Chương 6: Strange in a Good Way

Mrs. Sachiko was in the building's hallway when Soren finally opened the door. She was in no hurry at all, as she knew how long her neighbor took to open the door—or whether he had already decided to pretend no one was home. The hallway smelled of wet earth, and the lack of ventilation gave the space an intrinsic odor of mold. The old lady had knocked on the door at 6: 23 p. m., and when he opened it at 6: 24 p. m., she was already facing away, watering the second pot from the end of the stairs.

In her late seventies, standing a little over five feet tall, with graying hair and bangs falling over her dark glasses, Mrs. Sachiko, wearing a kitchen apron, lived in the apartment next door, 4A. She was permanently surrounded by plants, from the top of the stairs down to the very last step. It looked like a slow-motion invasion: she had started with just two pots, and today, finding a free spot on the stairs was like finding a seat on the Tokyo subway during rush hour.

All of them shared one characteristic in common: no reason whatsoever to thrive in a building with so little natural light. Soren always slowed down when walking through that hallway, always cautious lest he break one of her pots and cause trouble with his neighbor. Cleaning dirt off the stairs was hardly a motivating task for someone coming home in the early hours of the morning, let alone putting a reminder on his calendar to visit a gardening shop to buy a new pot.

"Good afternoon, Soren!"

"Mrs. Sachiko, how are you?"

"Fine, thank you!" She was watering the plants with her light-blue watering can, which had a cartoon smiling frog right in the center. Soren, however, already held a strong opinion about that amphibian: its smile struck him as intimidating, and it was best not to look at it for too long, lest the damn creature take it as an attempt at provocation.

"You look tired. Was it a long night?" For Soren, revealing the truth was complicated, and he pondered his answer. Telling a lie, on the other hand, was quite simple.

"Gas leak at work. I had to stay late at the store—it's the kind of unexpected thing that wears you out more than usual." Mrs. Sachiko raised the watering can, the frog staring directly at Soren mid-motion. She seemed to be reading something inside his mind while looking deep into his eyes.

"Gas leaks are troublesome things, dear. Be careful." It was then that Soren's jaw tightened for a moment as he stared at Mrs. Sachiko in perplexity.

"They are..."—and the "are" hung in the hallway air.

"Especially the ones that glow," she mentioned, continuing to bore her gaze into Soren, wearing her white apron with blue stripes. Soren gripped his doorknob with his left hand. That piece of iron was a good eighty years old and had the thickness of a cucumber; when he let go, he had squeezed it so hard that it was now reduced to the thickness of a bent nail. Mrs. Sachiko smiled at her neighbor.

It was that warm smile grandmothers give when they know exactly what trouble their grandchildren have been up to, still deciding whether it was worth bringing up the matter again, jumping straight to a week's punishment, or taking the most common route: forgetting it and pretending nothing had happened.

"Have a good day at work, dear. Always do your best." She went back to watering her plants while Soren stood still for a few seconds in front of his door—now facing a problem with the doorknob—doing some mental math. None of the possibilities pleased him, though. It was as if he couldn't reach the solution to a twelfth-grade exam question. Mrs. Sachiko had also lived in 4A for at least three years. Soren had a vague recollection of her renting the apartment a month or two after he arrived in Japan.

She brought him miso soup whenever he fell ill, and whenever she made sushi, she always made extra to share with him, giving her another pretext to visit her neighbor in 4B. When he returned from work, she would comment on the weather and the top trending news stories on television. During these past three years, she had never uttered a single word that suggested she even knew what a dimensional rift looked like—at least until now. He started down the stairs, as he had a shift to cover.

He passed her, and when he was near the third floor, Soren stopped, one foot on each step. The watering can continued to pour water, and the frog never stopped smiling. Looking over his left shoulder, Soren asked, "How did you know they glow?"

"I was talking about gas leaks. I've heard they can be quite luminous, with a glow distinct from what we're used to seeing around here—they have a fascinating chemistry, don't you think, dear?" She descended another step and began watering the ficus bonsai.

"When you have a day off, we must have tea. I make excellent matcha tea, and I also have Monaka and Senbei at home. You'll love it!" She returned her gaze to the bonsai, the frog maintaining the same annoying expression. Soren continued down the stairs in search of a hallway that smelled less of wet earth. He hated being late for work, and what had just happened in the building would clearly require keeping an eye on.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. 🍲 MinouseMart looked exactly the same in daylight as it did at two in the morning. That is to say, the lighting remained fluorescent yellow, the noises chimed in with the same rhythm and orchestral coordination, and the tones were beige with light colors—along with the ever-present vague sense of depression that characterized it daily. Soren arrived at the store at precisely 7: 20 p. m.

He was coming in to cover a shift he wasn't scheduled for. It was Taro Kondo's shift from the afternoon team; he worked part-time and had called in sick because he wasn't feeling well—most likely a hangover, judging by the sounds in the background of his voicemail message. Yoshida had asked in the Line group if anyone could cover Kondo's shift. Soren was the first to respond, volunteering immediately. Well then, maintaining a routine meant maintaining a presence, maintaining activity.

And maintaining a presence meant showing up, even when his identity and privacy had been compromised by a meddling twelve-year-old child with an unusual capacity for perception. At least, that was what the System said.

"Good afternoon, Vonesdar." Yoshida raised his eyes from the inventory sheet he was holding. The sheet seemed to be causing him actual physical suffering.

"You actually came. I wasn't expecting you, kid."

"I came to cover Kondo's afternoon shift."

"Ah, right, true. I heard there was an incident last night. Gas leak? What was that about?"

"It's already been resolved. Don't worry, boss."

"Ah, good. You know, kid, corporate hates paperwork, bureaucracy, and especially complications." Yoshida went back to looking at his inventory, but Soren noticed something wasn't right; when Yoshida looked back at the inventory, it seemed to cause him another burst of physical suffering.

"Look, kid, take Register 2. Aiko's been there since noon and has already started making that face. You know."

"What face?" Soren asked in surprise, already sensing this shift was going to be complicated.

"Look, it's the face of someone who's about to start telling customers she has a podcast. She can't concentrate on anything else, kid." Soren could already see where this was going and calmly made his way to Register 2. Aiko was twenty-two and studying communication sciences at a university Soren had never heard of. She was in the right field for her profile, given that she possessed the kind of curiosity that made her excellent at customer service, but terrible at managing her own personal life.

When Soren approached the counter, her face lit up upon seeing him, and the chatter began.

"You're here? I thought you didn't start work until midnight."

"I came to cover for Kondo," he replied as he put on his apron.

"Ah, right. You know Thursdays are rough for him. It's not the first time he's asked for coverage because of a hangover. It's a classic—or rather, a ritual." Looking at the lottery tickets next to the counter, he could already tell how this shift was going to go. He began tidying up his things on top of the counter—paper clips, pens, loose sheets of paper—with the speed of someone fleeing a crime scene. Aiko wouldn't stop.

"By the way, is it true you closed a rift last night?" Soren opened the cash register and began counting the money, coin by coin. Staring down at the coins, he simply said in a low voice, "Gas leak."

"You know, Soren, the morning crew said a dimensional rift appeared in the parking lot, right over there," the young woman pointed toward the storefront window. In the same tone, he repeated toward the coins, "Gas leak." Her enthusiasm at an all-time high, Aiko didn't break her stride.

"And that you closed it with just one hand!" Soren closed his eyes and replied once more, "Gas..." He took a deep breath, opened his eyes wide, and added in a much louder voice, "... leak!" Aiko looked at him in some amazement, her expression matching someone trying to solve a 1, 000-piece Mount Fuji jigsaw puzzle whose pieces constantly shifted shape.

"Look, I gotta tell you, you're weird." The little piles of coins he was counting on the counter were starting to look like part of the Great Wall of China. He answered with mild detachment, "Look, I've been told that before." She reconsidered what she had said, her expression instantly showing concern.

"Wait, weird in a good way! Like a mysterious protagonist from the movies, you know? I don't mean you're creepy-weird like Tomie Kawakami or anything."

"Ah, thanks... I think." Despite the insincere thanks, he still didn't look up at her.

"Hey, I had a great idea—you should come on my podcast! I have an opening on..."

"No!" Soren replied before she could finish her sentence.

"The podcast is called Shibuya Mystery Hour," Aiko declared with the pride of someone announcing a major award.

"I focus on local community journalism—I love investigating and reporting on what the city doesn't tell you. Well, like it? I bet you're curious! Hey, we're already on episode 41." Soren stopped counting coins. Now he really had lost track of the eighth stack and would have to start all over again.

"Damn it."

"Aiko, a question: can you tell me how many people listen to your podcast?" The communication sciences student paused briefly, rested her hand on her chin, and stared at the potato chips at the back of the store.

"11 listeners." Soren looked at her, and she slowly met his unavoidable gaze. Aiko adjusted her backpack strap.

"Don't worry, Soren, don't worry—12 if my dad counts twice. Hahaha." She dashed away from the counter toward the backroom with a continuous laugh.

"What a great idea! Wait." Aiko stopped at the door of the backroom.

"If I got a tragic story—something really tragic, you know, with this aesthetic... it'd be the episode of the year. That's it!" Aiko opened the door and stepped into the backroom before he could reply. Soren sighed. A tragic story. He thought back over the last eight hundred years, the civilizations he had seen rise and fall, the people he had loved and the people he had buried. He also thought about the thing sealed inside his chest, which would one day consume everything he was. Probably, yes.

I probably qualify for that podcast. The shift went on at its usual pace. Soren sold 241 items, heated 19 meals, and as for "thank you for shopping with us," he said it 94 times. He counted everything; he always counted. More small talk, and Soren, with that very specific kind of exhaustion, pretended to be a normal person for hours on end. At 8: 42 p. m., Yoshida came out of the back office holding a cheap plastic frame, walking over with a look of astonishment as he stared at it.

"Vonesdar!"

"Yes, boss?"

"Look at what we just received—corporate sent this to us. Oops, wait, this is actually for you, kid." Yoshida handed him the frame with all the enthusiasm of a man handing someone a dead fish.

"Congratulations, kid."