Or A Bad Day?

As they get nearer the Iron-Rise Bridge, the reverb of the hubbub of multitudinous forms of human activity fills the air like a constant buzzing, a throng packed with people moving between the two largest districts in town.

On top of a slightly uphill road overlooking the bridge not far below, they stop on the not-too-crowded sidewalk, avoiding the endless stream of the center.

“Well, that’s da bridge. Guess ye ‘ave quite a long walk ahead of ya,” says Riyu.

“It’s fine. I don’t hate taking a bit of a stroll.”

“Yeah, just don’t follow some weird kid into da forest an’ yer good.” She smirks.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Shouma laughs in return.

He glances and puts up an awkward smile; the gap in conversation makes him even more hesitant. There’s an itch that he would like to speak up—or rather, offer—but he loathes the impression. The slightly abated shadow that haunts him comes back in full force.

“Hey… you’ve been helping me—no, more like saved me twice today. I feel bad if I can’t offer you any help in return…” he asks, trying not to be self-conscious.

“Hmm…?”

“It's just… You can say it's my fault you dropped your tools back then. Perhaps there’s something I can help, like talk to the supervisor—or the craftsman about those tools… perhaps they can even get you a new one or—” Lost in jumbled speech, he’s not even sure what he is talking about.

“Hey. Stop it,” Riyu says firmly. Her expression turns grave.

A gust of cold wind blows through, billowing Riyu’s half-hanging coverall sleeves and shirt; her stiff hair sways softly as if time itself becomes slow-moving. Her gaze makes him feel bare.

“I do everythin’ I did ‘cause I wanna do it at that moment. I ain’t much of a thinker, so whatever yer expectin’ outta me, ye’d be damn sure yer gettin’ it straight ta yer face!”

Shouma is tongue-tied. In a daze, his mind struggles to piece together what's been unfolding over the past few minutes. “…I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing that comes to his mind.

“That damn fog rolled in and messed everythin’ up. Y’think something mighta change fer all da shit we’ve been through, the things we lost…” Riyu’s eyes go down, and she pauses for a few seconds before looking back up. “But nope, the whole business with status n’ all just stuck like some persistent leech.”

He doesn’t know what to say. It feels as if all energy has been sucked dry; he is hollowing out into an empty shell for some desperate shield. He almost regrets the encounter that brings him joy he hasn’t felt for a long while when Riyu continues.

“Hey, Fukunaga… if you hate somethin’, then say it clearly. Unless ya wanna be like some mutt helplessly kept dragged around by its collar.” Her face turns slightly sullen, a distinct change from her usual expression. “Ahh… no, no—let’s stop this. Ye and yer damn gloominess slowly rubbin’ off on me. Just forget it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I just want to show you that I’m grateful. And… it's just—well… It's been fun talking with you. I haven’t had that for a while.”

“Hey—this isn’t how I want it to end—shit.” She scratches her head and groans. “Hahh… listen, we’re the same age, and you said we’re classmates. Just, don’t be all stiff and polite. I’m quite a dickhead, so ye don’t have ta hold back with me.”

There’s something in her response, beyond the coarse surface of her lines, which he can’t quite grasp, but curiously brings him relief.

“You’re really honest. Ah, I don’t mean it badly; it's just—that’s amazing.” Somehow, it's difficult to say. Outside his usual customary politeness, this one feels like it comes out of his heart and pricks it at the same time. “I hope I didn’t come off as being too… insufferable. I want to be able to get along with you.”

“Like I said, we’re cool, dude. Just… I keep tellin’ ya ta take it easy. It’s embarrassin’ hearin’ ya sayin’ shit like that.”

Shouma tries to laugh it off. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you… Riyu.” He pauses. “Well, I probably shouldn’t hold you here for longer. See you in school tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Her tone and expression hint at approval.

He’s about to walk away, but then turns around. “Ah, please call me Shouma.”

“Sure, Shouma.”

***

There’s a surprising tenderness in her smile when they part. The captivating contrast, which soon becomes a striking mark of her person inside his mind, seems to grow and linger.

Their encounter, the things they talk about, her frankness and aggressiveness—the warmth when his body was close to her—are all a novelty. They’re something he has never felt before.

Even when he has to squeeze and elbow his way through the packed bridge, the surroundings feel dim and muted. When he leaves the high-density tenements and the workers’ district of Sakae-chō behind and enters the sprawling and historic Hon-Machi district with its clusters of workshops and machiya buildings, he remembers nothing in detail of his trip home, only a cursory look to make sure he doesn’t get lost.

His awareness returns when he notices it’s getting quieter. There are fewer people. Less structure, but more organized, neat, and orderly. Shouma lives in the administrative quarter. Across the Jade Bridge, the once-luxury hot spring resort has been repurposed into living quarters for a few families, including the Fukunagas.

Here, streetlights are white. Their proximity to the hydro weir means more stable electricity—no need for a cell box.

The place still, after all these years, is alien to him. The once temporary now becomes permanent. They brought nothing but a visitor’s luggage, and now they have everything. He should have been grateful. It is the least he could do.

Twice the toss of a coin, twice the goddess of luck has smiled upon them—a gift of survival, and a boon of prosperity. Yet nothing brings him comfort; not here, not down there, nowhere but upon the fringes between the town and the looming fog to offer him solace.

It is the opulent tower of isolation. The object of everyone’s envy, the root of his inner turmoil—the usurper on the hill.

He climbs a few levels before arriving at a section of the building with a partitioned hallway that now serves as Fukunaga's private residence. A dull light diffuses through the translucent sheet of the sliding door.

When he opens it, he notices the outline of a shadowy figure in the dark entrance, framed by the dim light of an open room farther down. The illumination that comes from behind him reveals a woman of severe bearing, arms crossed, and clear annoyance on her face.

“I’m home,” he says in a flat tone. “Mother, is something wrong?”

“…The light. It's broken again.” There’s a delay before she answers. Her gaze never turns toward him since he entered. “It didn’t stay fixed for long.”

Her tone has always been cold, her speech brief. An austere woman, she bears professional rigor as a preferred mode of appearance to a fault. To others, her presence commands respect for both her work’s standing and her fearsome disposition. To Shouma, for whatever excellence that gave way to such a feat, she left less than meaningful in the way of parenting.

“I’ll get the toolbox, see if I can work something out.” He drops his bag, promptly goes inside, and comes back with the toolbox. After rummaging through his bag for the flashlight, he shines it toward the light fixture.

His mother still stands in the spot, not saying a word to him the whole time. “I might need to check the junction box… and get to the ceiling.” A streak of nervousness begins to grip him, which he suppresses to hide it from his mother.

He can hear his mother sigh. It is enough to whip him into quick action. “I’ll go outside and get to it.”

He walks briskly and is a few steps away when someone shows up at the threshold. A towering man blocks the way, his bulk casting a full shadow over Shouma. His narrow, sharp eyes are scowling as he looks down at the worked-up boy in front of him. His furrowed brows and stern face show no sign of confusion or worry. It is cold, like his mother.

“Father…?” the boy stammers, fumbling for words. He sees the man glance at the box in his hand. “I was trying to fix the light… There might be something wrong with the junction box, so—I’ll get to the ceiling to check it.”

The man reaches out his hand. Shouma looks up at him with a questioning look. The man stays silent. The heavy silence breaks when his eyes tell the boy to hand over the toolbox.

After he hands it over, the man turns away without a word. Shouma is about to follow him when the man abruptly stops, reaching out his open hand. “The flashlight.”

He hands it over, and the receiver splits away, still with nothing. Not a word.

So you won’t even let me help you with the flashlight?

His father walks away. He can sense his mother also moving away behind him. Everything now is silent. So, in silence, he makes his way to his room.

It is dark. He could turn on the light, but he leaves it be. So in darkness he trudges his way toward the study desk. The curtain is open; his glasses are glinting under the moonlight.

Through the window, the valley and the town in the foreground of the distant fog feel so far away. In somber stillness, he feels as if being pulled away; away and detached from the root, his body limbless and untethered.

“Hey. Stop it.”

The voice pulls him back. His scattered senses begin to draw in, and he remembers. He remembers Riyu, and in doing so, she pulls him back to consciousness. Without warning, energy is welling within him.

In a fit of passion, he pulls out the sketchbook, pencil, and an eraser from his bag. He vigorously scrubs the already-filled paper with the eraser. You cannot waste good paper. But then what about the eraser? No. He doesn’t want to think economically. Right now, he just wants to draw. To pour out an overflowing stream from a dried-up spring.

That evening, in a town of more than five thousand souls, in a whole world enclosed within an unbreachable wall, in isolation without solace, a tunnel of light is closing in. Through the unclear haze, he reaches out his hand, staggering and shambling to chase the fluttering wings.

In this instance, in a town of five thousand, one oblivious soul pulls a lost wanderer out of its own unseen fog. Like the thawing frost, the lull, and the slumbering buds shall blossom once again and herald the coming spring.