Aakansha Srivastava weaves a captivating tale about her adventures of finding Yuko. Read the full story to know if she did or not.
First time I saw Yuko it was seven on a cold, autumn evening. I had finished my afternoon shift and was looking for a place to get a warm cup of sake. A man needs a good drink after ten hours of oiling rickety run-down machines, trying to make them run for another year, then another and so on.
It was the time of the year when autumn is slowly giving way to winters. It hasn’t yet arrived in full fury, but one can feel its presence in shorter days with milder sun and chilly evenings arriving in a haste; like snipers quickly swapping positions.
I walked for a bit, warily sidestepping groups of young people – the lot that still holds excitement about frivolous events like evenings. A hundred sign boards brightly lit the entire street, flashing neon colours that made my eyes hurt. Wanting to get away from the sharp lights, I walked further down the street, took a left and found myself face to face with a singular wooden door with six yellow bulbs arching above, their light so weak I could barely read the name of the inn as I pushed the door open.