Chapter 1 – Where there is smoke, there is fire

You can read the Japanese version of this reflection here

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I’ve never invested so much of myself in a manga before. Most I’ve encountered in the past left little trace, nothing resonant enough to hold a place in memory. But this manga, Kemutai Hanashi, unveiled something different. It felt as though I were stepping into a nebulous realm that has always lingered in the quiet corners of my mind, a space dedicated to the perennial quest of understanding where we are, and who we are, in this world.

I read it in the liminal space after graduating high school, during that uncertain interlude before university results arrived. I was beginning to navigate the contours of my own self, my worth, my direction, and this manga, in some uncanny way, mirrored that entire journey. Some chapters resonated more profoundly than others, yet all of them drew me closer to understanding parts of myself I had long forgotten.

The initial three pages alone enveloped me in a sensation that remains elusive to describe.

“Where there is smoke, there is fire.”

“Only when we notice the smoke do we start to wonder where it comes from.”

Since childhood, we have been taught that smoke signifies fire. But have we ever truly paused to question this assertion? Do we simply assume, “Ah, there is fire,” without inquiring into its true nature, or the genesis of its spark?

Life unfurls swiftly, so we seldom pause to observe the finer details. We presume the smoke emanates from a building or a house, a place familiar. Yet, is that the entirety of it? True curiosity does not rest at surface-level answers. And once something touches us intimately, that is when we begin to ask ourselves why.

It was much like an incident in my town a few weeks ago: I saw thick, black smoke unfurling against the sky. I could not help but wonder about its origin. It is these small things, subtle yet arresting, that grant us pause. Only when they strike a chord within us do we begin to question ourselves.

We start to wonder not just where, but how. How did it ignite? Why does it feel as though I cannot look away? I recall a scene from a story in literature class, hauntingly similar: the main character's house consumed by flames, and they, rendered powerless, could only stand and watch. That helplessness, that unwavering gaze, it etches itself upon the memory.

We become vulnerable when we begin to delve into the recesses of ourselves. We hesitate to return to who we once were, because we have now glimpsed a part of our being we cannot unknow. We look away, afraid of what we might find, yet we cannot turn back either. We yearn to understand why we are the way we are. Why we are here.

And now, the story commences, from this very point. Takeda and Arita meet to move Takeda’s belongings into Arita’s home, and their interaction, in all honesty, might be one of the most genuinely heartwarming exchanges I’ve witnessed in a manga.

The way they converse on SNS eloquently unveils much about their personalities. Of course, this is merely the series' beginning, so I cannot yet form complete assumptions, but I truly sense that Takeda possesses a warm, gentle heart. The way he used the “Thanks” emoji towards Arita was so endearing (hehe). It may seem a small detail, but it brought a smile to my face, suggesting he is the kind of person who naturally expresses care in even the most minute gestures.

Arita, conversely, is more direct. He doesn’t type extensively, but this does not render him impolite. It feels more as if he is the type who demonstrates care through action rather than words. For instance, though his messages are brief, he still ensures Takeda knows he has arrived. It is subtle, yet you can perceive his effort.

Okay, time to put down the old nameplate and head to the new home, right?

Later in the chapter, we are gifted more small details that reveal further dimensions of them both. Arita asks numerous questions: how things are progressing, whether everything will fit in the car, if Takeda needs assistance carrying the boxes downstairs. These small actions speak volumes about his personality. He clearly cares and wishes to help, even if he doesn't voice it explicitly. Honestly, he is also rather amusing, if one pays close attention.

Then we observe a wonderful contrast between them as they carry the boxes, especially those filled with books. Takeda appears optimistic, while Arita is utterly weary of the task, just wanting to discard the boxes because they are so heavy (lol). The difference in their expressions infuses the whole scene with a gentle humor; it’s as though they are caught in a moment that feels significant, yet also faintly ridiculous.

I feel this often occurs in close relationships. You wish to help someone, but when the task becomes too arduous, you begin to conceive of shortcuts instead. That is what makes it amusing, but also so achingly familiar. Even though it is exhausting, they continue walking together, carrying the boxes, one step at a time.

Move to the car and begin the trip to our new house!

At this precise moment, we encounter a truly heartwarming scene: Takeda "saving the cat." It’s a small, perhaps easily missed, moment, but I believe it warrants mentioning. The way he calls out, “Hey there!” a bit too loudly, surprising the cat, made me laugh, but it also revealed something tender about him. He notices the little things. Even if his approach isn't perfect, his instinct is to help. That kind of intention is precious.

Then, inside the car, we witness a truly funny and charming contrast. Arita looks so composed behind the wheel, his face serious, like a gentleman, and then Takeda attempts to mirror his expression, but it’s endearingly askew. It’s subtle, yet so quintessentially them. And then comes the joke: a 10,000 yen discount for complimenting Arita, and another 10,000 for doing so again. It doesn’t quite hold literal meaning, but that’s what makes it amusing; it’s the kind of jest that only truly works between people who have known each other for a long time.

That kind of interaction… I don’t have much of it in my own life. I don’t converse with many people, whether in real life or online. I always worry I’m disturbing them, especially when they might be occupied with their work or lives. But witnessing these moments between Arita and Takeda makes me yearn for that kind of friendship, where you can voice whatever is on your mind without the weight of deliberation, where the air simply feels lighter. Friendships like that may appear effortless, but they often carry a quiet depth beneath the surface.

Move to the new home—time to unpack!

While carrying the boxes into the house, a small moment captured my attention. Takeda still wishes to thank the person who lent them the car. He hadn’t forgotten. This speaks volumes about who he is: so polite, thoughtful, always endeavoring to be kind, irrespective of the situation or the person. He doesn’t overlook anyone, and that is something truly admirable.

But it also led me to contemplate something difficult, something I’ve been feeling for a while.

When you’re always the kind one, always polite, always helping, it can slowly become an unseen burden. Sometimes people grow accustomed to your generosity. They don’t realize the extent of the effort you’re expending because they’re used to you giving all the time. And it hurts. You want to be good to people, but you start to feel invisible, as if your kindness isn’t truly perceived, merely consumed.

That is what came to my mind when I observed how kind Takeda is to everyone. I understand him, yet I also worry for him, because I am, in a way, navigating a similar path. I’m scared I’m losing parts of who I am because I keep offering pieces of myself to others, believing I’m being helpful. But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to keep a piece for myself.

And then, unpacking time! This part is a moment of pure, delightful comedy: Takeda and Arita completely forgot who was meant to bring the toaster and who was responsible for the microwave. And the outcome? They brought two toasters! Not one, but two! This kind of mix-up between friends is so achingly true to life. When it comes to deciding who brings what, it always sounds straightforward at first, but often descends into a gentle chaos, someone forgets something, or brings the incorrect item. It’s relatable and somewhat chaotic, but also genuinely funny. That scene reminded me so vividly of those unassuming, tender moments that occur in real life, and somehow, they often become the ones that etch themselves most deeply in our memories. Of course, Takeda, being Takeda, remains unfailingly optimistic about it. Now they can toast four slices of bread! (I’m quite poor at making jokes… but I truly hope they don’t “die” from lacking a microwave, haha.)

Reading this chapter stirred a cascade of my own recollections, especially the kind that seem insignificant in their passing but later return with unexpected gravity. It’s like, you don’t think they matter, until one day, you remember, and it just arrests you with sudden clarity. For me, it brought to mind the only field trip I ever attended in 12th grade. Just one. And yet now, every time I see or hear something that reminds me of it, I find my eyes welling. I don’t even know why sometimes; perhaps because that was a precious interlude where I truly felt a genuine sense of camaraderie with my classmates. As if we were all together, sharing something beyond the usual classroom pressure. Something simple, yet indelible.

The way the smoke is depicted… it honestly resonates with a newfound clarity for me now. When it drifts in, it commands the entire vista; suddenly, it’s just you and the smoke, alone together. That moment feels imbued with a delicate sensitivity, because it captures your entire focus in one place. Everything else recedes into quietude.

In the subsequent scene, as Takeda brings the cardboard boxes downstairs, he hears a child and their mother conversing, reminding each other not to run on the stairs, and chatting about what’s for lunch. Personally, while apartment living holds little allure for me, I do appreciate moments like that, when I can hear people out there simply… living. Engaging in their everyday routines. It’s comforting, in a way. Silence can feel peaceful, but an excess of it can make you feel profoundly isolated. This scene felt so suffused with warmth to me.

Eating time!

The idea of hikkoshi soba (soba given to new neighbors when they move in) was an entirely novel custom to me. I’m from Vietnam, not Japan, so I’ve only encountered a few kinds of soba before, such as tempura soba, tsukimi soba, kake soba, and different ways of enjoying it, like cold zarusoba or warm kakesoba. I can only name a few, haha. But learning new things is never a bad thing, is it? It’s enjoyable; it unveils facets of a culture previously unknown. I’m planning a trip to Japan next year to experience their food, their daily life, and perhaps acquire new manga and explore local places. So, possessing all this information now makes me feel better poised for that journey!

When Arita asked Takeda about the cultural meaning of soba, I felt a flicker of surprise, mingled with curiosity. I was compelled to research it immediately. As Takeda explained, soba represents longevity, health, and prosperity. Some articles even mentioned it’s believed to protect against bad luck. I find the way soba is made, and served, to possess a subtle artistry. I wish I had someone close to me who could tell me more about the cultural significance behind Japanese dishes like this. It seems so many of them carry an intrinsic beauty and thoughtful intention.

I also believe Arita’s parents cherish him deeply. They sent him so many packages of soba. It reminds me of my own parents, how they always shower us with provisions, even if we don’t end up using much of it. Only when we run out of money or essentials do we begin to truly apprehend the value of what they’ve given. But in the end, their deepest wish is always for our well-being.

Okay, the moment when they continue talking together while cooking is so remarkable; I haven't seen this depicted often elsewhere, just cooking usually occurs without much conversation. I feel that with conversation, the food might emerge more delicious than if prepared in solitude. I had a quiet chuckle when Arita brought the food to the table. How shall I put it? Why did the zarusoba look like that, and why was it on the colander?! That must be one of the most memorable sights I have ever encountered; this will remain a cherished memory for a long time (haha). The first time I ever cooked something for myself, it was a fried egg, and you know what? I did it without oil. It stuck to the pan so firmly I could barely remove it. Only after observing my dad a few times did I learn that I should add oil first, but I was so afraid of oil because it could splatter at any moment. Only recently have I finally attained a measure of proficiency in frying it (it sounds like an achievement, but it’s rather embarrassing to admit out loud, haha). By the way, I truly wonder what authentic zarusoba tastes like, and also Arita's version; I haven’t eaten them yet!

Before sleeping, look outside!

Whenever I’ve moved to a new home, my first instinct is always to go to the balcony to observe the town with a deep, encompassing gaze, to see the buildings, the sky, and even the birds (they chirp so loudly here). I always feel as though I can glean glimpses of neighboring lives just by looking at their houses, but my house is a two-story building and others are just one, so it’s a touch melancholic because I couldn't fully see the interiors. As Takeda said, “things at night are so different from daytime, you can look at the lit-up windows and wonder what kind of life is behind them.” Light is a fount of energy, a beacon of warmth, and also the very pulse of life to the home and the town. Light is an element you might think you won’t need, but in reality, you need it profoundly, because it is the genesis of everything. You cannot see the fire without the light it casts; you cannot perceive emotions without the light they share; you cannot feel warmth without the light that shines. Light is simple, yet it is a thing to begin a story.

A gentle closure that heralds the opening of another story; the light, the fire, now kindled. And it is time to discover it: what is its color, and what will it then consume? It’s an enigma that awaits unraveling for now. “Small rain lays great dust,” an idiom from my country, suggests that people need to be patient and persistent so they can achieve what they desire. We cannot simply take shortcuts and find the answer immediately. Fire cannot start without reason; it cannot spread without reason; it cannot be noticed without reason. Everything unfolds for a reason. It is a narrative veiled in mist, awaiting its discovery.

The first chapter stirred within me a multitude of deep feelings and remembrances of past memories. Within its pages, you might find yourself, and I indeed recognized fragments of myself there, not overwhelmingly, but at least noticeably. I love everything about this chapter: the way it was constructed, the dynamics between Arita and Takeda, and the way the thoughts were articulated, so unvarnished yet exquisitely beautiful. This chapter resonated deeply with me. Perhaps in a few days or a few weeks, I will offer some thoughts on the next chapter and delve into everything anew. That’s all! I hope you enjoy it, and enjoy each chapter equally!

And finally, the artwork I drew for this very first chapter. I hope you enjoy it!