The Moon’s Ship That Crosses The Night: Chapter 24

Previous TOC Next

The train slid into the platform, and the doors opened. Kawase let the departing passengers pass before tugging lightly on the cord in his hand. He had fashioned a loop from a thirty-centimeter-long piece of string, holding one end while the other was placed in the man's hand. When Kawase pulled, the man would sense the movement and follow.

He had come up with the idea after recalling how blind marathon runners ran with their guides. Thanks to this, except for staircases, he no longer had to walk arm-in-arm with the man.

They were headed to a dermatologist three stations away. As they entered the waiting area, led by the string, a few people turned to look, but Kawase ignored them. The clinic was as crowded as ever. After about an hour, the man's name was called. The nurses were already familiar with him from previous visits, and one led him to the examination room.

Kawase, feeling utterly exhausted, stretched out on a bench in the waiting room. To secure time off for this 4 PM appointment, he had pulled an all-nighter the night before. His workload was overwhelming. He had only meant to rest for a moment but ended up falling into a deep sleep. A nurse gently shook him awake.

"Are you alright?" Her voice was kind, making Kawase lower his gaze in embarrassment.

"Yeah… more or less."

"You look pale. If you're not feeling well, you're welcome to rest here a little longer."

He thanked her, then turned to find the man sitting beside him. His right hand was still wrapped in bandages. The thought that he would have to help him bathe again made his exhaustion deepen.

After paying at the reception desk, Kawase returned to find the man sitting in the exact same position, staring straight ahead.

"We're leaving," he said, touching the back of the man's left hand with the end of the string. The man gripped it, and after confirming the hold, Kawase gave it a tug. The man rose and followed.

The dermatology clinic was on the second floor. The elevator indicator showed that it was currently on the eighth floor. Kawase glanced at the stairs beyond a potted plant. If he were alone, he would have taken them, but with the man, it would take too long. Plus, the string alone wasn’t enough to ensure safety on the stairs—he would need to lend an arm. Waiting for the elevator was the better option.

He suddenly imagined himself and the man descending the stairs together. A young man, rushing up from below, collides with the blind man. The impact makes him lose his footing. The string between them snaps under the weight, and the man tumbles all the way down to the first floor…

Ding.

The elevator doors opened, jolting Kawase out of his thoughts. He hurried inside, perhaps a bit too fast, because the man, connected by the string, lurched forward awkwardly.

Checking the time, he saw that between the appointment and the waiting time, they had spent two and a half hours at the clinic. It was now past seven. His body was drained, and he wanted to go home as soon as possible. His pace quickened, but the man, as usual, followed without complaint, so Kawase kept walking.

The platform was relatively empty, likely because the previous train had just left. No one stood at the white line near the stairway. Kawase positioned himself beside the man and idly gazed at the advertisements across the tracks.

Tomorrow, there was a meeting at ten in the morning. That reminded him—he had meant to go over the compiled materials beforehand, but he had completely forgotten. Matsushita had put the report together, and Kawase wasn’t entirely confident in its accuracy. He should get to the office early to double-check.

And on the way home, he couldn’t forget to stop by the convenience store to buy the man’s lunch for tomorrow. Dinner wasn’t an issue since they ate together, but he often forgot about lunch. The man never complained when Kawase forgot, but…

The only reason Kawase was barely tolerating this situation was that he had access to the man’s credit card. If he had to cover the medical bills and meals out of his own pocket, he was sure his resentment would have boiled over long ago.

As Kawase absentmindedly played with the string, it suddenly slipped from his fingers. It dangled from the man's hand. In the distance, the sound of an approaching train rumbled closer. He knew he should reach out and take hold of the string again, but his hand wouldn't move. The man's left fingers twitched slightly, perhaps noticing that one side had gone slack.

What if—Kawase thought. What if this man were to step forward now and throw himself onto the tracks? Maybe this time, he wouldn’t stop him. The string slipping away had been an accident. If the man jumped in front of the train, it wouldn’t be Kawase’s fault. He wouldn't even have to notice. No one would blame him. And then, this troublesome life he had been leading would come to an end.

The roar of the train, the approaching lights. The man's hesitant steps crossed the marked line with newfound purpose. The image flashed in Kawase’s mind—this man falling, the deafening screech of the train’s brakes. But it was just a fantasy, a self-serving delusion, an escape.

Kawase jolted, his breath catching. The man beside him had begun to step forward, slowly, as if following an unspoken command. Just like in his own thoughts.

The moment the man took his second step, Kawase grabbed his arm and yanked him roughly back inside the safety of the white line. He didn’t ask why he had stepped forward.

His hands trembled, his throat was dry. He couldn’t speak.

"I thought it was about time for the train to arrive," the man said, unprompted, as if making an excuse. But that was obviously a lie.

With a sinking feeling, they boarded the train. The three stations passed in an instant.

The walk from the station to the apartment was only ten minutes, but it felt unbearably long. Kawase tugged at the string, leading the man like a dog on a leash. Every so often, the man’s pace slowed, and the string pulled taut. From behind, a deep rumbling sound approached.

Kawase turned to see a massive truck, far too large for the narrow road, bearing down on them. There was no clear separation between the roadway and the sidewalk. He pulled the string hard, dragging the man roughly to the right. The man seemed to understand and stepped to Kawase’s side, stopping in place. The truck roared past, the wind from its passing ruffling the man’s bangs.

Kawase thought, If I let go here...

Had this man memorized the path they had walked so many times? Could he find his way back alone? No—if he let go now, this man would never return. He would simply wait for the right moment to die.

The man had no belongings. Kawase had his health insurance card, his credit cards. The situation was the same as that night on the pedestrian bridge.

As he imagined the man stepping onto the road, or throwing himself from another bridge, they arrived home. Thinking about it is one thing. Seeing it happen is terrifying.

Sighing, Kawase decided to get the unpleasant task over with first. He led the man to the bathroom.

Without needing to be told, the man began undressing. Kawase stripped as well, covering the man’s injured right arm with a plastic bag and taping it securely with duct tape. He guided him into the bathroom, seating him on the stool. Adjusting the water temperature, he soaked the man’s body, then silently began washing his gray hair.

As his fingers moved through the man's hair, tears began to spill from his eyes. He didn’t know why. The droplets falling onto the man’s head—was it the shower, or his own tears? The man would never know.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Hatred toward the man kept piling up like layers of sediment. He took care of him, but he couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. He despised him, despised him, and yet, unable to find any solution, September came to an end. Their fruitless cohabitation was about to reach a month and a half.

That morning, when Kawase arrived at work, Enoki, one of the project members, slid up to his desk and asked in a suggestive tone, “Kawase-san, did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Matsushita—he’s finally getting married.”

“Married? To Tomomi-chan, the one who's two years younger?”

“Looks like it.”

Matsushita was never the type to keep secrets, and he loved to talk. He frequently mentioned, “Tomomi-chan this, Tomomi-chan that,” so everyone in the department knew about her.

“Well, good for him, I guess.”

It seemed like good news, but it didn’t exactly come as a surprise.

Later that morning, when Kawase brought some documents to Arisawa’s desk, the department head suddenly asked, “So, Matsushita’s getting married, huh?”

“Seems like it. He hasn’t told you yet, Chief?”

“He did say he had something he wanted to talk about. Guess that’s what it was. But isn’t this the kind of thing you report to your boss first?”

True, the order was a bit off, but Arisawa didn’t seem genuinely upset. He knew Matsushita well enough to expect him to blurt out good news before making it official.

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Tomomi-chan, apparently.”

“…I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t picture her face.”

“He brought her to our hanami last year.”

“The cherry blossom party, huh? I think I have pictures from that.”

Arisawa opened his drawer. His desk was far too messy for someone in a managerial position, and he rummaged through it with loud, careless swipes, mixing up what might be important documents with obvious trash.

“Can’t find it.”

About to give up, he picked up a folded card. “What’s this?” He opened it with a flick.

“A love letter?” Kawase teased, even though he already knew it wasn’t.

Arisawa shrugged. “Not that exciting. It’s a thank-you note for a condolence gift from Shibaoka.”

The unexpected mention of the man’s name sent a jolt through Kawase’s chest.

“His mother passed away at fifty-six, huh? Pretty young,” Arisawa muttered. Then, after counting on his fingers, his expression suddenly stiffened.

“What is it?” Kawase asked.

“Shibaoka might’ve been a stepchild.”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“If you do the math, his mother would’ve had him at fifteen. Not impossible, but that’s pretty damn young.”

Scratching his head in confusion, Arisawa tossed the thank-you note into the trash. It landed half-open, and for a brief moment, the name Shibaoka Sumiko peeked out from inside.

Previous TOC Next