Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
The Forgotten Samurai: The Man in the Fog
Have you ever felt that subtle wrongness—when your familiar routines suddenly feel hollow and something whispers from just beyond your understanding? "The Man in the Fog" takes us deep into this liminal space through the story of a protagonist discovering mysterious artifacts in his San Francisco apartment.
Following strange messages in a journal that writes itself, guided by his enigmatic neighbor Mrs. Katsu who serves more than just soup, our protagonist begins noticing shadowy figures watching from the fog-draped streets. The artifacts—a samurai mask and armor plate inscribed with ancient kanji—seem connected to a life he doesn't remember living. As cryptic notes appear under his door and symbols manifest throughout the city, he begins to realize that his discomfort isn't random. Something is calling him forward.
What makes this episode particularly powerful is its exploration of personal transformation. "The thing about transformation that no one wants to admit—it's ugly in the middle," the narrator explains. "You're not who you were, but you're definitely not who you'll be either." This raw acknowledgment of the messy middle part of change offers comfort to anyone experiencing their own period of uncertainty.
The episode's central insight—"You're not being followed, you're being led"—invites a profound perspective shift. What if the tension you feel isn't pursuing you but guiding you? What if your inability to settle isn't brokenness but your future self already moving forward? Through reflection prompts that help you identify your own "fog," "figures," and "echoes," this story becomes more than entertainment—it becomes a mirror reflecting your own journey.
Whether you're feeling stuck, sensing change on the horizon, or simply enjoy atmospheric storytelling that blends mystery with meaning, this episode will leave you watching the fog outside your window with new eyes, wondering what might be waiting to guide you forward. Remember, you create your reality—and sometimes the first step is recognizing when it's time to let go of who you were.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host. Today we are in episode 3 of the Forgotten Samurai, and this episode is the man in the fog. So let's go ahead and let's get into it. He didn't remember the walk home, not really.
Speaker 1:The train arrived without sound, its steel body swallowed into the mist. He stepped into the cold with a lucky strike already half lit between his lips, eyes, heavy coat, collar turned up against the fog that had begun curling like ghosts around the lampposts. By the time he climbed the fire escape and pushed through the warped door to his apartment, the city had already vanished. Behind the glass, just a gray sheet of waiting. The crate still sat in the center of the room. He stared at it while he smoked. The mask inside had been moved, or maybe he left it that way, hard to tell. The last few days had blurred in the ash and old whiskey. Something was missing the book, the confidence protocols, the one he didn't remember packing but read through in one sitting. Gone. He checked the table, the floor Inside of the crate, nothing. That's when the knock came. He opened the door. He sounded Mrs Casu's voice already talking before she looked up, thought I'd find you boarding up here, she said, holding a small brown package In her flower dusted hands. This got dropped off for me by mistake, or maybe it didn't. He blinked. What is it? She pushed it into his chest. Why don't you tell me the labels addressed To his chest? Why don't you tell me the labels addressed to his unit? He peeled away the paper slowly.
Speaker 1:Miss Cassu was already pushing past him into the apartment commenting on the dust, the crate and the smaller burnt coffee. Inside the package, a leather-bound journal, no title, no emblem, just a card tucked under the flap. You're not broken, you're buried. This will help you dig. He looked up. You opened this. She shruggedy, rearranging a crooked picture frame on his wall. Maybe. How long have you had it? A day, maybe two? She glanced over, figured he'd come around eventually.
Speaker 1:The journal felt warm in his hands, as if he'd been sitting on a windowsill all morning soaking in light. But there was no sun, not today. He sat it down on the table next to the mask. I don't know what any of this means. He says You're not supposed to, she said, headed toward the door, and then paused and looked back. By the way, my heater's rattling again. You come, fix it, I'll make soup. He exhaled slowly smoke curling around his face. You are a manipulative woman, damn right. She said, smiling. Now bring the damn journal, you're not done reading.
Speaker 1:Downstairs, her apartment smelled like miso and ginger. The heater made a sound like metal teeth grinding bone. He crouched beside it while she narrated every detail of her day like he hadn't missed half of it already. The journal sat beside him on the counter, unopened. Eventually, she slid a bowl across the table Eat, then read. He ate in silence, outside the fog, pressed harder against the windows like it was trying to get in. When he finally opened up the journal again, there was one word on the first page.
Speaker 1:Remember he woke to the soft rattle of pipes and the faint scent of soy and ginger rising through the floorboards. Morning light didn't exist, not for this part of the city, not in this fog. Instead, everything was cast in a dull, tired gray, like the world hadn't decided whether to wake up or not. The soup bowl was empty beside him, cold. His coat hung off the back of the chair. His fedora fawned to the floor. His fedora had fallen to the floor.
Speaker 1:He sat up, slowly back aching, and reached for the journal he remembered placing on the counter the night before. But it wasn't where he left it. It was already open. The leather cover pushed gently outward as though it had been used, stretched, breathed in. No, it had been added to the last page blank. Some doors only open for the right kind of broken. His breath stilled. He hadn't written that and the pen that lay across the page wasn't his.
Speaker 1:The lighter clicked in his hand a nervous habit now. He struck it three times before the flame Orange glow touched the corner of the journal, just for a second before he snapped it shut again. Then came the knock, not hurried, not uncertain, just one solid knock, like someone knew they'd be let in. He opened the door to Mrs Kasu. She stood with a cardboard box clutched against her hip, chin, high eyes scanning him with a blend of pity and precision. Only an older woman seemed to be capable of. I need your hand, she said what my ceiling fan? It's making that sound again like someone choking on marbles. She brushed past him before he could object, placing the box carefully on the edge of the kitchen counter. Then she turned to the study of the room.
Speaker 1:The crate still here, he said nothing. She nodded toward the table and the mask Still nothing. She noticed the journal. Her mouth twitched, half smile, half knowing what's in the box. He asked oh, just some things from the storage crawl, junk mostly. Then why bring it here? I didn't, she said, moving toward the window and wiping the fog glass with her sleeve. But it was placed outside your door.
Speaker 1:He moved closer, eyeing the box. Inside were small items, random but old A child's music box, tarnished silver, a set of rusted keys and a broken ring. A folded piece of thick parchment sealed with wax, but the seal was cracked. One corner of the parchment bore a faded stamp, a sigil Similar to the one he'd seen barely etched into the back of the crate from days earlier. Hey, where did this come from? Miss Katsu didn't answer right away. She reached past him, picking up the journal, pressing it closely, gently.
Speaker 1:Things have a way of ending up where they need to be. He looked up. What does that even mean? She studied him. It means not everything that finds you is random. Some things arrive when you're almost ready. Her gaze lingered on him. Then she turned towards the hall. You coming to fix this fan, or should I call the building? This fan, or should I call the building? He followed without thinking lighter. Still in his hand.
Speaker 1:Her apartment was a museum of memory. Every wall lined with clocks, books, paintings and dust-coated frames. The same stew simmered on the stove, untouched. The same photograph sat on the mantel. Her younger self was someone he couldn't place. The fan was Zadine, making the noise, but not enough to require his help. I think it's fine.
Speaker 1:He said I didn't say it was broken. She replied. I said I needed your hands. He frowned. She handed him a cup of tea. Sit just for a minute. He sat. She watched him for a long moment. Then, in a voice that felt like silk brushing concrete, she said You've seen it, haven't you? He looked up, seen what Her eyes flickered toward the ceiling, the fog, the fog, the weight, the itch behind your eyes that tells you something's coming, but you can't name it yet. He didn't answer. She smiled faintly and changed the subject, asking about his work, the weather, the market. But it lingered that moment, that line.
Speaker 1:Back upstairs, hours later, he opened the journal again. The handwriting was the same. You've forgotten more than you ever knew. Start remembering. He let a lucky strike, stared out at the fog, pressing against the windows like it was waiting for something or someone, and for the first time he didn't feel alone in his apartment. He felt watched. He stood in the doorway longer than he should have. The apartment behind him was quiet, but not still. Something about the journal on the desk, the tea cooling beside it, the crate in the corner it all felt like parts of a life that hadn't caught up with him yet. He ran a hand through his hair, tossed a lucky strike into the tray, with the others burnt out, stems of habit stacked like bones.
Speaker 1:Outside San Francisco, streets swarm in silence. The fog burrowed the street lamps into smudges. You could hear the city breathing Slow, heavy, like it wasn't sure if it wanted to wake up or just go back to bed. He walked anyway. His coat hung open, fedora pulled low Shoes, blushing concrete like they were apologizing for making a noise. Every window he passed reflected his shape, but not his face, just a man moving through a world that didn't quite remember him. Down the block was an alley. He used to drink in back when nights were longer and the reasons were shorter.
Speaker 1:He paused by the entrance. The old rusted sign above the door still read Fortune and Sons, but the letters were flaking like memory. A homeless man slept by the dumpster, his breath visible in the air. He walked past him and pressed his hand against the brick wall, half remembering a time he almost didn't get back up. That was before the mask, before the crate, before the journal whispered things he hadn't earned the right to hear. And now he didn't know what was real.
Speaker 1:Back on the main road, a newsstand caught his eye. No one manned it, but the papers were stacked like always. Headlights talked about storms, overseas and trade tariffs and a missing diplomat, but on the corner of the front page, scrolled by hand in blue ink you'll know when it's time. His breath caught. He looked around no one, not a soul, just the city itself, pretending to be alive. He took the paper, left a few coins Back at the apartment.
Speaker 1:The journal was exactly where he left it, but a slip of paper now struck from its spine. It wasn't there before he pulled it out. A photo, black and white, weathered. It was of him, younger maybe, or at least more awake, standing in front of a torii gate in Japan, but he'd never been. And yet the man in the photo held something in his hand, a piece of armor, the mask. He turned the photo over. On the back someone had written we start where we lost ourselves.
Speaker 1:He reached for the lighter, flicked it open, the flame danced into the reflection of the window and behind him, just for a second, the shape of Mrs Katsu passed the hall. No, knock, no voice, just the sound of the soup reheating downstairs. He didn't go to her, not yet. Instead, he sat at the desk, opened the journal again and, for the first time, began to write. Outside the fog waited, the pen scratched softly against the journal paper. It wasn't neat, wasn't poetic, but it was the first thing that felt like his.
Speaker 1:He didn't know why he wrote what he did. There was no plan, just a memory, or maybe the ghost of one, of standing in a place he'd never been holding, something he never touched, a lie in his mind that felt more honest than anything else. I don't remember being this man. He wrote, but something in me still wants to be him.
Speaker 1:He closed the journal, took a long drag from his lucky strike and leaned back in the chair letting the smoke drift toward the ceiling. His lighter battered brass still sat open beside the journal. Its flame long extinguished but the metal still warm. The apartment groaned like old bone settling. Then a sound Not the knock of a visitor, not the creak of pipes. But something else A soft slide. He turned. The crate had shifted just slightly, but enough to notice he stood cautious. Now crossed the room. The crate has shifted just slightly, but enough to notice he stood cautious now across the room.
Speaker 1:The lid was still pried open from days ago. Inside, the mask remained nestled in black velvet. But something else caught his eye, something that had not been there before A folded slip of parchment he reached in fingers, brushing the cold edge of the mask, then sliding beneath it to retrieve the paper. It was thin, old Ink, bled slightly at the corners from time or sweat. He unfolded it. A symbol stared back, a sigil of interlocking kanji, surrounded by faint circular lines Beneath it. Just one phrase when the fog clears, remember who you were before you forgot. He didn't know what that meant, not yet, but it felt like something he was meant to read, like everything lately.
Speaker 1:He held the paper under the desk lamp, studied the edges. It had been torn from something larger, a journal, a map. He didn't know, only that it pulsed with strange familiarity. He placed it carefully beside the journal and stared at both of them, two pieces of a puzzle he didn't ask to solve. Then his stomach growled. He realized he hadn't eaten since the soup, grabbed his coat, flicked the light off and stepped into the hallway. The smell of stew was already there, thicker, now more layered garlic, star, anise, clove.
Speaker 1:Miss Cat's stew's door was cracked open, light spilling into the dim corridor. He stepped towards it. Inside, the table was already set One place, steam curled from a bowl. The same soup, but richer, deeper. She appeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. I thought you might come, he hesitated. She motioned to the chair. He sat.
Speaker 1:Neither spoke for a long while. Then he reached for the spoon. She said You'll find what you're looking for, but it won't be where you think. He looked up. You sound like you know what it is. I don't, but I know what it feels like when the pieces don't fit anymore. He didn't ask what she meant by that. The soup was hot, perfect. Something in him softened, not because of the food, but because she had been waiting, because someone had been waiting, even if he didn't know who he was yet. Someone seemed to, and outside the fog didn't press in as hard tonight as if, just for a moment, it respected his need to breathe. The bowl was nearly empty now. He hadn't realized how hungry he was, or maybe he had, he just didn't know what for.
Speaker 1:Miss Katsu sat across from him, not eating, just watching, not like someone suspicious, more like someone checking for signs. He pushed the bowl away, wiped his mouth with a napkin cloth napkin she always insists on using. Her place was cleaner than his, always had been Tidy in the way grief can make you Like. Keeping the outside in order might stop the inside from crumbling. Thank you, he said. She nodded but didn't smile.
Speaker 1:He noticed something then A box in the corner, tucked beneath the side table, the same box he saw earlier. Only now where he saw it last. You moved that, he asked. She followed his gaze, then looked back. No, you must be remembering wrong, but he wasn't and she knew it. She rose to her feet, walked to the sink, began rinsing out the stew pot. Her movements were careful, slow, as if each motion was a measured step in some ritual. What do you want from me? He asked softly. She didn't turn. I want you to start asking the right questions. He leaned back in the chair. The air in her apartment had changed Same smell, same warmth, but something was different, now off balance, like standing in a dream and suddenly realizing you're dreaming. He stood, excused himself. She didn't follow.
Speaker 1:When he got back to his apartment, the fog outside had thickened. The journal sat open, but now, where he left it, a different page now Half a phrase scribbled in tight black ink You're not being followed, you're being led. His chest tightened. He walked to the window, wiped the condensation with his sleeve, across the street through the haze of yellow street lamps. He saw a figure not moving, just standing. Watching. He looked down, flicked his lighter, the flame snapped to life. By the time he looked up again, the street was empty.
Speaker 1:He closed the curtain, turned toward the crate and for the first time noticed seams at the bottom. He knelt. He ran his fingers along the joints rough wood, not metal, handmade, but the pattern symmetrical in a way that doesn't make sense for packing material. He tapped it lightly. It echoed it's hollow. There was something beneath the mask.
Speaker 1:He turned off the screwdriver, wedged the edge into the groove and worked it slowly. The panel came up in one long pull wood flaking at the edges. Inside was a second layer wrapped in dark cloth. He unfolded it. It was armor, a forearm plate, light curved, meant to move, with the body Decorated in faint kanji. He didn't recognize. The metal shimmered, as if brushed with oil, though it was bone dry. And beneath it, another slip of paper, no words this time, just a drawn shape, the same sigil from before, now encircled by what looked like twelve phases of the moon, but three were darkened, blacked out, missing. He stared at it for a long time, then placed the mass on the table and whispered what are you? No one answered, but in the distance, down the hall, a door closed, soft, firm and final.
Speaker 1:He didn't sleep that night, not really. He laid in bed arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling as shadows passed from cars rolled like ghosts across the cracked plaster. The journal was still open on the desk, the form plate rested behind the mask, the kanji on its surface shimmering each time headlights passed. Even in the dark, the sigil seemed to hum from memory. He didn't dare touch it again. Some things were easier to believe when they weren't in your hands.
Speaker 1:By 4.30 am he was dressed, coffee brewing ashtray, already holding the first cigarette. The fog hadn't lifted, in fact it had thickened, seeping in through window panes and underneath door frames, like the city was slowly being erased. He checked the door locked. Then he checked it again. Paranormal was creeping in, or maybe intuition. The phone rang he. He checked it again. Paranormal was creeping in, or maybe intuition? The phone rang, he jumped. Three sharp rings, then silence. It wasn't the neighbor, that was her habit. Two and pause. He let it sit. But something tugged. He picked it up. Nothing, no static, no breath, just silence. Then click. He sat down the receiver slowly, eyes nearing at the wall across from him. Then he saw it Another slip of paper slipped under the door while he was staring at the phone.
Speaker 1:He knelt to receive it, his breath tight on it. A symbol, a different one, this time rougher, more hastily drawn, no words, but on the back, a stain like it had been wet, red-tinged at the edges. He pressed it flat on the back, a stain like it had been wet, red-tinged at the edges. He pressed it flat on the table. Then froze, a shadow passed by the window. He grabbed his lighter, crossed the room, lifted the blind with one swift motion. Nothing, only fog. But his breath was faster now. It came faster now. His breath had brushed the foreign plate, cold, heavy, anchoring.
Speaker 1:He turned back to the door, unlocked it, opened it. The hallway was dim, a single bulb flickered overhead and at the far end. The stairwell creaked, but no footsteps followed. He stepped in the corridor, the fork groaned beneath him, a voice, but not from behind him, from within. They wait for you still.
Speaker 1:He turned in a slow circle. Empty Downstairs, a faint clang, the sound of metal being dropped in haste. He descended slowly. The lobby was empty, but the front door Ajar. He pulled it open. Fog greeted him like an old friend with bad intentions. Across the street, half visible in the mist, a figure stood again Same posture, same shape, stepped onto the sidewalk, but as soon as his foot touched the concrete, the figure turned and walked into the fog. He followed block after block, nothing, until he saw it a circle drawn on the chalk on the side of a building, same sigil, only larger, and beneath it a phrase scrawled in slant handwriting you are not the first. He stepped back, heart thuddingudding, not because of the words, but because he could feel it now in his bones.
Speaker 1:This wasn't a beginning, it was a continuation. And the ones who came before they weren't gone, they were waiting, watching in the fog. You know, it's funny how quiet can be louder than any noise, right, how silence can do that. See this episode, this fog. It wasn't about action? Not really. It was about the moment before you act, right, that stretch of silence, when something in you starts to twitch, something primal, restless. You know a truth, you know scratching at your chest that says you can't keep living like this. The mask, the armor, the sigils, they're not the point, not yet. What matters now was was the weight, the weight of realizing something is coming for you, not to hurt you, but to awaken you.
Speaker 1:We don't talk about this moment enough, the moment before the journey, when everything still looks like normal but feels off, when your routines don't satisfy you, when the cigarette doesn't hit like it used to, when the silence in your apartment starts to sound like someone whispering your name. You ever felt that, you ever feel like your life was trying to warn you. Sometimes the fog isn't there to blind you. It's there to soften the truth so you can survive looking at it. That's what this episode was. He didn't run, he didn't board a plane. He didn't run, he didn't board a plane, he didn't fight, he sat, he listened, he watched the fog and that's when the figure started to appear.
Speaker 1:They say that every man right lives two lives. The second began when he realized he only has one. But I think there's a life before that one too, a life you build because you don't know who you are yet. That's where our protagonist is Still pretending he's fine, still convincing himself the stew from the neighbor counts as a connection Still trying to hold his life together with cigarettes and half-remembered dreams. But here's the thing that's not weakness, that's transition, and the thing about transformation that no one wants to admit it's ugly in the middle. You're not who you were, but you're definitely not who you'll be either. So the word, the word, the world, I should say, starts to distort right.
Speaker 1:Strangers become messengers, buildings whisper things, journals rewrite themselves, and you're either numb to it or you lean in. This story, your story is daring you to lean in. So let's, let's talk about the phrase that showed up in the episode You're not being followed, you're being led. That one's for you, yes, you All that tension you feel, all those failed plans, that frustration, that life doesn't make sense right now. What if it's not chasing you? What if it's guiding you? What if the reason you haven't been able to settle isn't because you're broken, but because your next self is already moving and it's dragging your feet behind it? What if you're not stuck. You're just ignoring the signal. That's why the figures appear. That's why the armor shows up now. That's why Miss Cassu serves you soup like it's communion, not because you're ready, but because it's time. This episode was a threshold, not dramatic, not explosive, but that moment when the air changes and the light shifts and something in your gut says everything you've built is about to be tested, but not for destruction, for refinement. So you become, you can become really the one who wears the armor, not just find it.
Speaker 1:So let's do a reflection prompt. Grab a notebook or a journal and take this seriously, because if you do, you'll never hear the silence the same way again. So name your fog, right? What I'm talking about is describe where your life feels uncertain. Don't try to fix them, just write them. Where the air feels thick, where you can't really see ahead, where clarity seems just out of reach, right? So name your fog with that.
Speaker 1:Two identify your figures. Who or what keeps appearing in your life, asking for your figures? Who or what keeps appearing in your life, asking for your attention? It could be a pattern, a fear, an opportunity you keep ignoring. List them, name them. What are they trying to say? Three define your echoes. What's repeating? Is it a thought? Is it a dream? A memory? A regret? What do you keep bumping into internally that you can't seem to silence? That's not a distraction, it's a map. Four confront your armor. What part of you is still, I should say, what part of you is starting to harden in response to the world? Really, is it protection? Is it isolation? What are you afraid? I should say, what are you really afraid of will happen if you finally let go, like, if you finally let go of who you were? A lot of people are afraid of that.
Speaker 1:Five listen to the journal. Write yourself a letter from your future self. Don't overthink it, just start with this line you don't know me yet, but I've been where you are and then start writing and just keep writing. Let it pour out. Don't stop until it's done.
Speaker 1:Okay, because here's the thing I need you to understand about this right now. Where you're at, You're not just listening to a story, you're living through it. You're not just listening to a man finding relics, you're finding your own, and the next one might be waiting at the edge of your fog. So walk slow, light your cigarette and keep your ears open, because you're not being followed. You're being called. You know, guys, I want to thank you so much for listening today. I I'm so excited about this series as you can tell, tell there's a lot of work that goes into this and I want to thank you guys so much for your feedback, so much for your listenership, so much for being a part of the Gents Journey community.
Speaker 1:I know we've kind of changed things up here, but I think it's for the better, as what he's doing here we find pieces of ourselves and I think we can really relate to this. You know, because we've all been there or we might currently be there, and that's okay. But as I talk about that, we always have to understand that again, like I was saying earlier, that it's always ugly in the middle. You know, if you look at anybody like, especially if you remember like, being like that, it's always ugly in the middle. If you look at anybody, especially if you remember being in junior high or grade school, we all had an ugly period right when we had the bad haircut and the braces or the bad teeth or whatever. And then you grow up and then you get better. You know how to do your hair, you know how to wear the right clothes. You don't have a bad haircut, and that's one of the great things about life is that your journey is always unfolding in front of you and you can always. Your life can always get better if you allow it to, but, as in this, sometimes you got to let go of the old.
Speaker 1:So again, guys, I want to thank you so much for listening today, and if you want to get a hold of me, right, there's three ways you can do it. First way is on the description of this podcast, and it'll say let's chat and you and I can have a conversation about this episode, this series, or the five or six other series that are out there in the 200 plus episode and the Gents Journey catalog. That's the first way. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthonyatgentsjourneycom, so feel free to reach out to me there too. And, last but not least, you can go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey, so please feel free to reach out to me there too, okay? So again, guys, thank you so much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality, take care Bye.