Chapter Text
This story begins with a cemetery. And a man.
A figure amid rows of headstones.
He is on his knees.
His beige pants are stained with dirt, and his hands—pressed against his face—are wet with tears.
The trees make a gentle rustling sound as the wind, their friend, passes by—though today it is still.
The birds communicate with one another through shrill chirps, and the warm sun loudly heralds the beginning of summer.
Life goes on.
Except for that man,
moved only by the pain in his stomach and his choked breaths.
It seems like a sad story, but it’s about rebirth—let me explain.
The man wrapped in white bandages loses himself in his own mind, the sounds grow distant, the pain in his chest slips away like the hands that no longer seem to be his. A swirl of darkness and only a ghostly voice repeating, "It's my fault—"
I'm kidding.
This story doesn't begin that way—it could, but so much time has passed that perhaps going so far back in time loses its value and effectiveness.
You're probably wondering where it really begins.
Well, it begins with a woman.
Yes, a beautiful woman: Louise.
Louise owns a café.
Her long, flowing red hair immediately catches the eye.
If only you stopped to look for just a moment longer, you’d notice the freckles dotting her body. Or her perfect, plump, rosy lips—untouchable.
They’re an omen of ruin.
Her almost golden skin seems to glow in the sun, and her exposed collarbones seem to invite you to touch that almost ethereal being.
If you could finally tear your gaze away from her face, you’d notice that her hands—as well as being incredibly well-manicured—are also…dirty.
Dirty with dirt or coffee—it depends on the time of day.
In short, she owns this little spot on a side street off the Nice waterfront—a true gem for locals and a wonderful discovery for the many tourists who flock to those shores every summer.
The name is “Written on the body”
If you asked her why, she’d probably bring you a coffee, have you sit down at one of the outdoor tables at sunset, light a cigarette, and tell you—with a distant look in her eyes—the incredible love story between her and her wife.
That’s exactly what she did with Chuuya (we’ll call him that for convenience) when, unable to contain his curiosity, he began by saying, “That’s a strange name for a bar.”
The conversation was so captivating that it prompted him to help close up the café at the end of his shift.
Several years have passed, and Chuuya can’t help but smile at the thought that the sun caressing his skin today is just as warm and comforting as it was back then.
At the time , he was drawn to the flowers climbing the café’s exterior walls; later, he discovered they were evergreen hyacinths and clematis.
He remembers thinking in amazement,
“It looks like a Monet”
And the thought is so clear because he formulates it every spring, when the elegant white of the clematis gives way a little to the blooming of the wonderful purple hyacinths.
If you think “Wow” from the outside, stepping inside takes your breath away.
The counter forms a square in the center of the space; the kitchens are just a few steps away.
The lighting is warm, and the style is rustic with elegant retro touches.
The owner’s passion for botany is evident in the indoor plants that dominate the ceiling.
One section is large enough to feature shelves lined with books.
Drawings of all kinds and from every era are pinned to the wood with colorful thumbtacks.
Near the register stands a chalkboard that reads, "Attention all children!!! Look for the magic doors and experience great adventures!"
The first time Chuuya read it, he was startled. Accustomed to criminals, he immediately went on high alert.
Louise explained this curious tradition to him.
“Every year since I met her, she draws colorful doors for me. Of all sizes, often very tiny.”
She looked him in the eyes and smiled.
“You know, she’s a tattoo artist.”
Then she continued, “To remind me that every choice is an opportunity. That’s why they’re so colorful…”
She looked up at the sky for a moment.
“And that we’d always find each other again, if we wanted to, in any place and at any time.”
She took a drag on her cigarette, and the smoke drifted from her lips along with his words:
“When I bought this place, we decided it would become a gathering spot for adults and children. Life can be hard at times, and the thought that we can find peace by imagining magical worlds behind enchanted doors is always comforting.”
Over the years, Chuuya had worked there occasionally as a bartender, a dishwasher, a kitchen helper, and a waiter—in short, sometimes when Louise needed him, and sometimes when he needed the extra money.
You can imagine, then, his astonishment when, after crossing the threshold, his eyes fell upon a familiar figure.
Dazai.