January 8, 1989.
The first day of the Heisei era.
There was no festive atmosphere of a “new age dawning.” Instead, the whole of Tokyo seemed frozen silent under a sudden heavy snowfall.
With the death of Emperor Showa, a massive shadow called “jishuku” — self-restraint — had fallen over the archipelago.
The Shibuya crossing was no longer noisy.
Department store windows had removed their colorful mannequins and replaced them with black and white drapes.
Even the usually loud pachinko parlors had pulled down their shutters today.
At nine-thirty in the morning, NHK Broadcasting Center.
This gray giant in Shibuya’s Shoto district, Japan’s national public broadcaster, now sat at the eye of the storm in this somber atmosphere.
There wasn’t even the sound of footsteps in the corridors.
Everyone wore dark suits, faces grave, voices lowered as if speaking too loudly would be an act of disrespect to the national mourning.
Shin carried a cloth bag and walked into the waiting room on the third floor.
Today was an additional audition day for the taiga drama Kasuga no Tsubone.
More than a dozen people were already seated in the waiting room.
Most were young faces.
A few were small idols who had appeared in late-night dramas.
They mostly wore fashionable padded-shoulder suits, hair slicked perfectly with gel.
Though their faces showed tension, their eyes still carried that restless, flashy energy of the bubble era.
Shin didn’t look for a seat.
He went straight to the changing room.
Ten minutes later, when he stepped back out, the air in the waiting room seemed to freeze for a second.
He had changed out of his modern clothes and into a deep brown formal kimono set — montsuki haori hakama.
He had rented it yesterday from an old shop in Asakusa.
Though it was a rental, the fabric was thick and the cut was excellent.
It had taken him a full half hour to adjust the collar and obi, making sure every fold sat perfectly.
Among the room full of young men in Western suits, Shin now looked completely out of place.
He walked quietly to a corner, knees together, back straight, and sat in proper seiza on the cold chair — since there was no tatami, he treated the chair like the floor.
He closed his eyes, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
[Equip: The Down-and-Out Historian’s Annotated Notebook] [Equip: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] Both items activated.
The heavy, suppressed air of early Edo instantly cut him off from the low murmurs around him.
“Who the hell is that guy?
Why did he bother changing into costume?” “He’s probably auditioning for Inaba Masasada too.
That’s way over the top.
Who does that?” “Show-off.” The whispers didn’t reach Shin’s ears.
Right now, the only thing in his mind was that samurai kneeling outside his mother’s door.
… “Next, Tanaka Kenta.” A staff member opened the door and called out.
A young idol with tea-colored hair stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked in with confident steps.
Less than two minutes later.
The door opened.
The idol came out looking defeated, face bright red.
He had clearly been scolded.
“What happened?” someone behind him whispered.
“…They told me to sit in seiza.
I couldn’t hold it and my leg went numb and I shifted,” the idol muttered through gritted teeth.
“And that examiner was brutal.
He kept staring at my socks.” “Socks?” Everyone looked down.
Beneath his suit trousers peeked a pair of white socks printed with cartoon characters.
During national mourning, at NHK of all places, wearing cartoon socks to audition for a period drama was basically writing “unprofessional” across your forehead.
The next few candidates didn’t fare much better either.
Some stepped on the threshold when entering.
Some bowed at the wrong angle.
Others performed with great effort but spoke with a light, modern accent the moment they opened their mouths.
NHK’s examiners weren’t like the commercial television producers who judged by face and flattery.
Most of them were old men who had spent their lives studying classical theater.
They didn’t tolerate even a grain of sand.
“Do young people these days not even know how to sit properly anymore?” A tired sigh came from inside the audition room.
The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried deep disappointment.
The atmosphere in the waiting room dropped to freezing.
“Next.
Ota Office.
Kitahara Shin.” His name was finally called.
Shin opened his eyes.
In that instant, all light in his gaze receded completely.
His eyes became like a dry well.
He stood up.
He didn’t rush.
He first adjusted the hem of his hakama, making sure everything was in order, before stepping toward the door.
… The audition room was large and covered in tatami.
Three examiners sat at the front.
The man in the middle — white hair, black-framed glasses — was Hashimoto Ryutaro, the veteran casting director for taiga dramas.
All three examiners looked exhausted and impatient.
Shin didn’t speak.
He stopped at the entrance.
Instead of walking straight in, he first performed a deep, formal bow.
This was the proper guest greeting.
Then he used the traditional orizashi footwork — sliding his feet along the floor without lifting them — entering the room in complete silence.
Every step was perfectly steady.
His upper body didn’t move at all, as if he were gliding across water.
Hashimoto Ryutaro, who had been rubbing his temples, froze.
He looked up, eyes sharp behind his glasses, staring at the young man entering.
Shin reached the designated cushion.
He didn’t simply drop down.
He first slid his left foot back, then brought his right foot forward.
His body descended like a slow, steady mountain until he was kneeling perfectly in seiza.
Back straight.
Hands resting naturally on his thighs, fingertips slightly curled.
The entire motion was smooth and silent.
Not even the sound of fabric rubbing could be heard.
“Ota Office.
Kitahara Shin.
Please guide me.” His voice was low, steady, carrying none of the restless upward lilt common in young men today.
Hashimoto Ryutaro set down his pen and sat up straighter.
“Kitahara-kun, is it?” Hashimoto flipped through the resume and saw Ishida’s recommendation letter.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
“Someone recommended by that old fox Ishida… Since you’ve dressed like this, I assume you understand the rules.
Today’s task is simple.” Hashimoto removed his glasses, gaze piercing.
“No lines.
Imagine you are kneeling in front of Kasuga no Tsubone right now.
She has just told you that for the stability of the Tokugawa house, you must send your only son away as a hostage.
You — just listen.” Just listen.
Don’t speak.
This was the hardest part.
If an actor stayed silent, he easily became wooden.
If he reacted too much, it felt fake.
“Begin.” At the command, Shin didn’t immediately change his expression.
He simply lowered his eyelids slightly, his gaze resting on one of the woven lines in the tatami.
[Notebook Empathy: Full Output] In that moment, he heard it.
He heard a voice that wasn’t there — the voice of that powerful, cold mother, passing judgment on her son’s fate.
Just as she had once passed judgment on his own.
The room was deathly silent.
One second.
Two seconds.
Five seconds.
Shin’s face was like a mask.
No ripples.
But gradually, Hashimoto Ryutaro sitting directly across from him noticed that the young man’s breathing had changed.
The steady rhythm had become heavy and suppressed, as if something were blocking his lungs.
Then Shin’s left hand, resting on his knee, began to move.
The hand didn’t clench into a fist — that would have been anger, and Inaba Masasada did not have the right to be angry.
His fingers slowly, bit by bit, gripped the fabric of his hakama.
The knuckles turned slightly white from the pressure.
Veins rose on the back of his hand for an instant.
But only for an instant.
The next second, the hand loosened again, powerless.
As if the tiny spark of resistance that had just flared up had been instantly extinguished by the ice water of “loyalty and filial piety.” Shin slowly raised his head.
There were no tears in his eyes.
Only a terrifying emptiness.
The emptiness of a man who had been stripped of his dignity as a father and as a human being, leaving behind nothing but the shell of a “samurai.” Then he lowered his head again, forehead touching the tatami, performing the most formal bow of a retainer.
“Hai.” The single word was as light as a sigh, yet as heavy as lead hitting the floor.
… “Good.” Hashimoto Ryutaro’s voice broke the silence.
Shin held the bowing posture for three seconds before slowly rising, releasing the suppressed state.
Clarity returned to his eyes.
The three examiners exchanged glances.
The assistant director on the left spoke quietly.
“For a moment just now, I thought I was watching one of those old-school actors from the early Showa period.” Hashimoto Ryutaro put his glasses back on and picked up his pen.
He drew a heavy circle on Shin’s resume.
He looked at Shin.
For the first time that day, a trace of warmth appeared on his stern face.
“You can sit still.
You can sink deep.
Like someone from that era.” Hashimoto closed the file and gave his verdict.
“These days too many young people have thorns on their asses.
Too few can perform ‘endurance’ all the way down to the bone.
You — stay and get measured.
The headpiece will need to be custom-made.” That meant the role was his.
“Thank you very much!” Shin bowed deeply again.
When he walked out of the audition room, he didn’t jump for joy or celebrate.
He simply felt a dull ache in his knees — he had knelt properly.
But the pain made everything feel real.
In the waiting room, the other idols were still touching up their makeup and practicing “cool expressions,” still anxiously waiting their turn.
Shin picked up his cloth bag, walked past them, and left through the main doors of NHK.
Snow was still falling outside, but the air felt a little clearer.
He touched the [Historian’s Notebook] in his pocket and said silently in his heart: “Old man… I performed your resentment for you.”