Kenji wasn’t a student anymore. He was thirty-four, a former automotive engineer from Nagoya who had been transferred to a joint venture in Ho Chi Minh City six months ago. His Japanese colleagues had warned him: “Learn English. Or better, learn Vietnamese.” But Kenji had pride. He was the one from the headquarters. He should not be struggling to order phở without pointing.
“ Daijoubu desu ka? ” she asked. Are you okay? Fukushuu D Minna No Nihongo
He closed the cover and set it on the shelf—not as a burden, but as a scar. And beside it, he placed a napkin with eleven digits. Kenji wasn’t a student anymore