Kenji wasn't used to crying in public. Actually not even in private. Being 50 years old, most of his emotions had already dried up like ink left too long in a pen. Most of his days were spent arranging books at the local Seattle library, while he spent his nights watering the plants in his late mother's garden that'll somehow keep memories of her from fading away.
He told others he preferred quietness, but he actually meant that he didn't know how to speak.
The whole story started before he was even born. The origin of it all was buried in his grandmother's silence. She never spoke of the man she left in that internment camp. Never mentioned the goodbyes, or the letters she never sent. It was just folded laundry, cooked rice and hummed old songs while her daughter, Kenji's mother, grew up anxious, never trusting love and affection like it was something so dangerous that it could vanish if you held on to it too long.
And as for Kenji, he inherited it all; silence, fear, ignored feelings.
He worked with Hana, a lady with hands soft enough to turn pages so gently and eyes that'll sometimes look like they were searching for something they had lost in childhood. She would whiskey stories like secrets she wasn't sure he could hold. And he actually listened and nodded. Hey voice would change whenever she spoke of her grandparents years behind barbed wire. But he never said much back. Just smiled politely and went home alone.
Until the cherry blossom festival arrived.
It wasn't supposed to be anything serious, just some paper lanterns, sweet rice cakes and taiko drums echoing in the air. Kenji wandered to the community garden out of habit more than he was curious. He didn't expect to find the old dusty box under a bench like it had been waiting for him.
The handwriting have him chills, goosebumps all over.
It was his grandma grandmother's.
Those letters she never sent, dozens of them. To a man named Satoshi.
He didn't even know the name until now.
She had written about the rainy days and hot buns and how the cherry trees in their old neighborhood used to bloom like the world was apologizing. She had written about missing him, loving him, not knowing how to say any of it in the camp, where everything good got locked up and left behind.
He had to read them out. Guess what ? Hana approached him from behind, asking what he was holding.
While reading one of them, her voice got stuck on one particular line :
“Even the love you have within fades away when you have no one to share them with.....”
Then everywhere went silent like the crowd passing by didn't make a sound at all. They both stared at each other. And while he looked in her eyes, Kenji could see his grandmother and every other woman in his bloodline who always kept silent when they should have opened up.
He felt relief, then gave a deep breath.
Hana touched him gently and for the first time it didn't feel like a threat. Just something new.
He said nothing still. No confessions, no dramatic kiss, nothing.
When he returned that night, he wrote a letter to his grandmother. He apologized for never asking. And after that day he wrote every night. Not to get answers but to get rid of the silence.
A week later, he planted cherry in the garden where he found the box.
He asked Hana to help water the cherry.
She said nothing. Just nodded and sat beside him, slightly leaning on him.
Most times healing doesn't spark like fireworks. It hides like dirt under one's fingernails. Unlike being silent alone, a shared silence can get rid of the past and water a new beginning.
