Chapter 1
The classroom smelled of damp air and cheap deodorant. Light seeped through dirty windows, casting geometric shapes across the floor—patterns no one cared about.
Haruto sat in the back row, hunched over, his hands hidden beneath the desk. His face was blank, but his fingers gripped the edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.
— Haruto. Your answer? — the teacher’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
The room fell silent. Someone snorted.
Haruto looked up, his gaze empty—like he was looking through the teacher, not at him.
— He doesn’t even have a notebook — a boy from the front said, turning to the others. — Maybe he’ll buy one with his lottery winnings.
Laughter spread across the room like a stain.
Haruto didn’t react.
He didn’t have a notebook because there was no money.
No textbook because his mother had to choose between the electricity bill and new shoes for him.
No answer because no one had ever shown him that school could be anything more than a place to wait for time to pass.
The teacher sighed and waved his hand.
— Sit down.
Haruto dropped back into his chair. Under the desk, his fists trembled.
Not from anger.
From shame.
---
That evening, the apartment was quiet, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.
The door creaked open.
His mother stepped inside, carrying a grocery bag and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She looked exhausted—her hands rough from cleaning chemicals, gripping the plastic handles tightly.
— You’re home already? Did you eat? — she asked.
— Yeah — Haruto lied.
She knew.
He saw it in the way her shoulders sank for a moment, like something invisible had been lifted—only to be placed back again.
But she said nothing.
Instead, she walked to the table where a pile of bills lay scattered. She brushed her finger over one of them, as if trying to wipe the numbers away.
— Just a little longer… and things will get easier — she whispered.
Haruto said nothing.
He watched the bills. Her hands. The way she avoided his eyes.
He knew what “a little longer” meant.
More overtime.
More saving.
More lies that everything would be okay.
— Yeah… — he muttered.
Their gazes never met.
She went back to the kitchen.
He went to his room, where a single note hung on the wall:
“Dreams are for people who have time to sleep.”
---
The store was one of those places where time didn’t move.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a pale green glow on the counter.
Haruto stood at the register, staring at two items: a pack of instant noodles and a chocolate bar.
Behind them, on a small promotional shelf, sat a lottery ticket.
“Your chance to change your life.”
The cashier, an older man with a face carved by wrinkles, watched him quietly.
— Make up your mind — he said. There was no impatience in his voice. Only something like tired irony.
Haruto looked at the noodles.
Then at the ticket.
In his mind, he saw his mother coming home at midnight—dark circles under her eyes, forcing a smile.
— Miracles don’t happen — the cashier muttered, as if reading his thoughts.
Haruto clenched his jaw.
— The ticket.
The cashier shrugged, as if he expected that answer.
The scanner beeped.
---
The night air was cold, but Haruto didn’t feel it.
He sat alone on a park bench, phone in hand, staring at the screen.
The lottery results were supposed to appear at midnight.
It was already five minutes past.
Refresh.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
A third time—
The screen flickered.
His heart jumped into his throat.
“Congratulations! Number: 12-45-78-90-23
Prize: 50,000,000 yen.”
He blinked.
Checked the ticket.
Again.
His hands began to shake.
A laugh escaped his throat—sharp, uncontrolled.
Then came relief.
So overwhelming it made him dizzy.
This couldn’t be real.
But it was.
---
The apartment door opened silently.
Inside, darkness.
Only the faint glow of a streetlamp slipping through the window.
His mother was asleep on the couch, curled up, one arm under her head. Her breathing was shallow, restless.
Haruto stepped closer.
His shadow fell across her face.
For a moment, he just stood there—looking at her wrinkles, at the gray strands in her hair that had appeared too early.
Then he placed a hand on the back of the couch.
As if grounding himself.
— You won’t have to anymore… — he whispered.
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to.
---
The next morning, Haruto stood in front of the Lottery Office in Tokyo.
A sign on the door read:
“Please prepare your identification and winning ticket.”
Inside, the air smelled of paper and coffee.
A woman behind the counter glanced at him over her glasses.
— Ticket number?
He handed it over.
She typed something into her computer, then raised an eyebrow.
— Fifty million yen — she said flatly. — After a twenty percent tax, that leaves you with thirty-nine million nine hundred thousand.
Haruto felt his stomach tighten.
— Tax…?
— Yes. The law. There’s no way around it — she replied, sliding a form toward him. — Fill this out. The money will be transferred within three business days.
Three days.
Three days in which everything could disappear.
— What if… I want to stay anonymous? — he asked quietly.
She looked at him with faint pity.
— You can’t. Any win over ten million is reported. If you want to avoid attention, don’t do anything stupid.
Haruto took the pen.
His hand trembled.
---
That evening, his mother stood frozen in the doorway, holding the bank statement.
— What is this? — she asked.
— I won — he said quietly.
Silence.
Then slowly, she stepped closer, her hands tightening around the paper.
— Haruto… is this… real?
He nodded.
For a moment, nothing.
Then suddenly, she broke down, covering her face as she cried.
— Thank God… thank God…
Haruto watched her, unsure what to do.
Finally, he stepped forward and awkwardly wrapped his arms around her.
— It’s okay — he said. — Everything’s going to be okay.
But deep down…
he knew it wasn’t true.
Because he had just realized something:
Money doesn’t solve problems.
It only changes them.
---
