Chapter 1: Somewhere She Could See
Tatenashi had promised to sit in the third row.
His sister had been very specific about it. Not the first, where she would have to look down to find him. Not the back, where the lights would turn everyone into an indistinct row of heads. Third row. Aisle seat. Somewhere she could see.
Now she stood in his bedroom doorway holding a clarinet case against her knees, watching him try to mend its broken latch with a screwdriver meant for eyeglasses.
"You're making it worse."
"That's the first stage."
"What's the second stage?"
"You stop talking so I can concentrate."
Nao leaned against the doorframe. She had already changed into her concert clothes, a white blouse and a black skirt with a crease down the front. One sock had slipped below the other. He almost pointed it out, then decided against giving her another reason to be annoyed with him.
The screw turned uselessly in its socket.
"Can't you just put tape around it?" she asked.
"And have you walk onstage carrying something that looks like it escaped from a hospital?"
"The case doesn't go onstage."
"Then why does it need fixing?"
"Because you said you could."
He glanced up.
She was looking at the case now, her thumb worrying the worn handle. The reply had come too quickly to be entirely about the latch.
Tatenashi put down the screwdriver.
"There's a strap in the kitchen drawer. The one from the old lunch bag. Get that."
"So you can't fix it."
"I can keep it shut. Different qualification."
She went to fetch it. He waited until her footsteps reached the kitchen before turning his left hand over.
The skin across two knuckles had split. Water had cleaned most of the dirt out, but there was a dark crescent beside his thumbnail that he hadn't managed to remove. He pressed the heel of his hand against his trouser leg until the throbbing settled.
From the kitchen came the sound of several drawers opening, followed by one shutting much harder than necessary.
"Top drawer," he called.
"I know."
She returned with the strap and a packet of plasters.
He looked at the packet. She looked at his hand.
Neither said anything.
Tatenashi threaded the strap beneath the handle and around the case, fastening it tightly enough to hold the lid without crushing the velvet lining inside. He lifted it, gave it a cautious shake, then passed it back.
"There. It'll survive an earthquake."
Nao checked the buckle herself.
"A small earthquake."
"You'll have to cancel if it's a big one."
That nearly got a smile.
Her phone vibrated. She glanced down, slid it into her pocket, and lifted the case with both hands.
"Mrs. Seki's downstairs."
"Already?"
"We have rehearsal."
He followed her to the entrance. Two pairs of shoes lay beneath the cabinet, his school trainers and their father's work boots. Dad had left in the lighter pair that morning. Another late shift, then. Tatenashi tried to remember whether there was rice left in the cooker.
Nao stepped into her shoes without sitting down.
"Doors open at six," she said.
"I know."
"We're fourth."
"I know that too."
She pulled the door open, then stopped.
"If you're not coming, tell me now."
The hallway beyond her smelled faintly of someone's dinner. A television murmured through the neighboring wall.
"Nao."
"I'm not going to be upset."
He knew that careful voice. She used it when she wanted something badly enough to pretend she didn't.
"I said I'd come."
"You said that last time."
His fingers tightened around the door's edge.
At her winter performance, he had reached the community center with eight minutes to spare. Through the glass doors he'd seen Yusa standing beside the drinks machine with two friends. One of them had spotted him and smiled.
Tatenashi had walked past the entrance.
He had kept walking until the music would have been over.
"I know," he said.
Nao waited. He could have told her about Yusa. It would explain the hand, too. But she would remember his explanation tonight whenever she looked toward the audience. She might spend the whole performance wondering whether he was frightened.
"I should have been there."
Her shoulders shifted, barely.
"Yes," she said.
"This time I will be."
She nodded once and went down the hallway. At the lift she turned, raised three fingers, then disappeared behind the closing doors.
He stood there until the machinery started moving.
The packet of plasters resisted opening.
Tatenashi tore it with his teeth and immediately understood why Nao had brought it without comment. The plaster was pale yellow, decorated with tiny smiling ducks.
"Cruel," he muttered.
He put one on anyway.
On his desk, beneath an unfinished mathematics worksheet, lay a folded application for the technical college across the river. He pulled it free. The deadline was Friday. He had written his name and address three days ago, then stopped at the section asking why he wanted to study electrical maintenance.
Because broken things sometimes made sense once you opened them.
Probably not what they wanted.
His phone buzzed against the desk.
For a moment he expected another message from Yusa. Instead, his father's name appeared above a photograph of a vending-machine coffee.
Going to be late. Get a recording of your sister. Landscape this time.
Tatenashi typed, That was one time.
The reply came almost immediately.
Your thumb gave a beautiful performance.
He smiled despite himself.
I'm going. I'll get it.
He put the phone down and looked again at the application.
During lunch, Yusa had found it tucked inside his textbook. He had read the first question aloud to his friends, then held the page just beyond Tatenashi's reach.
Usually Tatenashi waited. That was the simplest method. Let them finish. Let them become bored. Get through the afternoon without giving anyone a better story to tell.
Today he had reached for it.
The paper had torn along the fold. Yusa had shoved him against the edge of a desk, and his hand had caught badly between the metal frame and the wall.
Tatenashi had still picked up both pieces.
Now he laid the application flat, smoothed the transparent tape across its middle, and pulled his chair closer.
He wrote one sentence, crossed out half of it, and tried again.
By the time he finished the paragraph, the afternoon light had moved from his desk to the floor.
He read it twice. Then he slipped the application into an envelope before he could decide it sounded stupid.
At five forty-six, Tatenashi left the apartment wearing the shirt Nao had called his interview shirt, although he had never worn it to an interview.
He checked the route on his phone. Twenty-three minutes on foot. Plenty of time.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement dark beneath the apartment awning. Water ticked from a loose gutter into an overflowing flowerpot. Across the road, the laundrette's windows glowed orange around slowly turning clothes.
He had lived on this street for seventeen years. He knew which paving stone rocked beneath a careless step and which corner shop sold yesterday's bread without saying so. Tonight he noticed a little more than usual: steam escaping the noodle shop's open door, the sharp smell of wet bicycle brakes, a child trying to stamp on his mother's shadow beneath a streetlamp.
His phone vibrated.
Where are you? Nao had written.
On my way.
Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.
Don't record the whole thing.
He frowned at the screen.
Dad asked.
You can record some. Just watch some too.
Tatenashi stood beneath the laundrette sign until someone behind him cleared their throat.
"Sorry."
He stepped aside and typed, All right.
Then, after a moment: How's the earthquake-proof case?
Embarrassing.
But functional.
Unfortunately.
He put the phone away smiling.
At the bakery, he bought the last two custard buns. One was slightly crushed. He chose that one for himself before the woman behind the counter could apologize, then counted the remaining coins into his palm.
Enough for the bus tomorrow. Not enough for lunch as well.
He could pack something.
The woman folded the top of the paper bag. "Going somewhere nice?"
"My sister's concert."
"Then you'll want this."
She slipped in a napkin.
He thanked her and left, shifting the warm bag carefully beneath his arm.
At the next crossing, his phone lit up again.
This time it was Yusa.
You left fast.
Tatenashi stopped reading before the second message finished arriving.
Across the road, beneath the convenience-store awning, three boys in school trousers stood around a bicycle. One had Yusa's build. Tatenashi's stomach tightened before the boy turned enough for him to see a face he didn't recognize.
The pedestrian signal changed.
Someone brushed past him. He stayed where he was, watching the strangers laugh.
There was another route to the community center. Down past the canal, under the railway, up the service steps. It would take an extra ten minutes. He could avoid the shopping street entirely.
His thumb hovered over the message.
Then he opened the contact settings and blocked the number.
It took two taps. His hand shook afterward, which irritated him more than the message had.
The signal began to flash. Tatenashi crossed before it changed, keeping to the main road.
Nothing happened.
By the far curb, he could breathe properly again.
The community center clock tower was visible from the railway footbridge. Its green roof rose above the shops, less than five minutes away.
Tatenashi climbed the steps, one hand sliding along the damp rail. Below him, traffic gathered at a red light. A delivery rider adjusted the plastic cover over his handlebars. Somewhere along the railway, a train sounded its horn.
Halfway across the bridge, Tatenashi paused.
The horn had stopped strangely.
He waited for the fading note. Nothing followed it.
A bus passed underneath, tires spraying water against the curb. He felt the vibration through the soles of his shoes, but heard no engine.
He swallowed. His ears clicked.
The sound returned all at once: traffic, footsteps, a woman calling to someone on the stairs. Tatenashi winced and rubbed beneath his ear.
He must be getting ill.
On the other side of the bridge, the sidewalk narrowed beside a shuttered furniture shop. Rainwater had gathered along its frontage. He stepped around the first puddle and into the second, soaking the edge of his shoe.
"Perfect."
As he lifted his foot, light moved beneath the water.
He looked down.
The puddle reflected a blue sky.
Tatenashi raised his head. Above the buildings, evening clouds lay heavy and gray. The sun had already dropped behind the railway embankment.
He looked down again.
Blue. Bright enough to hurt his eyes.
A long white shape crossed the reflection, too slowly for a bird. He bent without meaning to, the paper bag crackling against his ribs.
The white shape separated into branches.
He stepped back.
In the furniture shop's glass, his reflection moved with him. Behind it, where the road should have been, pale branches spread across a depth of blue that had no place in the narrow street.
His phone began to ring.
He almost dropped the buns getting it out.
"Hello?"
"Which entrance are you coming to?" Nao asked. Her voice was thin beneath a confusion of instruments. "Because the side one's locked. Mrs. Seki said—"
"Nao."
"What?"
He turned toward the road. A woman carrying a folded umbrella approached along the pavement. Normal buildings. Normal traffic. The reflection beside him still showed the branches.
"Are you at the center?" he asked.
"Yes. Where else would I be?"
"Right. Sorry."
He moved toward the approaching woman.
"Excuse me—"
She glanced at him, then at the phone against his ear, and continued past.
Tatenashi reached toward her sleeve.
For an instant he could not tell how far away she was. Her shoulder seemed close enough to touch, then impossibly distant, although her feet had taken only one step.
His fingers closed on air.
"Tate?"
He tried to follow the woman. His right knee struck something hard.
There was nothing in front of him.
Pain shot up his thigh. He stumbled, caught the shop's window frame, and felt rough bark beneath his palm.
He jerked his hand away.
The frame was aluminum.
"Are you coming?" Nao asked.
Fear made him angry enough to speak.
"Yes. I'm just—"
The street tilted without moving.
His stomach lurched. He crouched against the shutter, pressing the phone hard to his ear. Somewhere beyond the thin metal, something enormous creaked.
He could smell wet soil.
"Tate?"
"Stay on the phone."
The instruments in the background quieted.
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
He had never said those words to her in that voice. He heard the change in her breathing.
The pavement beneath his shoes grew transparent.
Roots extended below it, descending through a darkness so deep that looking into it made his body pitch forward. He flattened his free hand against the ground. The grit was still there. He could feel a small stone cutting into his palm.
"Get someone," he said. "I'm by the furniture shop. After the bridge."
"I'm getting Mrs. Seki."
He heard her footsteps. A door. Someone asking her not to run.
He concentrated on those sounds.
The paper bag had fallen beside his foot. One bun had rolled into the gutter, its pale filling touching the rainwater. He reached for the other without thinking, then stopped with his hand halfway extended.
Across his fingers, something like fine white roots was showing beneath the skin.
He rubbed them hard with his thumb.
They brightened.
"No."
He pushed himself upright. His knee buckled, but he held the window frame and dragged his foot toward the road.
One step.
He could see the center's clock above the rooftops. He could still get there. Someone was coming to the phone; he could hear an adult voice asking Nao where he was.
He tried to answer.
The sound left his mouth, but it did not enter the receiver.
The pressure inside his chest tightened until his next breath would not come.
He clung to the frame. The metal was cold. He fixed on that, on the pain in his hand, on the ordinary traffic passing three strides away.
His phone slipped against his cheek.
"Tatenashi?" Mrs. Seki said.
He could not feel the fingers holding it.
Nao was speaking behind her. He strained to hear, terrified that the call would end before he understood.
"Tell him I'll wait by the door."
He tried to say her name.
For one instant, he saw every branch reflected in the glass turn toward a light beneath his feet.
Then he could see nothing at all.
There was warmth against his back.
Tatenashi tried to move his hand. He needed his phone. Nao was still waiting for an answer.
Something lifted him.
Cold touched his wet skin, and his body folded around a painful breath. He could not control what came after it. A cry broke from him, high and unfamiliar.
A voice spoke nearby. He understood none of the words.
He tried again to ask for his sister.
Hands gathered him against a heartbeat that was not his own.