The train map looked like a plate of rainbow-colored noodles thrown against a wall.
Shiyam stood there, blinking at it as if it might rearrange itself into something understandable.
The lines twisted and turned, overlapped, looped back, changed colors without warning, and somehow all converged at places with names he couldn't even pronounce.
"So... these are all train lines?" he muttered under his breath, as though whispering might make it less intimidating.
Beside him, Yui nodded with a smile, cheerful as always. But even she tilted her head slightly, her brows twitching, as if the Tokyo Metro system required divine intervention—or a PhD in cartography.
They were standing in Shinjuku Station, the busiest transport hub in the entire world. Nearly four million people passed through its gates every single day, moving with the sort of precision that only decades of routine could afford.
Shiyam was not one of them.
He felt like an ant dropped onto the circuitry of a motherboard—everything buzzing, flashing, automated, moving too fast, and just one wrong step away from being crushed under someone's polished shoe.
The distant chime of a departing train echoed through the marble halls.
Announcements blared in a soft robotic Japanese voice.
Shiyam didn't understand a word.
---
Yui, still holding her phone, tapped away with her thumbs. After a few seconds, she turned the screen toward him.
("Where did you last see your friends?")
Shiyam frowned, mentally backtracking. His memories of that day felt like disjointed puzzle pieces scattered across bright neon alleys and festival lights.
The Asakusa festival, he remembered.
That massive red gate with the paper lantern the size of a car.
The street food stalls selling takoyaki and fried mochi.
He typed back slowly:
("Near Asakusa. Temple with big lantern.")
Her eyes lit up immediately.
"Senso-ji!" she exclaimed, proud to recognize the spot. She quickly tapped her phone again and held it up.
("We go. I guide.")
He looked at her, startled.
"You don't have to, really. It's okay—"
She interrupted with a sharp shake of her head, her dark hair flicking as if her decision had weight.
"No okay," she said simply, then added slowly, "Japan... very big. You need friend."
She pointed to herself.
"Friend."
That single word, spoken with such warmth and conviction, made something soften in Shiyam's chest.
He didn't know her.
She didn't know him.
But in that moment, the Tokyo noise faded behind those two syllables.
---
And so, it began.
Not a tour, not a planned vacation day, but a quest—a winding, uncertain journey through Tokyo, retracing steps and trusting intuition.
A journey to find not just lost friends...
But something more than that.
Trust, kindness, and connection—spoken in a language beyond words.
---
They boarded the Ginza Line, one of the oldest subway lines in Tokyo.
The inside of the train was pristine, humming with mechanical grace. It glided over the rails like a thought made real.
Everyone around them was quiet, composed, dressed in muted colors, their eyes either glued to their phones or lost in sleep behind surgical masks.
Shiyam grabbed the overhead strap, his knuckles whitening slightly.
It wasn't just the foreignness of it all.
It was the silence.
He wasn't used to silence in public spaces.
In India, every train ride was filled with conversation, phone calls, chai-sellers shouting, people laughing, babies crying, uncles arguing about cricket.
Here, the stillness was sharp. It made every small sound feel louder.
He glanced sideways at Yui.
She was typing something again.
She turned the screen toward him.
("Why you come Japan?")
He smiled to himself, typing back almost instantly:
("Anime. Dream since I was 10. First time outside India.")
Yui's expression lit up like the Tokyo skyline at night.
She reached into her small sling bag and pulled out a tiny metal pin.
It was Naruto, mid-run, his headband gleaming.
Shiyam's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You too?" he asked with a grin.
Yui gave a sly nod, then suddenly threw her hands together and performed a perfect Shadow Clone Jutsu hand sign—complete with a dramatic, dead-serious ninja expression.
Shiyam burst out laughing, unable to help himself. Yui followed suit.
An old man sitting across from them blinked, adjusted his glasses, and gave them a disapproving grunt.
Which only made them laugh harder.
---
They made their way through stop after stop, station after station.
At every turn, they checked the photos Shiyam had taken on the first day—lanterns, alleys, gates, blurred shots of a crowd.
Sometimes they recognized a place. Sometimes they didn't.
Twice, they got completely lost.
Once, they ended up in the wrong station, ten kilometers in the opposite direction.
By then, it was raining lightly.
They bought soggy sandwiches from a vending machine, sat on a cold bench, and split them in silence.
Shiyam expected frustration, or awkwardness.
But somehow, it didn't feel bad.
Not at all.
It felt... good.
Every detour, every missed train, felt like a part of the story they didn't know they were writing.
---
They shared a single pair of headphones after that.
Took turns showing music to each other.
He played Tamil movie songs.
She played Japanese rock ballads.
Even if they couldn't understand the lyrics, the emotion was universal.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped low over Tokyo, they found themselves sitting at a wooden bench in Ueno Park.
A musician strummed an acoustic guitar nearby. The breeze carried the faint scent of grilled sweet potatoes from a nearby stall.
The city lights flickered on, one by one.
Shiyam and Yui shared a tiny mochi ice cream—matcha flavored, cold, soft, and sweet in ways words couldn't express.
Shiyam pointed at the map again. A hopeless look on his face.
"No idea where I am," he said, shaking his head.
Yui smiled softly.
She pointed at him.
Then at herself.
Then made a slow, deliberate gesture sweeping forward, like two people walking ahead together into the unknown.
He raised an eyebrow, trying to interpret.
She typed something on her phone and showed him.
("We find them. One day. Maybe two. But I go with you.")
Shiyam stared at the screen.
The words blurred slightly.
A lump rose in his throat, surprising even himself.
He nodded.
Then, quietly, like a whisper caught in wind:
"Okay."
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