A Journey Once Taken
The man living in the first floor apartment doesn't get out much these days. When asked, he smiles and says it is his hips that cause all the trouble. He had moved into that apartment years ago for that very reason. But that was when there had been two of them. Burdens had been easier then.
Visitors are a rarity. He spends his days sitting inside alone. Every morning, he reads the newspaper, though he has never been fond of reading anything. He naps for too long in the afternoon, watches television through the evening, and spends hours each day preparing meals that never taste like much of anything.
But today is a special occasion. Inside that small, too empty apartment, the man bundles himself in his warmest winter coat, dons his gloves, his hat, and his scarf, and puts on his most comfortable pair of walking shoes. There is not any snow yet, but it is plenty cold despite the lack. It feels appropriate.
This day, 68 years ago, was rough for him. Cold, hungry, and alone, he had boarded a train in the early morning, using the last of his money to buy a one way ticket as far as he could go. Not caring where he ended up, he had chosen the direction at random. All that mattered was that he was going away. Not returning.
That was how he ended up in Shibuya. He had fit right in at 17. Today, he was going to stand out like a sore thumb. But that day all those years ago, despite the hunger, and the cold, and the nearly dying, that day had turned out to be one of the most important in his life, though it had taken him years to realize it. He is leaving his home today to retrace those steps.
Fifty minutes later, he steps off the train and onto the platform just one stop away from his old neighborhood. The station is busier today than he remembers it being when he had first come this way and at the time, he had stood gawking – overwhelmed by the number of people. The man pauses a moment today as well. Where had he gone first?
Yes. That's right. There had been something enticing to his left. The smell of hot food. He turns and follows the old trail.
In place of the oden stand is a series of vending machines. He buys himself a drink so that he can take his pills. He takes the full dose, though half would have sufficed.
It isn't that he has expectations of meeting the same man he had back then. He has been gone for more than two and a half years now. Long enough that it doesn't usually break his heart just to think of him. And though he also knows that the world holds a great many fantastical things – places that lead to different times and items that hold the memories of the events they have witnessed – his journey today has a different purpose.
From the oden stand, it was south. Toward the shopping district.
The apartment he lives in is filled with things that are not his own. With belongings he shared with someone else. And as he progresses in age, he is finding it harder and harder to keep them. That odd ability he has is finding a way to surface out of the blue. It is his concentration, he thinks. He's not as focused as he used to be. There are some days he cannot prevent visions from even the most mundane items.
Shoppers in search of New Year's gifts jostle past with as little sympathy as they had 68 years ago. With less.
Last week, he picked up a kitchen knife and had a vision of a dinner shared more than 30 years past. Two days ago, it was a pen that gave him a vision of the man doing their banking. He had always insisted on that. He tries to take those in stride, telling himself that there is something nice about knowing that the man left an impression on his belongings.
The real problem is the other kind of visions. There are boxes in the closet he doesn't dare move and he has taken to walking around that one spot on the living room floor. That had been a quick lesson to learn. He has no desire to live through that a third time.
On nights when he is particularly tired, he sleeps in the chair by the television instead of in the bed they had shared. Wishing he could pick up a picture and only see the photo in his hand, remember the event as recorded by his mind like everyone else is as useless as the thoughts that tell him he should move. He can't.
Instead of standing outside that restaurant on the corner, he goes in and has a late lunch. Stays there where it is warm a few extra minutes after he finishes the meal.
That apartment had been picked for him. Since it was on the first floor, there would be no steps to deal with as his condition got worse. And it was in a safe neighborhood with a park near by. They could walk there and back home without aggravating his joints. The doctors said the exercise would do him good. There is no motivation for such trips anymore, but they had gone to that park every day the weather had let them.
He wanders through an area of cheap apartments meant for students on his way toward his final destination. The trendy glamour of Shibuya giving way to the more relaxed artistic flair of Shimokitazawa. He arrives in the plaza earlier than he originally had. The sun, only just now setting. Maybe he forgot a few turns on the way, or maybe, even with his slow pace, he is quicker for knowing the area.
The large pine tree that had been there has been replaced by a smaller one this year. There is nothing to do now but wait.
He skips dinner. This time due to lack of appetite instead of lack of money. He wonders briefly if he were dying on the ground now, if his lifelong rescuer would come to save him one last time. Take him away. Keep him. Foolish thoughts.
The man had held him close the night before saying he would always be around to keep him out of trouble. It seems a cruel thing to have said now.
After waking alone late the next morning, he had found the man sprawled on the living room floor. His skin still warm to contrast the cold eggs and toast sitting on the pair of plates in the kitchen. The man had been on his way to their bedroom to wake him for breakfast. No doubt, trying hard to prove there wasn't a damn thing wrong.
Had it been quick? Had he been gone before he hit the ground, or had he lain there, in pain, calling for help that never came?
Surely, he would have heard. Surely, he could not have slept through that. Surely.
He dialed the emergency number and the man on the other end of the line informed him, rather coldly, that there was a fire over on the other side of their district and because of that, they had no vehicles available that could legally transport the body. His case wasn't an emergency, the man said, so he would just have to wait. He suggested calling a family member before hanging up.
But there had been no one to call. No one to wait with him. No one to share his grief.
The closest thing he had to family anymore was the man's sister's daughter, and she was three hours away at best. He passively let the tears pore down his cheeks when he wasn't sobbing hard enough to make himself nauseous. He sat there alone until, hours later, the men from the hospital came and took his companion of more than sixty years away from him.
One of the men, after barely a glance, confirmed that yes, in his professional and certified opinion, the man was indeed dead. Natural causes. That same man gave him a stack of forms to fill out before asking if he already knew the name of the mortuary where the body should be taken. It was easier to take the body straight there than to go to the hospital morgue and then to the mortuary. Less paperwork. Less hassle.
The other man offered the name of a temple in the next ward over. It was a strange idea. Advanced arrangements are usually needed for that sort of thing, but the suggestion went unquestioned. The main priest there had a good reputation, he claimed. An honest man who wouldn't overcharge. Apparently, he could even exorcise evil spirits, if you believe in that sort of thing.
He knew such things existed even if he had never seen them with his own eyes. He wanted him to be safe. Needed him to be safe. He signed where he was told and was given the address of the temple in exchange. The death certificate would be mailed in a few days.
Apart from the five days he spent on the streets when he was 17, it wasn't until that day that he had truly been alone. A hard transition. At least, he tells himself, he is doing a better job of it now than the first time. At the very least, he is still alive.
He plans to stay until midnight. He is preparing himself for what he knows he needs to do. The next time Tsukiko's daughter comes to visit, he is going to ask the girl to take away her uncle's things. Those boxes in the closet, the kitchen knives, everything. The girl – a funny way to be thinking of a women with grandchildren of her own, but still more appropriate than what she insists on calling him. No matter how old he gets, or how many times he corrects her, she still calls him "Uncle."
It isn't that he doesn't love her like a niece, but it was the other man that was truly her uncle, not him. It felt a bit like he was being cheated by having to share the title. He knows it is ridiculous. He has been told so a great many times.
He still has a few hours of waiting left when he hears his name called from the opposite direction. He turns to see another man, on par with him in age and tall, but with a narrower build than the man he had meet here when he was a teenager. The man looks familiar, though he has trouble placing him. It doesn't concern him. The box he is extending is much more interesting.
It's small, about the size of the palm of his hand. He removes the lid to find a folded piece of paper with his name on it neatly placed atop a silver bracelet. He pulls off his gloves to handle the paper. The message is brief.
Don't be stubborn. I don't care if it looks like it was made for a woman, just wear it. I spent too much time working on it for you to let it go to waste. Please.
The item is familiar; he knows what it does. Not particularly ornate, but delicate, it appears to have been crafted for a lady's wrist. It is only after he wakes up on the ground, tears welling in his eyes from the intensity of the bracelet's memory, that he sees the postscript.
Have someone help you put it on. Don't touch it until you're wearing it.
"Here," the man he can't quite place says before taking the bracelet from the box and unfastening the latch that will allow him to slip it on without touching any skin.
Once secured on his wrist, Kazahaya laughs for the first time in a long while. He is going to be stuck with the girly looking thing for the rest of his life. It's a fair enough trade though, because he isn't going to have to rid himself of all of Rikuou's things after all. He can still sleep in their bed. He can walk straight through the living room. He can pick up a picture and remember.
He opens himself completely to the memories of the things around him. No visions. All he receives is a subtleness from the silver links encircling his wrist. Emotions Rikuou had worked hard to make sure would be there through the dampening effects of the bracelet. Those emotions, put there just for him, they slowly begin to sooth and comfort his aches.
"I can't even begin to thank you en– Ah, I'm sorry." He bows and clears his throat. "I've been rude. Your name is…?"
"Doumeki Shizuka." He returns the bow. "But you shouldn't be thanking me. And here. This is yours as well." From his pocket, he pulls a small gold key.
Kazahaya laughs again. Harder this time but accompanied by a rueful shake of his head. "That damn key. All those years. All for this." He indicates his wrist. "This has Kakei's –ah, uh, a man I worked for a long time ago. This has his writing all over it. If he weren't dead, I'd call him a sick bastard."
This time, the other man lets out a short chuckle along with him. "I think I used to know a woman a lot like your old boss." He takes a minute to think. "If you come with me, I'll introduce you to her ex-employee. He is the one you should be thanking anyway."
After a questioning look, he explains.
"Besides the place, the instructions only gave us a day and time. No year. Whenever things like this comes up, Kimihiro ends up getting himself into some kind of danger. So after he got himself sick waiting in the snow all night the first year, I told him he shouldn't come back." Despite the statement, the man seems to hold no grudge.
"You were early today, but I'm sure he will still want to meet you. Just don't be surprised when he starts yelling that I'm a selfish jerk who should have waited for him. Come on, he stopped just down the street to visit a friend. We can walk." The man named Doumeki Shizuka turns to lead the way without another word and Kazahaya takes a few seconds before he begins to follow.
Trailing along behind his new acquaintance, with the promise of another soon to be met and with Rikuou's peace on his wrist, he feels his hips move just a bit easier than before – as though his whole body is somehow lighter.