Chapter 5: A Train to Yesterday

She wears a simple, comfortable-looking travel dress and has her long white hair tied back in a loose braid. She looks less like an ethereal goddess and more like a real person today, yet she still possesses an effortless grace that makes her stand out from the crowd. When she sees me, her face lights up with that now-familiar, radiant smile.

"You made it!" she says, her voice full of genuine delight.

"I told you I would," I reply, the corners of my mouth turning up in a smile of my own. It is still a strange sensation, but it is becoming more natural.

She has already bought the tickets. "Reserved seats, window for you," she says, handing one to me. "I thought you would like to watch the scenery."

Her thoughtfulness strikes me. She is constantly performing these small, considerate acts that make me feel seen, that acknowledge my quiet nature without judgment. It is a novel experience.

The Shinkansen, the bullet train, is a marvel of engineering. It slides into the station with a quiet hiss, its sleek, aerodynamic nose looking like something from the future. We find our seats, and soon, with a gentle lurch, we are moving. The train accelerates with astonishing speed, the dense urban landscape of Tokyo quickly blurring into a mosaic of gray and brown.

As Minaki has predicted, I am captivated by the view from the window. The concrete jungle gradually gives way to sprawling suburbs, then to neat patchworks of rice paddies and fields of green. Traditional farmhouses with tiled roofs flash by, interspersed with small towns and forested hills. The scenery is a rolling tapestry of modern Japan and its ancient, agrarian roots. It is a journey not just through space, but through time.

The changing landscape feels symbolic of the changes happening within me. For ten years, my world has been the gray, claustrophobic confines of Tokyo and my own mind. Now, my horizons are literally expanding, the world opening up, revealing colors and textures I have forgotten existed.

Minaki does not press me for conversation. She seems content to simply share the journey. She reads a book, a slim volume of poetry with a simple, elegant cover. Occasionally, she looks up, catches my eye, and shares a small, conspiratorial smile, as if we are partners in a secret adventure.

"Have you ever been to Kyoto before?" she asks after a while, placing a bookmark in her book.

I shake my head, my gaze still fixed on the passing scenery. "Not that I remember." The addendum is automatic, a constant reminder of the blank space in my past.

"Then you are in for a treat," she says, her voice soft. "It is a city with a different rhythm. Slower, more deliberate. It has a soul."

I think about my own life, my own rhythm. It has been the monotonous, grinding beat of a machine on the verge of breaking down. The idea of a different rhythm, a slower, more soulful one, is incredibly appealing.

"What about you?" I ask, turning to look at her. "Have you been there often?"

A strange, faraway look enters her violet eyes. "I have some memories there," she says, her voice tinged with a faint, unreadable emotion. "From a long time ago."

Before I can ask more, the food cart attendant comes by, and Minaki's attention shifts. She buys us both a bento box and a bottle of green tea, her mood turning light and cheerful again. The moment of introspection passes, leaving me with another small piece of the puzzle that is Minaki. She has a history, a past that is just as mysterious as my own is absent.

We eat our lunch as Mount Fuji, majestic and snow-capped, slides into view. It is a perfect, postcard image, and a hush falls over our train car as everyone turns to admire it. Seeing it with my own eyes, not in a book or on a screen, is a powerful experience. It is real, solid, and enduring. It has stood there for millennia, watching over the land, a silent witness to countless generations of human joy and sorrow. It makes my own problems feel small, transient.

"It is beautiful," I murmur, my voice filled with awe.

"Yes," Minaki agrees, her gaze soft. "Some things are constant."

The rest of the journey passes in a comfortable, peaceful haze. I feel the tension that has been my constant companion for a decade slowly uncoiling. The rhythmic motion of the train, the ever-changing view, the quiet, reassuring presence of the girl beside me-it is all working together like a gentle therapy. I am not thinking about my parents, the accident, or my empty future. I am just... here. On a train to a city with a soul, with a girl who feels like a miracle.

As we begin to slow down, the urban sprawl of Kyoto rising to meet us, I feel a sense of anticipation that is entirely new to me. It is not the anxious, fearful anticipation of a test result or a difficult social encounter. It is a bright, hopeful feeling. The feeling of standing at the beginning of a new chapter.

The train slides to a final, smooth stop. The automated voice announces our arrival.

"Welcome to Kyoto," Minaki says, her smile as bright as the afternoon sun now streaming through the window.

I smile back, a full, genuine smile that reaches my eyes. "Thank you for bringing me."

As we step off the train and onto the platform, into the different air of this ancient city, I feel like I am stepping into a different life. A life where sunrises are shared, where ice cream is a necessity, and where a spontaneous trip to Kyoto is not only possible, but feels like the most natural thing in the world. It is a life I am starting to believe I could actually live.