The Moon’s Ship That Crosses The Night: Chapter 1

While you may already be familiar with these terms, I’ve provided their English definitions for those who may not be.

さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

君 (kun): This suffix is often used for addressing younger males, or in a more familiar or casual setting. It can be used with people of the same or lower status, and it's commonly used among friends, students, or in professional settings where there is a clear hierarchy (like between a superior and a subordinate). 

ちゃん (chan): This suffix is used to express affection or endearment, typically towards children, pets, or close friends. It conveys a sense of familiarity and warmth, and is often used with people who are younger or of the same age but with whom one shares a close, informal relationship. While it can be used for both males and females, it is more commonly used for females and children.

Content warning: This novel includes descriptions of sexual content and other potentially distressing material—but going into detail would involve spoilers. Please read at your own discretion. Just know that this is very much in line with Konohara Narise’s signature style: “I read this, I was disturbed, I felt terrible, and yet… I couldn’t stop.”

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There’s no such thing as "darkness" in one's heart. A person can only be themselves—nothing more, nothing less. People who don’t understand that simply slap a convenient name on something they fail to comprehend.

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Behind a large liquor shop, Kawase Fumito stood, sweat beading on his forehead, as he silently watched the midsummer sun sink into the western sky. The purchasing manager wouldn’t hear him out until they had finished their tasks for the day. He understood that waiting was part of the job, but that didn’t make it any less tedious.

A group of four or five high school boys passed by on the sidewalk. Loosely worn uniforms, bangs so long they were downright annoying. Their loud, obnoxious laughter grated on his nerves.

Like hell any of you will be laughing in five or six years. You’ll be stuck in suits, bowing your heads and groveling just like the rest of us.

Realizing he was silently cursing at their retreating figures, he felt a wave of emptiness wash over him and let out a deep sigh.

It had been a year and four months since he joined LEMIO, a major food company best known for its instant ramen. Assigned to the sales department, his days were spent visiting retail stores, pushing his company’s products. He had originally hoped to join the product planning division, but instead, he was placed in sales. The disappointment hit hard. And when he learned that Nunomiya, a senior in the department, had been submitting transfer requests for four years with no success, he realized just how competitive product planning was within LEMIO.

Even so, his desire to transfer only grew stronger with time.

Walking until his legs felt like lead, enduring snide remarks like, "Your company's only real hit is cup noodles, right?"—all while bowing his head day after day. He understood that sales was an essential part of the business, but if this was all he did, he felt like he’d never grow.

No, he didn’t want to be on the selling side. He wanted to be on the creating side.

Somehow, he just had a feeling—he could make a great new product.

By the time darkness had fully settled, the purchasing manager finally called him over. After waiting so long, he had braced himself for an arrogant type, but the man—despite his intimidating appearance—was surprisingly polite. And, most importantly, he managed to secure the contract.

Bowing repeatedly as he left the store, Kawase returned to the office at 9 PM. He hadn’t reported that he’d be going straight home, and he had a little unfinished work left. He figured the office would be completely empty by now.

Yet, the third floor—the sales department—still had its lights on.

Knowing he wasn’t the last one there made him feel oddly relieved.

The one remaining was his department head, Shibaoka, who sat facing his computer, a can of coffee in one hand.

"Good work today."

His voice echoed through the quiet sales floor. Shibaoka slowly lifted his head and looked at him. Then, he glanced at his wristwatch.

"You’re out pretty late."

"The client was busy and wouldn’t listen to me right away. But I got the contract."

Shibaoka’s eyes narrowed in a smile.

"Well done. Good job."

With those few words of acknowledgment, Kawase felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He rather liked his boss—kind, perceptive, and always knowing just what to say when it was needed.

Tall and slender, Shibaoka might come off as high-strung, but he was actually the most easygoing person in the sales department. Kawase had never once seen him raise his voice. He did reprimand people at times, but never unfairly. He was also a skilled leader.

Sales required strong communication skills, and some people just weren’t suited for it, no matter how hard they tried. Shibaoka had a knack for recognizing this early on. If someone wasn’t cut out for sales, he’d transfer them to a department where they could truly shine.

That was why there were no so-called "incompetents" in the sales department. Everyone performed at least decently, and sales targets were consistently met or exceeded. In a department that could easily become cutthroat with quotas and targets, people actually got along surprisingly well.

Whenever he met up with college friends and heard them rant about their awful bosses, Kawase was reminded of just how lucky he was to have a superior who was competent, kind, and trustworthy.

"Not heading home yet?"

"Hmm," Shibaoka murmured as he absentmindedly pushed up his slipping glasses with his right hand.

"Even if I go home early, there’s nothing to do."

The department head was forty-two and single. When he was younger, he lost the woman he had planned to marry, and since then, he hadn’t been able to move on. Apparently, he had no interest in forming deep relationships with anyone.

When Kawase first heard this from a senior colleague, he found himself oddly convinced—if it was this department head, then somehow, that made sense.

Speaking of which, the year he joined the company, Shibaoka’s mother passed away, and he attended the funeral. The portrait displayed at the altar showed a woman so young and beautiful, it was hard to believe she was his mother.

As he was leaving, he overheard a middle-aged woman in mourning attire whispering to an acquaintance:

"...Seems like she was severely depressed. Might’ve been suicide."

The discomfort of unintentionally eavesdropping on another family’s secret left an awkward knot in his stomach.

… Shibaoka had only ever said that she had "passed away due to illness."

Perhaps that was why, after his mother’s funeral, he had fallen ill himself and taken three weeks off work.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

Shibaoka’s voice brought Kawase back to the present.

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"I was thinking of heading out soon myself. If you’d like, why don’t we grab a bite together?"

The department head was easy to talk to, but at the end of the day, he was still the boss. Being invited out privately was a first.

Why would he invite a junior like me?

That thought crossed his mind, but the more immediate realization—that he might get treated to a good meal—won out.

"Sure."

Shibaoka said there was a place nearby he frequented, so they left the office and walked for a bit. Even at night, the air was thick with humidity, and the occasional breeze carried a strange, lukewarm quality.

"Feels like the kind of wind that comes before the rain," Shibaoka murmured, running a hand through his hair, tousled by the gusts.

Walking side by side, Kawase—standing at 185 cm (6’0”)—realized Shibaoka was a little shorter than him.

"Yeah, it’s kind of unsettling."

They made idle conversation as they walked for about ten minutes before arriving at a small izakaya tucked away on a backstreet. The place mainly had counter seating, with only two tables. It was neat and well-kept, with an extensive selection of shochu.

Shibaoka wasn’t a big eater, nor did he drink much—just a small sip here and there. Yet, he ordered plenty of food.

"You're still young. Eat up."

It was obvious he was being considerate, so Kawase gratefully accepted the gesture and dug in without hesitation.

A pleasant buzz set in, and with it, a loosened tongue. Before he knew it, he was rambling on—about the time he nearly got caught drinking at school in high school, about his backpacking adventures during college.

Shibaoka listened with genuine amusement, occasionally prompting him with a "Then what?"

At some point, Kawase realized he had been doing all the talking. Maybe he should let the department head speak for a change.

After all, when a boss invites a subordinate out for dinner, it usually means they want to vent.

As an experiment, he fell silent.

Immediately, a quiet stillness settled over the table. Shibaoka took a sip of shochu and slowly brought a now-cold piece of tamagoyaki to his lips.

Maybe he should steer the conversation somewhere. But he didn’t want to talk about work. What topic would the department head engage in?

"Boss, you look young for your age."

It was a frequent topic of conversation in the department.

Shibaoka didn’t look a day over thirty-five or thirty-six—hard to believe he was past forty.

Kawase had an uncle the same age as the department head, but his uncle was a chubby, scruffy, balding mess. It was hard to believe they were of the same species, let alone the same age.

"You think so?"

The slight smile on his face suggested he didn’t mind the compliment. No one disliked being told they looked young.

Another silence followed.

The department head’s calm gaze settled on Kawase, unwavering to the point of being slightly unnerving.

"You’re very healthy," he said at last.

"I’ve got a lot of stamina, yeah," Kawase said, playfully making a fist.

But the department head shook his head, his expression serious.

"No, I meant your heart. Your mind is healthy."

…That was something his uncle would say. His uncle specialized in psychiatry and was always going on about "mental health," but hearing those words from the department head felt oddly out of place.

Kawase suddenly remembered department head’s mother. Maybe having someone so mentally unwell close to him made him more aware of things like that.

"Just watching you makes me feel like I might regain some energy myself."

The department head drained the last sip of shochu from his glass. He seemed reasonably satisfied just listening to a junior employee’s trivial old stories.

As the last train's departure time approached, they left the izakaya. As expected, the department head covered the entire bill. Kawase made a token effort, saying, "I can pay too," but the department head simply waved it off.

"I was the one who invited you, after all."

Deciding to accept the gesture, Kawase gave a dramatic bow in front of the shop.

"Thank you for the meal!"

Outside, the wind had grown noticeably stronger. Since the subway station was nearby, they cut through a small park. As they walked, Kawase suddenly noticed the absence of a presence beside him.

He turned around.

The department head had stopped next to the jungle gym.

"What's wrong?"

"Ah… It’s just that the ground is hard to see…"

A few streetlights in the park had gone out. The area around the jungle gym was particularly dark, but the path ahead was faintly visible—not enough to make walking impossible.

Kawase recalled his uncle grumbling once: "Once you hit forty, your vision starts to go."

…Could farsightedness also affect night vision?

"There’s nothing in your way, so you can walk straight ahead," Kawase reassured him.

Even so, the department head didn’t move.

Growing anxious about missing the last train, Kawase quickly doubled back and reached for the department head’s left hand.

The fingertips were cold—unexpectedly so, given it was summer.

"You’ll be fine, really."

When he pulled gently, the department head finally began to walk. Once they exited the park and reached a brighter area, their hands naturally drifted apart.

The stairs leading down to the subway station were dimmer than expected. Worried, Kawase glanced back.

The department head was descending the steps carefully, one hand trailing along the railing.

The platform was sparsely populated. As they waited for the train, the walking had cleared away some of the lingering fuzziness from the alcohol.

"You're not afraid of the dark?"

The murmur was ambiguous—half directed at him, half to himself. Kawase turned to look.

"When I stare into the darkness, I start feeling like I might get swallowed up in it someday. That scares me."

The memory of the unlit corner of the park surfaced. A stretch of darkness that one could cross in just a few steps.

"Being scared of the dark… That’s a bit childish, don’t you think?"

The words slipped out without thinking. A blunt, almost reproachful remark. For a moment, Kawase worried he might have offended him.

But the department head just laughed. Still chuckling, he glanced at his wristwatch, then peered into the shadowy tracks beyond.

"I wonder when the train will get here."

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