[Episode 2] Shota, 21, University Student: "I Can't Find What I Want to Do in the Future"

21-year-old Shota was scrolling through his smartphone screen listlessly in the university building. Notifications from job hunting sites about "recommended companies for you." Reports of "job offers" and "internship growth records" from friends flooding his social media. Every time he saw them, a muddy sense of impatience accumulated deep in Shota's chest.

He had nothing he wanted to do. Until now, he had lived by going with the flow, maintaining average grades, and conforming to those around him. As a result, the moment he was told he was "free to do whatever he wanted," he found he didn't even know which direction his own feet were pointing.

"What are your strengths?" "What is your vision for the future?" Every time he tried to answer such questions, the void within him was highlighted. He felt so thin that he seemed like he might fade into the background if he looked at himself in the mirror.

Having lost his place to escape, he stepped out into the night city without a destination. The glittering neon lights seemed to accentuate his own emptiness, and he was drawn into a dim back alley as if sucked in. At the end of it, there was a place glowing faintly as if to push back the darkness.

It was an old yakitori stall that looked like it had been left behind by time. "Yakitori" was written on the soot-stained red lantern. The smoke leaking from it, along with the savory scent of charcoal, gently unraveled Shota's tense heart.

As he passed through the noren curtain as if drawn in, only the sound of crackling charcoal flowed through the narrow shop.

"...Welcome."

When Shota sat down on a round stool, Torakichi didn't seem to be sizing up his customer, but just silently arranged the skewers on the grill.

Shota's eyes were naturally glued to Torakichi's "hands." Those hands had protruding veins and were gnarled. Having stood in front of the fierce fire for many years, the skin was tanned dark, and charcoal dust was deeply embedded in the fingertips. The many small burn scars looked like the wounds of a warrior. They were heavy hands, so different from his own white, smooth hands that had "never done anything."

"...I'll have the negima and the liver. And an oolong tea, please."

"Coming right up."

Torakichi picked up the skewers. There was no hesitation in his series of movements. Skewering, placing on the charcoal, fanning with a paper fan. Each movement of his fingertips was there as an overwhelming "reality," the exact opposite of the abstract discussions called "job hunting" that Shota was facing.

With a sizzling sound, the savory scent of burning fat rose up. Shota watched the craftsman's handiwork, which made no unnecessary movements, from the other side of the rising smoke.

"...Have you been grilling here the whole time, Master?"

To the question that leaked out because he couldn't hold it back, Torakichi answered without stopping his hands.

"Yeah. For forty years. I've grown old here, along with this stall."

Forty years. This man had poured nearly twice the time of Shota's life into a single skewer.

"...I don't know what I want to do. No matter where I look, I can't find anything I can bet my life on like you do, Master."

Shota said, voicing the thoughts he had been struggling with until now.

Torakichi handed the freshly grilled "negima" to Shota and said.

Go ahead and eat. We can talk after you've filled your stomach.

The moment Shota took a bite of the yakitori, its golden fat glistening, a hot shock raced through his entire body. It was a violently delicious taste that made him realize he was truly "alive."

Shota hesitantly brought the "negima" he had been served to his mouth. The savory aroma of soy sauce and the juices locked in by the far-infrared rays unique to charcoal fire burst in his mouth. As he chewed, the sweetness of the green onion mellowed the chicken fat.

“...It's delicious. It's the best thing I've ever eaten.”

“Is that so?”

Torakichi, unfazed by Shota's high praise, focused once again on the next skewer.

Shota couldn't take his eyes off Torakichi's hands. They were gnarled and covered in small burn scars. They were certainly not what one would call "beautiful." However, as he watched, those hands seemed to magically produce delicious yakitori.

“Um... Master. Did you want to do this job since you were young? Did you start it thinking it was your calling?”

At Shota's question, Torakichi let out a sound that was almost a scoff.

“A calling? Don't make me laugh. When I was twenty, I was struggling just to eat. I did whatever odd jobs I could find, living day to day. I didn't have the luxury to think about what I wanted to do. As for this stall, I just took it over cheaply from a relative's old man and started it as things went along.”

Shota looked deflated. He had assumed that a master like Torakichi must have chosen this path from the start with a strong will.

“There aren't many people who start out thinking, 'This is it.' Even I thought about quitting many times at first—it was smoky, hot, and customers would yell at me. But as I kept skewering meat desperately every day and standing in front of the fire... before I knew it, these hands had become the hands of a yakitori chef.”

Torakichi spread his large hands and showed them to Shota.

“They're stained with charcoal, darkened, and dirty, aren't they? But I consider these hands my resume. They are proof that I've skewered meat tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of times. What you want to do isn't something that's in your head from the start. It's something your hands find for you on their own.”

Shota stared at his own white, clean hands. Hands without a single scar, perfectly clean. They felt like innocent, yet "empty" hands—hands that had never deeply committed to anything or been buried in the mud while obsessing over something.

“I think... I was just afraid of making a mistake.”

Shota said, as if squeezing the words out.

“I thought I had to find the 'correct answer' that I could stick with for the rest of my life from the very beginning. I was afraid that once I decided, there would be no turning back. So, I just waited for time to pass without being able to choose anything.”

Torakichi added new charcoal under the grill. Sparks crackled and popped, and the orange light illuminated his deeply wrinkled face.

“So what if you have to turn back? If you make a mistake, you just skewer another one. Life is about wasting many skewers like that until you finally understand the right way to grill one. Thinking you can grill perfectly from the start just shows you don't respect the charcoal fire.”

Those words pierced Shota's heart more deeply than any advice from job placement agents or university career centers. Society demands the "shortest path." It forces you to find the optimal route instantly, efficiently, and without failure. But the craftsman before him said, "Waste your time." He said that your hands learn something only through the number of failures you experience.

"Student, your hands are still too clean. That's not a bad thing. It means you can still be dyed any color. If you can't find what you want to do, just stick your hands into the best-looking thing right in front of you for now. The things that remain after you've been dirtied and scarred—that is the true nature of what you 'want to do'."

Torakichi smiled, his eyes narrowing gently for the first time. That smile was filled with the quiet expectation a strict master might show a disciple.

Shota swallowed the last of his oolong tea and let out a long, deep breath. The "mud-like frustration" that had been pooling deep in his chest had, before he knew it, transformed into a warm vitality.

Having finished his four skewers and his oolong tea, Shota placed a thousand-yen bill and some coins on the counter.

"…Thank you very much. I feel like I can breathe a little easier now."

"Yeah. Come back when you're hungry again. I'll grill for you anytime."

As he ducked under the noren curtain and stepped outside, the night air felt even colder. However, a certain warmth resided deep in his heart, as if a small charcoal fire had been transferred there.

On his way to the station, Shota clenched his hand and then opened it. These hands were still uncolored. Instead of being afraid of the vast array of choices on job hunting sites, he decided he would first take a step and knock on some door. If it didn't suit him, he could just look for another. As Torakichi said, he could just keep "re-skewering" as many times as needed.

Looking up at the sky, the winter constellations shone brilliantly between the buildings. He still couldn't see a concrete "future." There was no guarantee he would get a job offer. Even so, Shota's stride had become much more certain and powerful than it had been before coming to the food stall.

"…What I want to do is something my hands will create."

He repeated those words to himself like a magic spell. When he put on his recruitment suit tomorrow morning, he was sure he would feel something different. It was like the quiet excitement of writing the first stroke on a blank map that had nothing drawn on it yet.

The next morning. Shota was at the university library, sitting in front of a computer. On the screen was the internship application page for an educational support venture—a company he had previously dismissed as "irrelevant to me," but which had been lingering in the corner of his mind.

"For now, let's start here."

He gripped the mouse tightly. The sound of him typing on the keyboard felt, in some way, similar to the sound of the charcoal fire he had heard at the stall last night.

Shota's resume was as good as blank. However, his "hands" were quietly preparing for the gritty trial and error that was about to begin. The autumn of his 21st year. It was neither too late nor too early. He was now standing at the starting line of a long journey to find his own "perfect level of doneness."

[Bonus] What Torakichi wants to tell students under the soot-covered lantern

"Hey, student. Remember just one thing before you go.

People in this world are always desperately searching for shiny things like a 'glorious future' or 'smart success.' But you know, the important things that truly support a person are often found in places like this—amidst the soot-filled smoke and the gritty, muddy reality of the front lines."

Reading textbooks and looking things up online might make you feel like you understand, but that's just 'knowing,' not 'doing.' Without knowing the heat, the smoke, and the bitter taste of failure, no matter how impressive the words you string together, they will remain shallow.

Just now, looking at those clean, white hands of yours, I thought: when those hands eventually get stained black with some kind of grime... that's when you'll finally meet the real 'you' for the first time.

Don't be in such a rush. Just like a good yakitori, life takes a certain amount of time to be cooked through to the center. If you try to force it down while it's still raw, you'll only end up with a stomachache.

🏮🏮🏮If reading this moved your heart even a little, give me your thoughts in a word or two. Let me hear what you have to say. I'll be waiting...🍶

Next Episode: [Episode 3] Hiroki, 25, Salesman: 'My boss's power harassment is taking a mental toll'