the apartment building and up to Mrs. Satō’s unit on the first floor.

Inside, Reiko settled her into a chair and fetched a towel to drape over her shoulders. The elderly neighbor’s face was ashen, pain etched on her brow. “Thank you, dear,” she murmured. “I’m sorry… I lost a radish out there…”

“Don’t worry about that,” Reiko said gently. She crouched to examine the ankle—it was swelling. “I think you need a doctor.”

Mrs. Satō shook her head vigorously. “No, no hospitals. They’re busy with real emergencies. I’ll be alright.” She attempted a reassuring smile but it faltered. “I just went out because I heard a supermarket nearby had miso on sale. Foolish of me.” Her voice quivered, and suddenly tears mingled with the rainwater on her cheeks. “What’s happening to us? I was so scared…”

Reiko felt her own eyes sting. She clasped the woman’s hand. “I know. It will be alright. Let me get you some help for that foot though.” She thought of Yukiko, whose husband was a medical assistant. Maybe he could come later to wrap the ankle.

After making Mrs. Satō comfortable with a pillow under the injured leg and a glass of water, Reiko promised to return in a little while to check on her. As she left the apartment, she paused in the corridor, leaning against the wall to steady herself. Her heart was racing, not just from the exertion but from an upwelling of anger. She realized with a start that it wasn’t the helpless kind of fear she’d been feeling before; it was a focused fury at the cruelty and senselessness she had just witnessed. Those young looters knocking down an old woman—did hunger or greed drive them? Did it matter? Society was tearing apart, and the vulnerable were being trampled.

Back in her own home, Reiko peeled off her soaked raincoat. Noboru had woken and stood in the living room, eyes wide. “I heard a crash. What happened?” he asked.

She recounted the incident tersely while drying her hair with a towel. Noboru’s face darkened. “That’s awful. Those bastards.”

Reiko nodded, pleased at least that his moral compass still recognized this wrong, even as he’d broken laws himself for what he saw as right. Perhaps he and his friends really had tried to target only the exploiters. It was a small solace.

They ate the okayu porridge quietly, each lost in thought. Noboru then retreated to play a game on his phone, the noise of digital gunfire and explosions oddly jarring in their small space. Reiko wanted to tell him to turn it off, but stopped herself; maybe it was his way of venting the adrenaline and frustration. She tried to read a book but found herself scanning the same lines repeatedly without absorbing a word. Her mind drifted to the crowbar and Molotov cocktail her son had carried, now hidden away. To Mrs. Satō’s tear-streaked face. To the boy Noboru had been just a year ago—preparing for exams, worrying only about his soccer matches and maybe a girl in class—transformed now into this hardened version out of necessity.

In late afternoon, Takeshi called. Reiko answered wearily, “Moshi-moshi?”

His voice had an edge of alarm. “Reiko, are you and Noboru safe at home? I just got word there’s going to be a demonstration, possibly a riot, near City Hall tonight. They’re advising people to stay in.”

A new jolt went through her. “Another one? That’s across town, though.”

“Yes, but who knows how it spreads. I’m leaving the office now. I’ll pick up anything I find on the way, but I doubt there’s much. Just… keep the doors locked.”

“We will. Be careful,” she urged.

After hanging up, Reiko turned on the TV, tuning to the local news channel. Sure enough, coverage had shifted to live reports: a crowd was gathering in front of the City Hall building, hundreds of umbrellas bobbing in the rain, placards held high reading “Give Us Rice” and “No More Lies.” Police in blue raincoats formed lines, ushering people away from the road. The reporter’s voiceover talked about the protest being mostly peaceful but highly charged, the largest one yet.

Noboru hovered behind her, watching. “If things get bad, they might declare martial law or something,” he mused.

Reiko’s stomach clenched. “Don’t even say that.” The thought of soldiers in the streets was beyond her imagination, yet so was everything else that had occurred.

Twilight came, though the storm clouds made it a murky dark early. Takeshi was late. Reiko constantly glanced at the clock, anxiety rising with each passing minute after his usual commute time. Her phone had spotty signal now, likely overwhelmed by others checking on loved ones, so she couldn’t reach him.

Finally, the door slid open. Takeshi appeared, drenched and shivering, a gash on his forehead oozing blood. Reiko let out a cry and rushed to him. “You’re hurt!”

He shook his head, water droplets flying. “I’m alright.” He held two plastic bags, one of which was torn, a trail of something—rice?—leaking from it. “It’s crazy out there… The protest spread, some idiots started breaking windows near the train station. I got pushed and hit my head on a lamppost, but I’m fine.”

Reiko guided him to sit. Noboru brought a towel and their first aid kit. As Reiko gently cleaned the wound, Takeshi winced but continued, “The police barricaded roads. I had to walk home from the station. But I managed to trade cigarettes with a guy for this.” He gestured to the torn bag: inside were perhaps a few kilograms of short-grain rice. It looked like he had poured it into an old plastic shopping bag from some larger container, hence the spill. “And I got a bottle of soy sauce,” he added almost apologetically from the second intact bag. “Saw it at a stall and figured we’ll need flavor if nothing else.”

Reiko’s throat tightened again, but she held back tears. The image of her straight-laced husband bartering on a street corner, risking a riot to bring home rice and soy sauce, was both heartbreaking and touching. “Thank you,” she whispered, applying a bandage to his forehead. She kissed the uninjured side softly. In that small act, a tenderness passed between them. They were fighting to protect this unit of three, each in their own way.

They decided to cook a proper meal that night—to bolster their spirits if nothing else. Using a precious few cups from the new rice, Reiko made a simple ochazuke: rice with hot tea poured over, topped with flakes of salmon from a can and pickled plums. They even opened the soy sauce to drizzle a bit on top. The portions were still modest, but it felt like a feast compared to recent days. Eating together, they allowed themselves a moment of warmth. Noboru, perhaps feeling contrite for his escapade and seeing his father wounded, was especially gentle. He offered to clear the dishes afterwards, a rare volunteer of chore, which made Reiko smile despite everything.

After dinner, the family sat together in the living area. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle. An uneasy quiet blanketed the neighborhood; the earlier alarm had long ceased, and few cars dared venture out. Reiko lit a couple of candles and set them on the table, their soft glow calming her. Takeshi turned on a battery-powered radio (the power was still on, but he said he wanted to save electricity just in case). They tuned in to public broadcasting. A soothing classical melody played—a respite between news bulletins. Noboru leaned against Reiko’s shoulder, much as he had when he was smaller. She put an arm around him. Takeshi sat close, one hand resting on Reiko’s knee. For the first time in a long while, they just were, together in the dim light, not speaking, each likely thinking of better times and hoping for dawn to bring relief. In that fragile peace, Reiko felt love swell in her chest—tinged with a fierce protectiveness.

But fate had yet more tests in store. The radio music was interrupted by an urgent announcement: “Attention, residents. The city government urges everyone to stay indoors. A state of emergency is being considered. Please remain calm and do not engage in panic behavior…” The announcer droned on, but an odd crackle cut in and out. Reiko frowned, tapping the radio. Then she realized it wasn’t static—there was a distant rumbling.

Takeshi stiffened. “Is that… thunder?”

Before anyone could answer, a sudden boom reverberated through the air, making the windows rattle. Not thunder—an explosion. The family jolted to their feet. “It came from that direction,” Noboru said, pointing west, towards downtown. Another, fainter boom followed. On the radio, the announcer faltered, confusion in his voice. Takeshi turned off the radio and flipped the TV back on. The channel switched to a live helicopter feed: City Hall plaza was in chaos, smoke rising from a fire, people swarming like ants. Reiko covered her mouth in horror as she saw flames licking a police car and what might have been a kiosk. Tear gas canisters spewed white plumes. It was happening—a full-scale riot.

They watched in morbid silence as the melee unfolded. The protest had devolved after someone set off fireworks or a homemade explosive. Now riot police advanced with shields, the crowd hurling objects. Onscreen, a man with a bandana over his face swung a metal pipe at a storefront window. The glass shattered. A group of young people cheered and rushed in to loot. In another corner, an elderly protester was knocked down as people fled from charging officers. It was a portrait of anarchy.

Suddenly, Noboru exclaimed, “That’s Kenji!” He pointed at a figure in the crowd on TV, but it was too hard to tell. “And Daiki… They went there…” His voice trembled.

“You knew about this?” Takeshi turned to him, alarmed.

Noboru nodded, guilty. “They said they might go, to push the government. I… I told them I needed to lie low after… after what we did. But they went.”

Reiko gripped his arm. “Thank God you stayed.” She pulled him into a tight hug, heart pounding at how close he might have been to that madness.

As they watched, the riot police began to gain control. A dozen arrests were made, people pinned to the ground. Some of the mob dispersed into side streets, pursued by officers. The fires were being doused by a sudden downpour as the sky opened again. The riot was being literally dampened by nature. After a while, the news cut back to the studio. They reported multiple injuries but, so far, no fatalities. A 9pm curfew was now declared citywide.

Takeshi turned off the TV. No one spoke for a long moment. Finally, he said, “This has gone beyond a crisis of food. The fabric is torn.”

His poetic phrasing surprised Reiko. She saw tears in his eyes, reflecting her own. Noboru looked at his parents and quietly said, “I’m sorry. For everything.” It was unclear if he meant his part in the chaos or just the general weight of it all, but Reiko knew they each felt responsible in some way, however unfairly: the father for not providing enough, the mother for not coping enough, the son for not obeying enough. Yet it was the situation to blame, not them, and deep down they knew it.

They decided to sleep together in the living room that night, futons side by side as if warding off the darkness by closeness. Reiko lay between her husband and son, holding each of their hands until one by one they drifted into exhausted sleep. Long after their breaths steadied, she remained awake, staring at the ceiling where the candlelight cast flickering shadows. Her mind replayed the day’s events, a montage of broken glass, spilled rice, flames and tears. The breaking point was here—perhaps for the city, perhaps for her. Something had to give.

In the depth of night, a silent vow formed in Reiko’s heart. She thought of the porcelain offering bowl now filled with a precious portion of rice and understood, finally, the nature of her spiritual hunger. It was meaning that she craved—some sense of purpose or justice amid the chaos. And if none was given, she would create it, even if it meant embracing destruction. The realization frightened and excited her at once. Somewhere beyond morality and despair lay a brutal clarity. Perhaps that was what Mishima, a book she’d read in youth, had spoken of: that beyond chaos one might find an exquisite moment of truth, of beauty even, but often at a terrible cost. Reiko felt the stirrings of that extremity inside her.

Outside, the storm had passed. A hush settled. In that fraught stillness, Reiko closed her eyes and for the first time did not pray for normalcy to return. Normalcy was dead. In its place, a dark resolve bloomed like a night flower, waiting for dawn to show its form.

Chapter 6: Ashen Dawn

Dawn broke bleak and colorless. The rain had cleansed the air, but also left the city in a drab, wet quiet, like the pause after a fit of sobbing. Reiko woke to a strange calm within her. The anxiety that had been her constant companion was numbed, replaced by a steely resolve that she scarcely recognized as her own. She gently disentangled her hand from Noboru’s—sometime in the night, he had curled up against her like when he was little. Both he and Takeshi were still sleeping soundly, exhaustion granting them mercy.

Tiptoeing away, Reiko dressed and stepped out of the apartment without waking them. The curfew had lifted at sunrise. The corridors and streets were deserted, but an eerie aftermath lingered: the acrid smell of smoke, shards of glass glinting on pavement, a lost shoe in the gutter. As she walked, she noticed an overturned trash can, its contents strewn and soaked. A feral cat skittered away from it, eyeing her warily before disappearing under a parked van. Even the strays were on edge.

Reiko didn’t fully know where she was heading until she arrived at the small Shinto shrine three blocks from her home. It was a modest neighborhood shrine, tucked between high-rise apartment blocks—a tiny oasis of tradition with its tori gate and old camphor tree. Normally, she visited only during New Year’s or local festivals. Today, drawn by instinct, she entered the grounds. The shrine was empty; the priest likely not around this early, or perhaps aiding elsewhere.

She approached the offertory and rang the bell. The clear clang echoed, startling a few crows hidden in the tree—they took off into the gray sky with caws that sounded almost like laughter. Reiko clapped her hands together and bowed her head deeply. She had no coin to offer, just herself. In a trembling whisper, she spoke: “Ujigami-sama… guardian of this place… if you are listening, forgive what I am about to do.” Her voice steadied. “The world has lost balance. My world has. I beg you, protect my family. And if a sacrifice is needed to right the scales, let it be through me.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her eyes when she opened them were fierce. She felt something within as she prayed—whether it was a divine presence or the echo of her own resolve, she couldn’t tell. But a sense of acceptance washed over her, as if her plea had been heard. She left the shrine feeling strangely light, determined.

On her way back, she stopped by Mrs. Satō’s door to check on the old widow. The woman was grateful for a little rice porridge Reiko had brought and assured her she’d rest as instructed. Satisfied, Reiko hurried home.

By the time she returned, Takeshi was awake, preparing to head out—duty pulling him back to the fray of his office. His bandaged forehead gave him a rakish look, incongruous on a man who normally exuded gentle intellect. Noboru was still dozing.

Over a quick breakfast of toast (no rice this morning, they were saving it), Reiko spoke to Takeshi in a low tone. “I have a plan. Something I must do today.”

He looked at her, noticing something in her demeanor. “What is it?”

She folded her hands around her tea cup. “I’m going to pay a visit to the omusubi factory near the highway.” The rice ball factory—a large distributor in the city’s outskirts that supplied convenience stores—had been rumored to hold stock when others ran out. It was likely under guard or closed now, but something in Reiko’s mind had latched onto it.

Takeshi frowned. “That’s far, isn’t it? And it might be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful. I just… I have a feeling.” She struggled to articulate the pull she felt. “If I can talk to someone there, maybe arrange a local distribution… or even see the situation myself.”

He put a hand over hers. “Reiko, this isn’t your responsibility. The authorities—”

She gave a sad smile. “The authorities can’t even stop children from stealing or old folks from falling. I can’t sit here and do nothing. Trust me on this, please.”

Her eyes burned with intensity. Takeshi searched her face and slowly nodded, though worry creased his brow. “Alright. But please avoid any crowds. Take my phone, since yours doesn’t work well now, and call me if there’s trouble. I can leave work if needed.”

They shared a brief embrace. Reiko clung to him a second longer, inhaling his familiar scent. She noticed how he’d thinned a bit from stress and scant meals, and it fueled her determination anew. “I love you,” she said softly.

He kissed the top of her head. “I love you too. Come back safe.”

Noboru had stirred and wandered out rubbing his eyes just in time to catch this exchange. “Where’s Mom going?” he asked groggily.

“To look for more food,” she said simply, stroking his hair. “Stay inside today, alright? Take care of things while I’m out.” She implicitly meant take care of your father, take care of yourself. He nodded uncertainly. Perhaps he saw something in her expression too, because he suddenly hugged her tight, like a child. “Be careful, Mom.”

With that warmth to carry her, Reiko set out. She chose her steps deliberately. Each corner she turned, she observed: a shuttered storefront with graffiti scrawled (“餓鬼” – “brats” or literally “hungry ghosts,” ironically); a line already forming outside a relief center where officials were supposed to hand out small rice rations from the emergency release; a man arguing loudly with a neighbor about something trivial, nerves frayed to breaking. The city was unraveling thread by thread.

The factory was a long walk. Public transport was unreliable now, taxis scarce. Reiko could have taken her car, but fuel was precious and she thought better to save it for a true emergency. So she walked, almost four kilometers. The activity on the main roads was mixed—delivery trucks under police escort, a few military jeeps even, but also an uncanny emptiness of civilian life. Most shops were closed, offices as well. It felt like a Sunday morning on an apocalyptic scale.

Halfway there, she had to pass near the site of last night’s riot. She detoured to avoid the thick of it, but still saw broken glass carpeting an intersection, a torched newsstand still smoldering, uniformed workers cleaning debris with mechanical efficiency. One looked up as she skirted by, and she caught his hollow-eyed expression: a man on autopilot in the face of ruin. It gave her a chill.

Finally, the omusubi factory’s tall building came into view, across from a distribution warehouse and some trucks parked in a yard. A makeshift barricade had been erected at the entrance, manned by a couple of security guards in helmets. A small knot of people—mostly women—stood outside, pleading. They were clearly housewives like her, or maybe relatives of workers, begging for scraps or information.

Reiko joined them, listening. One woman with frazzled hair shouted, “I know you have stock in there! My sister works inside—she told me before you cut off their phone!” The guard said something about orders and told them to leave. Another lady was on her knees, crying and holding out money: “Please, even one bag. I’ll pay anything, my kids have nothing to eat.” The younger guard turned his face away, either in shame or discomfort. The older one scowled, hand poised near his baton.

This wasn’t going to work, Reiko realized. A direct appeal would get them nowhere, perhaps even hurt. A few police were patrolling nearby, likely to deter exactly this kind of gathering. Already, a pair of officers approached to disperse the mini protest. Reiko shrank back and around the corner, unwilling to leave but needing a different approach.

Her heart pounded. What now? The air smelled of yeast and vinegar from a brewery down the street, oddly making her stomach clench with nausea. The rational part of her said to turn back, go home to safety. But a stronger impulse—the one that woke her before dawn—propelled her to press on, to find another way in.

Circling the block, she spotted a side gate where trucks exited. It was chained but slightly ajar, perhaps left open for a moment. Beyond it lay the loading dock area behind the factory. No one in sight right now. Summoning courage, Reiko slipped through swiftly and hid behind a stack of wooden pallets. Her heart was drumming in her ears; she hadn’t done something this daring since sneaking out of high school to see a boy band concert decades ago—and that risk was trivial compared to this trespass. She scanned for cameras or guards. There was one CCTV above a door, but it faced the other way.

Moving from cover to cover, she crept along the side of the building. Through a high window, she glimpsed inside the factory floor: large metal machines for forming rice balls, conveyor belts idle. A few workers in uniforms stood about, some sitting dejectedly on crates. It looked like production had halted. Perhaps lack of raw rice, or management instructions to stop output pending orders—she wasn’t sure. The atmosphere inside seemed tense but still.

As she craned to see more, there came voices from a door a short distance from her—two men smoking, conversing in low tones. Reiko pressed against the wall, listening.

“…so angry. Half of them say just open the storage and give it away, but boss won’t risk it.”

“Can’t blame him entirely. That mob’d strip this place bare, maybe riot here too.”

“Better than letting it rot or get seized by gangsters. You heard about that hijacked truck on Route 7? Word is yakuza are hoarding a lot, waiting to sell at gold prices later.”

“Disgusting. We could help people, but our hands are tied. And we might lose our jobs if this shuts down…”

Their voices drifted as they stubbed cigarettes and went back in. Reiko’s fists clenched. So there was rice inside, and even some workers sympathetic to sharing it, but management locked down in fear. The mention of yakuza sent a chill too—the underworld exploiting this misery.

Suddenly, a new thought glinted in her mind—a terrible, beautiful idea. If fear was what stopped these authorities and companies from doing the right thing, perhaps greater fear could force their hand. Fear, or outright removal of the choice. A symbolic destruction to shock them into action… or at least punish their cowardice.

All morning as she walked, something had been coalescing in her subconscious. Now it crystallized. Reiko inhaled sharply. Could she do it? Dare she go that far? She thought of her son, armed with Molotovs the other day. She thought of Mishima’s lines about true beauty destroying. She thought of the golden temple in that old novel, how its burning was both horrific and transcendent in the character’s eyes. She was an ordinary housewife—but ordinary had burned away from her life already. In its place stood a woman who would scorch the earth to protect what she loved, to protest the ugliness that society had revealed.

Her plan formed in seconds, yet felt like it had always been there, waiting. The flammable supplies were at home: the gasoline from the generator can, old rags, matches… or Noboru’s confiscated Molotov gear hidden in the hall closet. Yes. She could slip in tonight, maybe when the shift was minimal… but there were guards. Perhaps not necessary to physically burn the rice; even a dramatic attempt might catalyze change, but she sensed a deep need in herself for actual flames.

Reiko backed out the way she came before she was caught, her face set, blood rushing with a manic clarity. On her way home, the gray sky brightened a bit as if sun might break through. She felt strangely at peace. This was what she was meant to do. A sacrifice, a statement, an atonement, all in one. The gods or fates could judge her how they liked.

She stopped at a public phone booth—one of the few still around—and dialed home (Takeshi’s phone, since he left it). Noboru answered, voice anxious. “Mom? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m on my way, dear. I’ll be home soon.” She smiled to herself, picturing him. “Is everything alright there?”

“Yeah… just worried. Dad called to check on you.”

“Tell him I’m safe and coming back now.” She lingered. “I love you, Noboru. You know that, don’t you?”

He seemed embarrassed. “I… I know. I love you too, Mom. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Her eyes watered, but her voice remained steady. “I’m okay. I’ll see you soon.” She gently hung up.

Walking briskly, she planned logistics: She’d need to do this late at night, probably. Perhaps cause a diversion if possible to slip in again. Or even join with others’ frustration—maybe those women outside would return in anger if teased long enough. A crowd could help distract. But then people could get hurt… She preferred an empty target, a symbolic blaze without casualties.

A flicker of guilt sparked—what if an innocent guard or worker was harmed? She’d try to ensure no one was near. Perhaps a part of the facility storing rice could be lit from outside. Or trucks. Yes, the delivery trucks loaded with withheld stock might do. They represented moving supply that never reached people. Burn them, free the rice in a shower of sparks. The image was stark in her mind.

That afternoon at home was one of unbearable tension and surreal normalcy combined. She returned and found Noboru tidying up as if busywork could quell worry. She praised him, made light conversation about maybe meeting Yukiko later (a cover story she was formulating). Takeshi phoned and she reassured him of her fruitless morning but omitted mention of trespass. She said she’d try again another angle. He sounded unconvinced but didn’t press.

Reiko wrote a letter when no one was looking—just a short letter to her family. In it she tried to explain her heart: how she could not stand by as society’s soul died; how every mother was a warrior when her children were threatened; how she remembered reading about the 1918 rice riots, when common folk rose up at injusticeencyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net, and how perhaps in this act of destruction she sought to awaken dormant compassion or courage in others. She apologized for any pain this might cause them, and asked them to forgive and understand. She poured all her love onto that page, tears dropping and smudging the ink in places. Then she hid the letter between the pages of her wedding album on the shelf, a place she hoped Takeshi would eventually think to look.

Evening fell. Reiko told Noboru she was going to visit Yukiko to discuss neighborhood arrangements and that she might be late. She insisted he stay in. The boy looked at her oddly—perhaps sensing something—but nodded.

She gathered her tools in a duffel bag under the guise of packing some old clothes to give away. In went two bottles filled with gasoline (she had quietly filled them from the kerosene heater reserve tank), strips of cloth as fuses, a lighter, and a sturdy wrench (since the crowbar was confiscated by Takeshi, the wrench would do if she needed to break a lock or window). Each item she touched with strangely steady hands. This domestic implements-turned-weapons, assembled by her of all people… it was as if she was playing a role in a film. Yet it felt authentic, justified.

Before leaving, she quietly approached the household altar one last time. She had refilled the rice bowl earlier with fresh grains from their new stash. Now she pressed her forehead to the cool wooden edge and whispered, “Watch over them. I do this for them.” She imagined her ancestors—humble farmers and merchants—standing behind her in judgment or support. Perhaps they, who had known war and scarcity, would understand.

Under cover of night, Reiko made her way back to the factory district. The curfew made streets emptier and riskier. She dodged a few patrols, her small frame and intimate knowledge of side alleys aiding her. Her heart hammered but she felt no desire to turn back.

At last she arrived. The factory area was quiet, a few floodlights illuminating the gates and yard. Fewer people now—a couple of guards maybe inside their post. No visible crowd. Likely they beefed up security after the daytime attempt. She surveyed from a dark nook behind some bushes. Two guards at the front, one walking perimeter occasionally. And—there—a parked tanker truck along the side fence, likely filled with fuel for the factory’s generators or vehicles. She had to be careful of that; a mis-aimed fire could cause an explosion bigger than intended.

Time stretched. Close to midnight, one guard stepped away, possibly to use the restroom, leaving one at the front. This was her chance. She lit a rag on one of her Molotovs. With a silent prayer and a deep breath, she hurled it over the side gate toward a row of stacked wooden crates near the loading bay—far from where any person stood, but near enough to catch attention and possibly where rice might be stored. The bottle smashed, and WHOOSH—flames burst alive, climbing the crates hungrily.

Shouts erupted. The remaining guard ran towards the fire, radioing frantically. Reiko took that opportunity to slip through the side gate as before and dash toward the rear parking lot. She had one more bottle. Near the loading dock she saw two trucks marked with the company logo. If those were filled with rice shipments (perhaps halted ones), they’d make fine beacons. She ignited the second Molotov and threw it square at the windshield of the nearest truck. The glass shattered and soon the cab interior was aflame. The fire would likely spread to the cargo. A deep part of her hoped it would consume everything—turn hoarded sustenance into a pyre of judgement.

A siren began wailing—someone pulled an alarm. Red lights flashed. In the commotion, Reiko stepped back into shadow, mesmerized for a moment by the flames’ dance. The crates were fully alight, sparks flying upward to the night. The truck fire crackled, tires beginning to pop. Dark smoke billowed and curled, carrying with it the scent of burning grain—a toasty, bittersweet aroma like overcooked popcorn. Strangely, tears sprang to Reiko’s eyes not only from smoke but from a poignant sorrow at that smell—the very symbol of nurture and home now going up in smoke by her own hand. A sob threatened her throat but she steadied herself. This is necessary.

Voices: more people now, factory workers or additional guards, rushing to contain the blaze. “Over here!” someone yelled. “Call the fire department!” Another: “Who did this? Check the perimeter!”

Realizing she had limited time, Reiko retreated to the side, planning to slip out. However, fate was cruel. A figure emerged from around a container right into her path—a security guard with a baton. They nearly collided. For a heartbeat, they both stared, equally startled: he beheld not a shadowy saboteur but a middle-aged woman in plain clothes with soot on her face and fierce eyes. It must have seemed absurd. “Stop!” he barked, raising the baton.

Reiko turned to flee but he grabbed her coat. Desperate, she swung her duffel bag, striking him in the shoulder. The weight made him grunt, loosening his grip. She wriggled free and ran, but he gave chase. Her lungs burned as she dashed across the open yard, now bright as day under emergency lights. Behind her, the guard shouted for backup. Ahead was the side gate… just a bit more.

Suddenly an explosion rocked the ground—a small one. The second truck’s fuel tank or engine must have blown. The shockwave flung Reiko off her feet and she hit the pavement hard, scraping her palms and knees. Dazed, ears ringing, she tried to crawl. The guard pounced, pinning her. She struggled with unexpected ferocity, scratching at his arms. “Let me go!” she cried, half-choking on smoke. He wrenched her arms behind her. There was surprising strength in her wiry frame fueled by adrenaline, but he was younger and trained.

Soon two more appeared—one dousing water on the crates, another joining to restrain her. Her cheek was pressed to the cold ground, vision sideways. She saw boots, fire, chaos. And then, beyond the fence, lights—flashing blue and red. The authorities arrived. The fight was over.

They hauled Reiko up. The older guard who she’d heard in conversation earlier looked at her with a mix of anger and pity. “Why…why would you…?” he stammered. But the scene was too frantic to wait for answers. An officer took custody of her, reciting something about arrest, but she barely heard. She was transfixed by the flames, which firefighters now sprayed with hoses. Her fires. In that moment, despite the pain and fear, she felt a grim satisfaction. They would call her crazy, criminal, arsonist. They would say she destroyed the very food people needed. But perhaps this would galvanize action—force distribution out of shock or shame. And even if not… in those flames she saw an embodiment of the collective anguish, a sacrifice made visible. Destroy in order to save—was that not sometimes the way of things?

As they led her to a police van, her eyes stayed on the inferno until it was quenched. Embers floated into the sky like wayward stars. She thought of Takeshi and Noboru. Tears cut through the soot on her face. “Forgive me,” she whispered. Yet there was also a faint smile on her lips. In the destruction, she had found a strange kind of grace—costly, tragic, but her own.

Chapter 7: The Light of Dawn

A pale morning sun rose over a city transformed by night. The smell of smoke still laced the air, mingling with the scent of wet pavement after the storm. News of the factory fire and the arrest of a “mysterious arsonist” spread rapidly. People awoke to images on TV of charred trucks and blackened crates, of a small woman being placed into a van, her face smudged like a coal miner, eyes distant and shining. They heard how the fire, though quickly contained, had forced authorities to finally open the warehouse at that site—“for safety reasons”—and distribute its rice stock to nearby neighborhoods to prevent it from spoiling or becoming a further hazard.

And so, in the early hours, as Reiko sat in a holding cell with a blanket around her shoulders, the rice she had burned in symbol gave birth to action. Under police watch, factory managers oversaw the handing out of unharmed rice stores to anxious but orderly residents who gathered at dawn, alerted by word of mouth. Some said it was to placate potential rioters, others that it was genuine contrition. Either way, thousands of kilograms of grain found its way into homes that morning rather than languishing behind locked doors.

Takeshi and Noboru learned of Reiko’s deed not from the note she left, but from a news report. They recognized her immediately on the screen. Takeshi’s teacup had slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor as he stared in horror and awe. Noboru was stunned silent, then burst into tears, guilt and love intertwining painfully. They rushed to find her, but she was in custody, charged with arson, facing interrogation. It would be a long process ahead legally. Yet, as she was processed, whispers ran even among the authorities—some condemning, some strangely admiring.

In her cell, Reiko felt no fear. She felt emptiness and fullness all at once. The act was done, irretrievable as spilled milk— or spilled rice. In the quiet moments, she thought of an old proverb her grandmother used to mutter: “When the bowl is empty, one can either starve or let it be filled anew.” She had chosen a third path: to break the bowl itself, trusting that a new one would be forged. Was it madness? Possibly. But it was also hope.

Hours later, she was allowed a visitor. To her surprise, it was not yet her family, but Mrs. Satō—the elderly neighbor whose fall she had aided—hobbling on a cane. The old woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. Through the cell bars, she pressed something into Reiko’s hands—a small cloth pouch of homemade pickled plums. “They won’t let me give you much,” she said, voice quavering, “but I had to thank you. People are calling you… calling you Onibaba—the demon hag— but also some call you Inari-sama—after the rice deity. Fools and flatterers, all of them. To me, you’re just our Reiko-chan, who always cared.” She wiped her eyes. “Takeshi-san and Noboru-kun will see you soon. Be strong. We need you back.”

Reiko felt hot tears course down as she clutched the humble gift. In that moment, behind bars, she finally broke—sobbing quietly, releasing the grief and uncertainty she had held at bay. Mrs. Satō gently patted her hand until a guard ushered the old woman away.

By the time Takeshi and Noboru were permitted to visit, Reiko had composed herself. The reunion was awash in tears and apologies on all sides. Takeshi, eyes red-rimmed, held her through the bars as best he could, whispering fervently that he loved her, that they’d get through this, that perhaps—just perhaps—her actions had woken up the government to do more. Noboru was shaking as he said, “Mom, I’m sorry I dragged you into… I should have been stronger so you wouldn’t have to…” She shushed him, kissing his forehead through the gap, telling him he mustn’t blame himself. “We all did what our hearts guided us to do,” she said. “And your heart, Noboru, is brave and caring. Don’t lose that, no matter what.”

In the days that followed, the rice shortage did not magically end, but changes came swiftly. The fire at the factory and its forced distribution became a turning point in public sentiment and policy. The prime minister, under pressure, ordered immediate widespread release of stockpiled rice across the nation and accelerated importswashingtonpost.comwashingtonpost.com. The self-imposed production limits were suspended; farmers were called to plant as much as possible next season with promised supportwashingtonpost.com. Neighborhood cooperatives sprang up, organizing equitable sharing of supplies, partly inspired by what some dubbed the “Flame of Justice” incident. Reiko’s arrest also sparked debate—some decried her, but many sympathized, viewing her as a symbol of the everyperson driven to the edge by systemic failure.

Legally, Reiko’s case proceeded; but given the outpouring of public support, a leniency was expected. Perhaps a suspended sentence, perhaps mandated community service (ironically, she had already served the community in her way). Through it all, Takeshi and Noboru stood by her unwaveringly, their family bond tempered but unbroken by the fires. If anything, it glowed brighter, forged in mutual sacrifice and understanding.

One crisp morning a month later, Reiko stepped out of the detention center on bail, pending final hearing. Outside, waiting for her, were Takeshi and Noboru, holding each other’s hands. They rushed to embrace her, the three of them holding on tight as if they’d never let go. Reiko tilted her face to the sky; the sun was shining clear and warm for the first time in what felt like ages.

They walked home together through streets that were gradually regaining life: a reopened shop here, children laughing on bicycles there. There were still scars—boarded windows, lingering ration lines—but also healing. Reiko noticed people nodding at her, some in respect, others in curiosity. A mother nudged her child and pointed subtly—was it in censure or thanks? Reiko wasn’t sure, but she met each gaze steadily. She felt no pride in what she’d done, nor regret. Only a sense of solemn peace that when the moment of choice came, she had acted according to her conscience and love.

At home, on their genkan, someone had left a bundle: a bag of rice, perfectly wrapped in furoshiki cloth with a note “For Reiko-san, from a grateful neighbor.” Reiko smiled softly, blinking away tears. She carried it in and set it on the kitchen table. It was time to cook a proper meal for her family.

That evening, as dusk painted the sky in gentle oranges and purples, Reiko and her family sat down to dinner. The rice cooker chimed, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Reiko heaped generous portions into three bowls. They held their bowls up in thanks—itadakimasu—their voices unified and heartfelt. Each grain of rice glistened, a treasure hard-won.

As Reiko savored the first mouthful, its sweetness and texture filling her senses, she closed her eyes in gratitude. In her mind, she saw images: golden rice fields swaying in future harvest, her son’s smile bright and unburdened, her husband humming as he repaired the broken pieces of their life. And beyond them, perhaps, the flicker of a divine fox’s tail disappearing into twilight shadows—a guardian spirit satisfied that balance, in some measure, was restored.

Outside, the last light of day lingered. The darkness would come again, as it always did, but within Reiko’s home, a small flame of hope and resilience glowed, unwavering, against the night.