Chapter 1
Upon emerging from the tunnel, Michitaka found himself staring at a concentration camp.
He sat frozen, staring through the window.
A bitter winter landscape stretched before him. Images seemed to flicker past the glass. People in striped prisoner uniforms trudged through the cold, one after another.
Michitaka looked behind him.
Everything inside the commuter train was perfectly ordinary.
The passenger sitting beside him glanced at him suspiciously.
Michitaka turned back toward the window.
The scene was gone.
Outside was the familiar evening landscape of his hometown.
“......”
Finally, the train stopped at his station.
Michitaka timidly stepped onto the platform.
What he had seen through the window looked exactly like the concentration camps of World War II that he had seen in films and documentaries.
The afterimage remained so vivid that, before he knew it, he was standing in front of his apartment.
He unlocked the door.
“I’m home.”
His voice disappeared into the silent apartment.
He stepped inside.
As he passed his son Kazuki’s room, everything remained quiet.
Kazuki was sixteen.
Two and a half years earlier, he had stopped going to school.
Six months later, he had shut himself away in his room and rarely came out.
Michitaka’s wife, Yuka, left for work early every morning and usually returned late at night.
As far as Michitaka could tell, she had also grown distant from Kazuki.
And Michitaka...
He was no different.
He entered the dining room, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a can of beer.
He opened it with a sharp hiss.
As he drank, his thoughts returned to the landscape he had seen only a short while ago.
That frozen landscape.
Those striped uniforms.
Those people walking through the cold.
---
“Dad...”
A weak voice reached his ears.
Michitaka turned around.
Kazuki was standing there.
His face was as pale as paper. He had put on weight, and an unpleasant odor clung to him. His dry, tangled hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days.
Michitaka couldn’t help grimacing.
“I need some money to buy food.”
Michitaka raised an eyebrow.
“What about Mom? Didn’t she make you anything?”
Kazuki shook his head.
“Mom left. She left a message.”
He held out a white envelope with Michitaka’s name written on it.
Michitaka took it and opened it.
Inside was a short note.
And divorce papers.
He stared at them without speaking.
“Mom always left me money...”
For a moment, Michitaka remained lost in thought.
Then he remembered that his son was still standing there.
He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.
“Is three thousand yen enough?”
Kazuki shook his head.
“One thousand is enough.”
Michitaka handed him a thousand-yen bill.
Kazuki took it quietly.
Then he clumsily pulled a cap over his messy hair and shuffled toward the front door.
Michitaka watched him leave.
He returned to the dining table and spread the divorce papers in front of him.
Yuka’s neat handwriting filled in all the necessary information.
At the bottom were her name and seal.
Michitaka could hardly remember the last time they had really talked.
Their relationship had fallen apart during Kazuki’s problems.
No.
Perhaps that wasn’t true.
Their bond as husband and wife had disappeared long before anything happened to Kazuki.
Michitaka left home early every morning and returned late at night.
He worked weekends, too.
He was an engineer at a major software company.
For years, work had been proof of his existence.
At work, he knew his value.
He was skilled.
Competent.
Needed.
Yuka had built a successful career of her own as an insurance sales representative.
Both had gradually allowed their careers and their own lives to become more important than their family.
Even so, Yuka had once tried hard to raise their son.
When Kazuki was an infant, she had used her company’s parental-support program to spend more time with him.
Michitaka stared at the divorce papers.
But me...
What did I ever do for him?
He took another sip of beer.
Nothing.
---
“Dad.”
Michitaka looked up.
Kazuki had returned.
A convenience-store bag hung from one hand.
He reached inside, took out a packaged sandwich, and held it toward his father.
“You looked like you hadn’t eaten anything.”
He spoke shyly, barely meeting Michitaka’s eyes.
Before Michitaka could answer, Kazuki turned and went straight back to his room.
The door quietly closed.
Michitaka stared at the sandwich.
After a while, he peeled open the package and took a bite.
Then he heard music.
It drifted softly from Kazuki’s room.
Michitaka stopped chewing.
Piano.
Kazuki had loved the piano since childhood.
Yuka’s parents had given their grandson an upright piano when he was little.
Kazuki had been overjoyed.
After that, he played whenever he had the chance.
When he was twelve, Kazuki had hesitantly asked his parents whether he could apply to a school where he could study music.
Both of them had said no.
Listening now, Michitaka could hardly remember why he had been so against it.
Perhaps he had simply thought it was impractical.
A waste of time.
Perhaps he had believed Kazuki should pursue something more useful.
Yuka had agreed with him.
Michitaka lowered his eyes to the half-eaten sandwich.
Maybe he should never have become a father.
He had never made time for his son.
Never really listened to him.
Never encouraged him.
Michitaka had always put himself first.
He knew how to work.
He knew how to be an engineer.
But he had never learned how to give kindness or affection to another person.
Sitting alone at the table, listening to Kazuki’s piano, Michitaka wondered whether something was missing inside him.
Something other people seemed to possess naturally.
The ability to truly care about someone other than himself.
