This isn’t a story of redemption. It’s a study in quiet resignation — the kind that settles in when the person you once aspired to be becomes permanently out of reach.
Ryota, a failed novelist turned second-rate detective, isn’t a tragic hero. He’s ordinary: full of good intentions, terrible habits, and unrealised talent. Kore-eda doesn’t forgive him. He simply observes. That’s the point — this isn’t a morality tale. It’s an autopsy of drifting adulthood.
The writing mirrors that same restraint. The prose is calm, observational, even casual at times — but never careless. Kore-eda doesn’t push emotion on the reader. He lets silence do the work. Conversations meander. Regrets are hinted at rather than confessed. The tension comes not from what happens, but from what doesn’t — from the years lost to inertia, from a life misspent in small, forgivable ways.
Structurally, the book is almost cyclical. Ryota moves through his days as if stuck in a loop: gambling, lying, making plans he won’t keep. And yet, the story holds — because it’s not really about change. It’s about recognition. A single storm traps three generations under one roof. Nothing is resolved, but something subtle shifts. They see each other, not clearly, not cleanly — but just enough.
What struck me most was this: Ryota says he still wants to be the person he dreamed of as a child. But the unspoken truth is harder — at some point, we all stop becoming. The book doesn’t scream that message. It whispers it. And it stays with you.
“At the end, we don’t manage to become who we wanted to be.” That’s not defeatist. It’s just honest. And that honesty is what makes this story — like the storm at its centre — so quietly devastating.