hey everyone,

this week, i stumbled across this wonderful video showcasing life in Kofu City, Tottori, Japan – a place where the population is dwindling, and the fabric of the town feels like it’s slowly unraveling.

but there was something beautiful and deeply human in that footage. a particular moment that stuck with me was the part showing a man who drives around a tiny truck, diligently delivering groceries to the elderly folks in the town. (actually, not just delivering stuff, but actually looking after them in a myriad of small & simple ways.)

it got me thinking about what it means to be a part of a community in that kind of rural context, especially when the world seems to be shifting under your feet due to the urban migration of younger generations. how even then, the simplest of gestures – a conversation, a shared memory, a passing moment of kindness – can hold a town together, even if just by a thread.

something about that man's stoic dedication to his job spoke to me, and so i felt inspired this week to try something new and... write a short story! this is new territory for me, so i hope you'll excuse the sloppiness.

for me, this is a tribute to that man, and to all the quiet caretakers who keep communities alive, even when it feels like the world is moving on without them.

i hope you enjoy it! it was a joy to work on this.

i

the morning air was crisp, laced with the smell of damp soil. sunlight filtered softly through the layered green of the Chuugoku mountains, draping over the sleepy town of Kofu.

it was the kind of place where the roads wound lazily around endless rice fields and persimmon orchards, where the trees kept company with houses worn gentle by time.

Shinjiro drove his little truck down the narrow, uneven streets, its motor puttering. the truck was small and sturdy, painted a faded shade of green. its bed was stacked with crates of vegetables, fruits, dry goods, and the occasional rare treat he thought someone might appreciate. Shinjiro knew every rattle and creak of that truck, just like he knew all the the names and habits of the elderly folk who depended on him.

his job was simple but essential in this small town, which was dwindling away year by year, on its way to being relegated to the vicissitudes of history. there was no proper grocery store close enough for most of these people, their children long gone to the cities, their legs too weak for the journey. so Shinjiro brought the market to them, inching his little truck down narrow lanes and forgotten paths until it stood like a small festival yatai outside their doors.

his first stop was the Kitamura house. Mrs. Kitamura, a sprightly woman who had managed to maintain a certain sharpness even as her bones grew frail, stood waiting by her front door, clutching a basket.

“ah, Shinjiro!” she called, her voice thin but warm.

“good morning to you, Kitamura-san,” Shinjiro replied with a small bow. “i brought you those pickled plums you like. fresh from Asano-san’s farm.”

Mrs. Kitamura’s eyes crinkled with delight. “you spoil me, you know that? how’s Asano-san doing?”

“complaining about his knees more than usual. but his plums are as juicy as ever.”

“no doubt! that old man will outlive us all,” she chuckled, a sound like brittle paper rustling.

as they chatted, Shinjiro arranged the crates on the truck bed for her to browse through. her hands hovered briefly over daikon before settling on cabbage and a neat bundle of naganegi. he slipped a small pouch of conbini senbei into her basket without a word. her favourite. she pretended not to notice, but her smile was even warmer when she waved him off.

his rounds weren’t limited to the old houses scattered along the hillside. twice a week, he parked his truck in front of the local city office. today, when he set up, the customers were fewer.

*

he took his break after that, unfolding the pop-out roof from his truck to shield himself from the sun. in the shade, he unwrapped a single onigiri. Shinjiro never ate much.

the next stop was the Iwasaki house, or rather, the rough patch of dirt where Mrs. Iwasaki’s house crouched like a stubborn weed. many of the old houses in this area had already been swallowed by nature, their timber frames rotting and walls choked with ivy. empty homes littered the town like discarded shells, abandoned by families who had migrated for Yonago city (and elsewhere) years ago. but Mrs. Iwasaki remained, her house resiliently clinging to life just as she did.

she was older than most of his other regulars, her hands gnarled like tree roots and her back bent in perpetual apology. but her mind was sharp, and she had the sort of dry humour that often left Shinjiro shaking his head as he drove away.

today, though, she looked particularly fragile, as if the chill had worked its way into her bones.

“Shinjiro-san, you’re a saint for coming out here so often,” she greeted him as he began to unpack his goods. “not many folks left to care about this part of town”

“it’s only a little out of the way. and it’s on the way to Sugiyama-san’s place.”

“hah. that one lives on instant noodles when you’re not around, i swear. you keep half of us alive, you know.”

“i just bring the food. you’re the ones making it worthwhile.”

she smiled at that, eyes glinting under her wrinkled lids. as he helped her pack her vegetables into her basket, she gestured toward the hills with her chin.

“you know, Shinjiro-san, it’s almost firefly season.”

“already? seems earlier every year.”

“mm. the world’s changing fast, even for me. but i can still remember when they used to light up the whole river, like stars come down to earth. haven’t seen it that bright in years.”

“maybe this year’ll be different,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why.

“perhaps. if we’re lucky.”

their conversation drifted into simpler things after that. what was fresh this week. whether the daikon looked better than last month’s batch. as he drove away, Shinjiro couldn’t help glancing toward the hills, wondering if the fireflies really would come back the way she remembered.

by the time his rounds were over, the sun was already low, painting the world in soft amber and stretching his shadow over the road. his shoulders ached gently from the day; a dull, familiar heaviness that had settled in over the years. sometimes he wondered how much longer he could keep this up. his hands weren’t as steady as they once were, his joints a little stiffer. but the thought of stopping never felt right.

ii

the early summer humidity clung thick in Kofu, pressing down like a heavy hand. Hydrangeas spilled over the roadside in bursts of purple and blue, their petals trembling with the occasional breeze. Shinjiro’s truck rumbled along the familiar paths. his deliveries were fewer today. fewer requests from the city office and school, but his regulars up in the hills were still waiting.

he slowed down as he passed the river where it bent close to the road. firefly season had come and gone in a blink. he’d only caught brief glimpses of them – just a few scattered lights hovering over the water. nothing like the river of stars Mrs. Iwasaki once described. maybe the fireflies were finally giving up, like so many of the people who had left this place for good.

he pulled up to the Kitamura house first, as always. but today, Mrs. Kitamura wasn’t waiting on the porch. Shinjiro climbed out, his joints stiff and uncooperative, and knocked gently on the frame. after a while, the door slid open, and Mrs. Tanaka from down the hill appeared, looking drawn and tired.

“ah, Shinjiro-san,” she said with a smile. “Kitamura-san’s not feeling well today. been coughing a lot. i’m just checking on her.”

Shinjiro nodded, his face unreadable but his gaze softening. “i’ll leave the usual by the door. i brought some of Asano-san’s pickles, too. she likes those.”

Mrs. tanaka gave a small nod. “you’re too kind. we’ve been trying to help out where we can, but she’s stubborn, that one.”

“she’ll pull through,” Shinjiro replied, though his tone was more habit than certainty.

as he arranged the goods by the door, he noticed the small touches. fresh flowers in a cup on the windowsill, a folded quilt left out to air. the neighbors were doing their part. that was something. he pulled a small jar of plum jelly from his own stash and set it next to the vegetables, knowing how mrs. Mrs Kitamura loved it on her morning toast.

the rounds took him a little longer than usual. his legs were slow today, and the sun was hotter than he liked.

at the next stop, he found mrs. Iwasaki hunched on a stool by her door, mending an old piece of cloth.

“you’re late,” she playfully grumbled without looking up.

“Kitamura-san’s not well,” Shinjiro replied.

Mrs iwasaki gave a small huff. “oh no! that woman’s always been tough. she’ll be fine.”

Shinjiro didn’t argue. he passed her a bag of miso and some fresh greens, and she handed him a small jar of pickled bamboo shoots in return.

“you’re looking worse yourself,” she said bluntly.

“just the heat, I think,” he said with a shrug.

Mrs. Iwasaki squinted at him. “you keep this up, you’ll be as hunched over as me.”

“then i’ll have company, won’t i?”

she snorted, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

as the day wore on, Shinjiro took another short break under the pop-out roof, drinking cold mugicha and letting his thoughts wander back to fireflies and old festivals. the wind picked up, sending a ripple through the drying rice stalks, and he felt the familiar tug of something he couldn’t quite name. nostalgia, maybe. or just the ache of time moving on without asking permission.

when he returned to the Kitamura house that evening, Mrs. Tanaka met him at the door, her face somber.

“doctor’s been by,” she said quietly. “nothing serious yet, but she needs rest. might be pneumonia.”

Shinjiro just nodded, giving her a small pack of dried persimmons to take inside. he didn’t linger.

he knew how these things went. people faded, just like the fireflies, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. but as he drove away, he told himself that as long as there was work to be done, he’d keep on doing it. he didn’t need to say it out loud to know it was true.

back at home, he sat on the step, eating his own simple meal: rice, pickles, a slice of grilled fish, which he had overcooked. he thought of Mrs. Kitamura, and quietly hoped the fireflies would come back next year. maybe they would. maybe they wouldn’t.

iii

it was autumn when he found her. the air had gone sharp and dry, the leaves curling into brittle memories of summer. Shinjiro’s truck made its usual rounds, tires crunching over dirt and gravel as he worked his way up the winding roads.

he had arrived at the Iwasaki house and waited, his gaze lingering on the rough patch of dirt where the house clung stubbornly to life. no one came to greet him. he called out, his voice steady but quiet. silence.

Shinjiro stepped forward and knocked gently on the door. when there was no answer, he nudged the sliding door open and stepped inside. the air was stale, carrying a chill that had nothing to do with the season.

he found her in the small tatami room where she liked to sit and do her mending. her hands were folded in her lap, her face calm and peaceful, as if sleep had come to her like a gentle guest. but he knew. even before he reached out and felt the absence of warmth.

Shinjiro closed his eyes, letting the heaviness settle over him. tears were on the surface, but he didn't really know what to do with them. after a while, with a deep breath, he stood and made the call to the authorities, his voice steady and clear. he stayed until they arrived, answering their questions with the same patient calm he brought to everything else.

for the next few days, Shinjiro did what needed doing. he made the calls, sorted through the sparse belongings of the old woman who had lived a long, quiet life. the funeral was simple, attended by many members of the town, some of her family from Yonagi, and him. pleasantries were exchanged, not much was said. not much needed to be.

*

after a few rough months since the summer, Mrs. Kitamura had gotten better. still frail, but alive and still stubborn enough to insist on coming to the door herself. she thanked him for not giving up on her, for continuing his deliveries.

later, as the sun dipped low over the hills, he made a point to stop by the Iwasaki house. the door was locked now, the windows shuttered. he bowed his head in respect.

standing there in the cooling air, his breath misted faintly. the silence pressed in, thick and absolute. and then, just as he was about to turn away, something small and bright flickered in the air before him. a single firefly, its glow steady and soft, hovering in the gathering darkness.

Shinjiro watched it dance, his eyes fixed on the gentle pulse of light. it nonchalantly floated over to him, landing in his hand. it shook its wings a bit, almost playfully, before taking off again.

he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and allowed himself a small, weary smile.

maybe she was still here. maybe some things did last, even when so much else slipped away. maybe this town, stubborn and quiet as it was, still had a bit of life left in it too.

with that, he climbed back into his truck, his old bones protesting, and drove off to finish the rest of his deliveries.