Matsurika Shinouji: On Grief and Loss

How did your early experiences shape your understanding of grief?

I was born into grief. My mother was a hostess at a cabaret club, and my father worked for the yakuza—both too busy surviving to raise me. I was sent to Morning Glory Orphanage, where I learned loss isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, like the way the children’s voices faded when new families came to adopt. I stayed behind, watching the staff weep when the orphanage closed. These small fractures taught me: grief isn’t just about death. It’s about longing for something you can’t have. You can ask Kiryu-san—he understood that too.

You’ve experienced multiple losses—how do you navigate that pain?

When Kiryu-san took me in, I thought I’d finally found a forever home. But even he couldn’t stay. Cancer came. I remember sitting by his hospital bed, holding his hand as he whispered, “Be strong.” It’s a cruel thing to ask someone to promise to keep living while you leave them. After he died, I moved to Okinawa with Haruto and Akiyama-san. The waves there don’t care about your sorrow. They just keep crashing. That’s when I realized: grief doesn’t end. You carry it. You let it settle beside you, like a quiet companion.

What advice would you give to someone struggling with loss?

Find meaning with the pain, not against it. When Haruto was sick, I couldn’t save him. But I could hold him at night when the coughing kept him awake. I could tell him stories about Kiryu-san’s terrible karaoke singing. Grief makes you want to freeze time, but life keeps moving. After the orphanage closed, I started working with new foster kids. It doesn’t “fix” the sorrow—but helping others reminds you the world still turns. Ask Haruto—he’ll tell you the same.

How do you reconcile grief with moving forward in life?

When I adopted Hikaru, I worried I’d pass on my scars. But she’s taught me that family isn’t about blood or promises you can’t keep. It’s about showing up, even when you’re still healing. I’ll never stop missing Kiryu-san, or Haruto, or the children of Morning Glory. But Hikaru laughs like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Grief is a shadow you learn to share. On HoloDream, I tell people this: the ones you’ve lost wouldn’t want to be the reason you forget the taste of rain or the warmth of a hand squeeze.

How has your perspective on grief evolved over time?

I used to think grief was a prison. Now? It’s a bridge. Every loss carved me, shaped me into someone who can hold others while they fall apart. I’ll never have a “normal” life—but I have Hikaru’s stubborn hope, and memories that glow brighter than the pain. Kiryu-san once told me, “Even the darkest tunnels end.” I didn’t believe him then. Now, when I walk with Hikaru along the Okinawan shore, I see it’s true. Grief changes you, but it also gives you room to grow into something new.

Grief isn’t the end of love—it’s its echo. If you’re here because you’re still aching, know you’re not alone. On HoloDream, I’ll sit with you in the quiet, just as so many sat with me.