Chapter 11:

Post-Funeral

Kenbōshō Man

Unclaimed Remains: Overseas Worker

No formal identification.
Estimated Age: Late 70s
Cause of Death: Collapse on public street

Personal Effects:
— Expired Beijing subway card
— Small photograph (presumed family)

The funeral was held in a room that doubled as a tax office.

"Namaaami dabutsu... namaaami dabutsu..."

For a long moment, we listened only to the ceremonial monk's sutras. The buzzing of a vending machine that sold incense accompanied them.

"He worked downstairs with my colleague," Yoshida said, standing beside me. "Custodial services. Didn't speak much Japanese."

"It's funny," he added, "you can walk past the same man for years and not even know his name."

Stepping forward, I witnessed the forgotten man in his open casket. His suit didn't belong to him. His face was wrinkled with regret. I stood there far too long. And right there, staring within, I saw myself.

"I'll take the stairs," Yoshida said, as we departed from the ceremony. "Elevator's yours."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Just need to stretch the legs and a smoke," he said, patting his thigh. "You go ahead."

I nodded.

"Ding"
Floor 6.

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped in.

It was vacant, except for a small girl standing in the corner. She wore a sailor uniform—or perhaps a costume of a character I didn’t recognize. She looked forward, not acknowledging my entrance. In her hands, a plastic insect cage.

I took my place in the opposite corner.

Sakamoto's “Tasogare” played on loop through tinny speakers from both sides.

'Ding'
Floor 5.

"I wonder why they always occurred on gloomy days," she abruptly spoke, "or is it just how we remember it?"

"That's an interesting thought," I replied, trying to be friendly.

"Maybe the day wasn't actually gloomy at all," she continued, eyes still forward, "and we made it up to feel a certain way at a certain time. Just so we could grieve in weather that matched."

'Ding'
Floor 4.

"Papa died," she said, almost casually. "So why are you here?"

"Oh, I um," I sputtered. "Well, it was someone I didn't know."

"Someone did though," she replied. "You may not think it's very important, but I think everyone has a story to tell. Maybe it says a lot about us and we just don't know it."

"Maybe."

"If Papa could go back," she whispered. "I wondered what he'd do differently."

'Ding'
Floor 3.

"Did you know?" she said, changing the subject once more. "Cicadas can live underground for seventeen years before they emerge?"

"I might have heard that somewhere," I replied, scratching the back of my hair.

"It's true... they spend most of their time underground."

I looked at her, then down to the cage. The cicada inside was belly-up, dead.

"I think I left something at school..." she muttered.

"Huh?"

"In my desk."

"Desk?"

"Nevermind," she said. "It's too late now."