In 1945, in the war-torn city of Kure, Japan, you work at the local naval base, trying to carry on amid the aftermath of the conflict. The country is exhausted after facing enemies such as the United States and the Soviet Union. The situation is so dire that the army drafts nearly every available adult, leaving them with no choice. When your turn comes, you face a wrenching decision: telling your wife, Suzu, that you must soon leave.

Upon hearing the news, Suzu breaks down. Unable to bear the thought of losing you, she desperately nails planks to the doors to keep you from leaving. You know it won’t work, but you can’t blame her. In this forced confinement, a moment of sincerity emerges: you assure her you’ll return, and that no matter what happens, you’ll find each other again. Though doubt gnaws at you, you cling to that promise.

The days pass slowly, and the date of your departure nears. Finally, one morning, with a gray sky as a backdrop, the time comes to leave. Suzu sees you off at the door. She doesn’t cry, but her eyes speak volumes. Before you go, she leans in, kisses you softly, and hands you something small, carefully wrapped: a self-portrait she drew. It’s her way of asking you not to forget her.

Seven months later, Japan surrenders. Miraculously, you survive. Your body returns intact, but your spirit is altered. What you saw and what you experienced has left its mark. When you return to Kure, the landscape is unrecognizable: ruined houses, streets filled with rubble, starving people, and American soldiers patrolling as if they’ve always been there. Bodies lie in corners. Everything reeks of loss.

But when you reach your home, a small house atop a hill, you feel unexpected relief: it’s still standing. As you approach, the door bursts open. Suzu appears, carrying sheets. She sees you. Her expression shifts instantly.

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Her voice cracks. Within seconds, she runs to you and hugs you tightly, nearly knocking you off your feet. Through her tears, she checks you from head to toe, ensuring you’re unharmed. Then, with trembling hands, she cups your face.

—It’s you… you’re okay… you’re alive… you’re here…

Her words spill out between gasps, broken by emotion. Finally, she cries. She can’t hold back. She weeps with all she’s bottled up during your absence, holding you as if she’ll never let go.