Chapter Text
"And sometimes she felt such great longing that it was like a hunger."
Clarice Lispector, "The Imitation of the Rose"
The scent of the persimmon and cypress, carried through an open window by the heavy summer air, is distressing rather than comforting. Amaya is aware she’s dreaming. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but the dream is especially vivid tonight. She knows how this dream ends. Knowing never changes the outcome.
She’s at the top of the second floor stairs, her small hand clutching the bannister. The worn, polished wood is cool to touch. The hallway behind her is barely discernible by the faint glow of her nightlight past the fusuma door leading to her bedroom. No moonlight shines through the open window ahead, hiding the growing discolouration of the plaster, the crooked framed family photos, the poorly covered cracks. She can feel the air moving through the house but can’t hear it gently brushing through the summer leaves anymore; the distant singing frogs and humming power lines fade until the house is silent.
Her foot touches the first stair, the aged wood straining under her weight, the faint creak unbearably loud in the unnatural quiet. The enveloping shadow welcomes her like the open maw of a great, dark beast as she looks down, unable to find the bottom of the stairs. Amaya doesn’t want to continue. She knows what’s waiting, but she can’t go back to her room. Won’t go back. Her bare feet move forward, eyes trained down to try and find the least creaky parts of the stairs and failing.
When Amaya reaches the small landing, she feels rather than sees it. The rest of the stairs and the entire first floor might as well not exist for how absolute the dark is, more akin to a void than a sleeping house on a quiet countryside road. Not even the soft light from her room can penetrate the shadows here. It is waiting below—an even blacker shape against the void. It’s shaped like a tall man, its figure large and looming but absolutely still. She can’t see its eyes, but she knows it’s staring at her. Locked in its gaze and trembling, Amaya doesn’t move, either.
Time stretches, and as she waits, the figure’s shape becomes wrong. Somehow heavier, the air itself seems to warp around it, its outline pulsing and expanding as it becomes harder to breathe, the once pleasant scent of the persimmon tree cloying and thick in her lungs. Her pulse hammers in her ears, loud and fast. The bannister is slick with sweat. Unable to blink, eyes trapped by its black stare, the distance between them shortens, the space shrivelling in on itself. The outline of the figure becomes darker, more pronounced.
Her chest is tight, unable or unwilling to expand under its gaze. Knowing makes it worse, she thinks—because she knows it will move soon. It’ll stretch out its too-long arms, reaching for her, as she’s rooted to the stair. She knows that its touch will be burning cold. That it will grab her and never let her go. That she will drown in its embrace.
The stairs shriek with new weight as the figure finally moves. And—
Amaya finally manages to wrench her eyes open, but waking offers little relief. She knows her body’s still trapped in sleep, but it doesn’t lessen the intense panic, the sensation that something is sitting on her chest, holding her down. The rational part of her mind knows this will pass soon, that the figure didn’t follow into her apartment, that the scent of persimmon is almost entirely gone. But rationality does little to dampen the instinctive need to turn on her bedside lamp, to move after being moored in place.
She’s grateful for the ever-present noise of Tokyo outside her window. The hum of the occasional car down narrow streets, the distant sirens, the faint conversations of friends heading home after a long night of drinking. It's maddening when she’s trying to fall asleep but comforting when she’s trapped in her own body, desperate for a sign that she’s not still stuck in a dream.
When she can finally twitch her fingers, relief comes like a head rush, dizzying but entirely welcome. Her arms are heavy when she rolls to her side, her grip shaky when she grabs her charging cellphone on her bedside table.
3:57 a.m.
After walking home from her late shift and studying, she’d fallen asleep shortly after 1 a.m.
Wanting at least four hours would’ve been too much to ask for, huh? she thinks.
Amaya is tired. Tired of waking before the sun. Tired of the unrelenting ache that comes with existing.
Dreams used to be such a wonderful escape. Amaya isn’t sure when her mind turned against her. Was the transition so slow that she just didn’t notice? The betrayal, whenever it happened, was quiet, but its effects linger, festering.
Amaya covers her eyes with a clammy hand, too exhausted to pull herself out of bed but dreading the possibility of falling back asleep. It’s easier to lay in the dark, hoping to rest between sleeping and waking, to allow time to skip forward into morning without having to register its passing.
***
She finally drags herself upward as the sun creeps over the horizon, leaking through the low, crowded buildings and seeping past her curtain. Amaya’s morning class doesn’t start for another three hours. She could probably stay in bed for a while longer, but Amaya doesn’t see the point.
Dawn gives her apartment a soft glow. Patchwork duvet and sheets twisted together and untucked, Amaya doesn’t bother to fix them. Dishes from last night, still needing to be cleaned, are stacked by the sink. Half-finished sketches of tight Mitaka streets and willow-shaded koi resting just below the surface of still water at Inokashira Park are scattered across her desk, some buried under textbooks and her laptop, others sticking out haphazardly from her portfolio or spilling over from her garbage can.
Her mind is sluggish, hands and legs shaky as she digs through the laundry basket of clean clothes she hasn’t found the energy to put away. She finds a long skirt that vaguely complements the first blouse she finds. She’s quick to give up on braiding her long hair, tying it back in a plain ponytail instead.
Habit has Amaya pack her notebooks into her bag; routine pulls her to the bathroom to wash her face with cold water, brush her teeth, apply sunscreen. She avoids looking at herself in the mirror.
Amaya allows muscle memory to guide her to Mitaka Station, barely registering the crowds of other early morning commuters or the building humidity as the August sun climbs higher. She doesn’t hear the train announcements for each stop or the wall of noise as the train heads deeper into the heart of West Tokyo for Seiwa University. She doesn’t feel the overbearing heat of dozens of people crammed in the train compartment, the coolness of the metal hand rail.
Why does this feel so much more like a dream?
She doesn’t fully remember what she does when she gets to campus. Morning lectures pass but Amaya wouldn’t be able to say what was specifically discussed. Electives she’d looked forward to since the year before—art theory and comparative art—aren’t enough to hold her attention, either. Her notes are barely comprehensible, lines of logic breaking halfway through sentences and her kanji sloppy. By the time lunch comes around, Amaya doesn’t realize she’s hungry until her stomach growls.
Standing in a sea of faces while waiting in line at the main campus cafeteria, Amaya thinks about calling in sick for work. It’s a Thursday; it shouldn’t be too busy, but she’d be working the late shift alone again.
He hasn’t been by for my last few shifts. It might be fine, she thinks.
Amaya chooses the first option on the digital menu and pays without looking. Eyes scanning for somewhere to sit but not really seeing, a familiar voice faintly registers, sounding a little more real than everything else.
“Hey! Over here!”
Rin is waving in the distance, motioning Amaya to join her at a two-person table. She’s wearing a pretty summer dress with a light cardigan, her hair neatly curled and resting on her shoulders. Amaya waves back, careful not to tip her tray.
“Didn’t sleep again, huh?” Rin says as soon as Amaya sits down, mouth half-full with rice and pickled vegetables from her bento box. “Those circles under your eyes get darker every time I see you.”
Sometimes, Amaya wishes Rin abided by social pleasantries a bit more.
“Most people ask, ‘how are you?’, ‘how were classes?’, you know.”
“I know what your answers would be, though. I’m not blind—you were totally spacing out.”
Rin Ito is a fellow second year, both in the business course. They shared a class in first year and happened to be sitting next to each other. Rin had forgotten her pen and asked to borrow one. Rin always made a point of sitting next to Amaya afterwards, arranging study sessions and asking to eat lunch together. Even though their conversations were mostly one-sided, and they only shared a class for one semester, Rin had asked for Amaya’s LINE ID. They’ve been friends since. Or, something resembling friends. Amaya doesn’t believe she’s been much of a friend at all.
“Have you not been sleeping any better?” Rin asks, unwilling to drop the subject.
“I had about an hour in between classes. I’ve found a spot in the library that’s pretty quiet.” Amaya’s smile is strained. She doesn’t remember when it started to feel that way.
Rin stops mid-bite, disbelieving. “You’re napping in the library like some bum when you have a perfectly good bed at home? Seriously.” She finishes eating her pickled daikon, head shaking in disapproval. “You’re gonna burn yourself out. It’s not good for you to run on that little sleep all the time, you know.”
Amaya forces a laugh but avoids Rin’s eyes, pretending to pick at her soba. She should’ve paid more attention—she doesn’t even like soba.
“Hey, is that bag new? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” Rin stares. Amaya’s smile falters. “I know. Sorry, for making you worry.”
“What are you saying sorry for? Go see a doctor, try some melatonin, or something.” She keeps eating, but she doesn’t stop watching Amaya. “And yes, it’s new, thank you.”
Amaya wants to tell her about her dreams, her sleep paralysis, her problems at work. She has for a while. She wants to know what it would feel like to unburden herself, for someone to listen without asking why she has the dreams she does, why waking up feels just as bad as falling asleep.
But Rin would ask why. She’s just that kind of person. Amaya admires her blunt nature, her persistence, her sharp way of approaching problems. Rin is confident, outgoing, pretty. Amaya’s never seen her anxious about anything. Rin doesn’t need to listen to Amaya’s problems; she doesn’t want Rin to look at her differently. Her problems are not the kind that are easily solved, anyway—the kind that ever needs to be talked about. She pushes the need to be honest aside, keeping her smile in place.
“Yeah, you’re right. I should try going again.” Amaya already knows what a doctor will tell her. It’ll be another sleep hygiene pamphlet and the same conversation about exercise, reducing stress. “And I’ll ask my manager again if I can work fewer evening shifts, too.”
“You say that every time.” Rin sighs, her gaze finally falling. “Do you think you’re in your head too much? You could join my yoga classes with me. Or we could grab some late dinner after your shift tonight. Worth a try, isn’t it?”
Amaya wishes she had a different script to reference, that something would change so she wouldn’t make Rin worry. She holds her chopsticks tightly, appetite all but gone.
“Yeah. That could be nice.”
“Non-committal as always, huh.” Rin leans back after setting down her chopsticks, frustration softening. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know. ”
Shame colours Amaya’s cheeks. She thinks back to all the times Rin invited her out to drinks with her friends, to watch a movie, to visit the neighbourhood museums—to do literally anything together. If Rin were anyone else, they’d have given up inviting Amaya after the first few declined invitations. Amaya doesn’t deserve a friend like Rin.
Be honest, she thinks, clenching her hand into a fist under the table. Just tell her how you feel.
“I just… I don’t want to bother you. You’re kind to worry about me, but you’re busy with school, too. No one needs to stress about stuff with me. It’ll sort itself out.”
Rin stares for a moment. Amaya regrets speaking immediately. She wishes she’d nodded along and agreed like she usually would.
“Don’t think like that. You think I hang out with you just to be kind? You’re not bothering me, Amaya.”
Rin’s gaze is insistent, serious. Amaya looks down and nods like she believes her. Rin’s silent for a beat.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Message me whenever you’re having a hard time,” Rin says, sounding defeated for today. Guilt twists Amaya’s stomach.
“I will,” she lies. “Thanks, Rin.”
I really am a bad friend.
Amaya pushes back the stray locks of hair that fell out of her ponytail, fussing over her bangs and willing herself to be more cheerful. “I think we’ve talked enough about me. How’s your morning been?”
Amaya does her best to listen as Rin describes her class assignments and complaints about upcoming exams, forcing food in her mouth and pretending it doesn’t taste like ash.
The café is warm in a way Amaya used to like. Soft light pools over mismatched tables, catching on the edges of ceramic cups and the bean-filled glass jars lining the shelves. Large potted plants line the windowed-side of the café; small planters with dangling ivy hang from the ceiling. The owner, Nakamura-san, recently replaced the flowers in the corner vase—chamomile and cornflowers this time, their heads nodding with the breeze each time the front door opens. Counters, sticky with syrup, are crowded with the aging espresso machine, tall carafes, over a dozen containers of tea, a mess of cups Amaya still needs to wash. Muted conversations and small laughs between friends fill the small space. She flinches every time the bell over the front door rings.
Sitting just far enough from Sun Road in Kichijōji that the crowd thins out, most people don’t notice Coffee Kimochi with its narrow frontage half-hidden by the awning for the neighbouring bar and bright sign for a ramen shop, a chalkboard sign with the day’s roasts listed in colourful, bold characters trying to compete for attention amongst the crowded stores and restaurants. Customers tend to be regulars, faces Amaya recognizes even if she never remembers their names.
Except for one.
Amaya’s shoulders shrink forward when the bell rings again. She smells the man’s sandalwood cologne before she hears him speak; it’s pervasive, making the back of her throat itch. Her hands start to shake. She doesn’t want to turn around.
Why didn’t you call in sick?
Nakamura-san left over two hours ago, leaving Amaya to close the cafe alone again. She’d have to leave the front counter area to go into the back room. There’s nothing to hide behind.
“Hey, Amaya,” he says. Her first name feels like a slap.
It takes her a moment to remember how to fix a smile onto her face, even a fake one.
“Welcome,” she says, finally turning around and giving a small bow in greeting. She refuses to say his name back.
The man, Minato, glances at the menu board, but Amaya knows he won’t order anything different. Coworkers had described him as cute before, but Amaya can’t see it. His hair is carefully tousled, his features ordinary. He’s at least two inches shorter than Amaya, maybe a few years older. The inconspicuous black T-shirt he’s wearing makes her nervous.
“I missed seeing you yesterday, sorry about that. Overtime can be a real pain sometimes,” he laughs. His voice is mild. Pleasant, some might say. He leans against the counter, resting his forearms on the worn wood. Minato’s smile is warm and overly-familiar, like they’ve been friends for years and he’s popped in for a visit.
Cold sweat runs down her back despite the lingering heat. She tries to think of herself as a doll. Dolls don’t have expressions that change. They don’t have feelings.
“Your usual again?” she asks, voice carefully flat.
“If it’s not too much trouble. I’m so glad you always remember.”
She nods, glad for a reason not to look at him. She lets muscle memory take over, months of working part-time and making hundreds of drinks allowing her to distance herself mentally from the present.
“You look tired,” he says, casually. “Long day?” Minato adjusts the strap of his watch as he leans forward. He always does this, she noticed, when he’s trying to seem unexcited, normal.
“Mm,” Amaya hums. Ever since the first few letters he’d left ‘anonymously’ for her, she’s done her best to give him nothing, to push how icy she can be before he mentions something to Nakamura-san again.
She can feel his stare, watching her work. Plenty of customers have done that before, but it’s different with him. His gaze lingers on her hands most of the time, but she can sense when it shifts to her face, her chest.
“You had classes all day today, right?”
Amaya chooses that moment to steam the milk, the coffee machine so loud it gives her a reason not to answer. She pretends not to hear his other attempts at striking up conversation, making extra noise on purpose every time he tries to speak.
She puts extra whipped cream and caramel on top of his drink; if she doesn’t, he uses it as an excuse to come back and talk with her. When she slides the to-go cup across the counter, careful that their fingers don’t touch, his hand still lingers close enough that she can feel the heat of it.
“Thanks, Amaya. Make sure you get home safe.” He says it gently, but it feels like a threat coming from his mouth. “It’s starting to get dark earlier, and I heard it’s supposed to rain.”
Amaya does her best to see past him, to let her smile be still and empty as she gives another small bow. “Please enjoy and have a good night.”
His smile freezes for a moment before he thanks her again and sits by the door, propping his backpack against a table leg and settling in. His usual routine. Ordering nothing else the rest of the night, he pretends to read a book, but Amaya knows better.
Just like she knew he would, he waits until it’s five minutes before closing to leave, waiting until everyone else files out, watching to see if Amaya will come over to remind him of closing time. He never stays too late, but he’s always looking for a reason for Amaya to talk with him. She avoids giving him the opportunity.
Amaya’s thrown off her axis by the time she locks the front door, the exhaustion leaving her unsteady. She wipes down counters and tables she’s already cleaned, counts the register twice because she immediately forgot the totals she finished counting. By the time she’s closed the café, changed, and locked the back exit on her way out, the night air feels thick, damp and sticky with unfallen rain. She looks both ways down the back lane, making sure no one is lingering at either exit, her cellphone gripped tightly in her hand.
When the first raindrop lands on the bridge of her nose, Amaya stops to pull her umbrella from her backpack. She reaches for it in its usual spot, only to find it empty.
It was there this morning, wasn’t it?
Making sure she isn’t blocking the sidewalk as she tries to get some shelter under the awning of a closed bistro, she slips off her backpack and rifles through the different pouches, searching for the collapsible umbrella she always keeps. But it’s gone. Amaya tries to think back to that morning, whether she remembers seeing it there when she packed her notebooks. Exhaustion blurs the memory—she can’t confidently say if she left it by the front door to her apartment, or if it was in her bag and somehow disappeared during the day. The implications of the second possibility are dizzying.
He… he wouldn’t have been able to take it from my bag, right?
Amaya remembers Minato’s comments about the rain as it starts to pour down faster. It wouldn’t be unprecedented, she supposes. He used similar methods to leave notes for her before. Her knuckles whiten, grip tight on the bag’s straps after zipping it closed. She walks as fast as she can to Inokashira Park, the shortest route from Kichijōji to her apartment in Mitaka. The rain quickly soaks through her blouse and flattens her bangs to her forehead. She hates the way her damp skirt clings to her legs.
It doesn’t matter if he did take it. She needs to get out of the rain one way or another; it’s too late to take the train, soaked as she is, and she can’t spare the extra money for a cab.
It’s only a fifteen-minute walk—ten if you jog on some of the paths in the park, she reasons, pushing down the overwhelming ache of being awake for so long and focusing on the bath she can have when she gets home.
Endless neon reflects across the puddles spilling from the sidewalk to the street, rushing down to the storm drains like streaks of bright, spilled paint. She doesn’t stop at one of the vending machines for a melon soda like she usually would. Most of Sun Road is empty now, and what people remain head for the small local bars and ramen shops. She keeps her head down, the few late-night voices dimming as she cuts towards Inokashira-dōri.
It’s quieter here. She passes flourescent-bright convenience stores, a closed flower shop with buckets turned upside down. Rain replaces all other sounds of Kichijōji as she gets closer to the park, the acres of trees a barrier keeping back the city.
The park gates are open. Tall zelkova and cherry trees swallow what pockets of light make it past their broad branches and the growing downpour. Smells of ramen, spice, and exhaust make way for the strong scent of wet leaves, soaked earth, tree sap. It’s difficult to avoid the water-filled dips in the gravel and watch both the path and the treeline.
The lampposts feel too far apart as she gets deeper into the park, even on a main path; the overhanging trees more ominous than comforting. She makes herself move faster, ignoring the chill building in her hands and legs. Soon, she reaches the wooden bridge that will take her across the pond and lead to an exit close to Mitaka Station. From there, it’s only five-minutes through a few residential streets to her apartment building. She’s about to step on the water-logged bridge, but pauses.
The pond is nearly invisible in the dark, and she can’t hear the shifting water over the rain. She’s barely passed anyone since she entered the park, but there’s someone standing at the other end of the bridge, their face and upper body hidden by a black umbrella. The path over the bridge is dark, but there’s a lamppost at either end. She squints, trying to see through the night and rain.
The person on the other side shifts, holding up their wrist to check the time on their watch. It isn’t really confirmation of anything—lots of people have watches. Lots of people wear black shirts and have black umbrellas.
Everything in Amaya is telling her not to cross the bridge, but what else is she supposed to do? She steps away from the lamppost on her end of the bridge, hiding in the long shadow of a maple tree. Her teeth chatter with the cold.
Wiping the rain from her face, Amaya tries to think. She passed a narrow side path a minute ago, one that eventually leads to a different footbridge over the pond. It’ll add at least another fifteen- to twenty-minutes to her route, but she’ll be able to avoid the person still waiting on the other side of the pond. She could try to call Rin, but she lives in a different neighbourhood; Amaya would be out in the rain for close to an hour before Rin could get to the park. Even if she just kept Rin on the phone when she crossed the bridge, that wouldn’t stop Minato—if it really is Minato—from hurting Amaya, from following her home.
Rubbing her upper arms and hunching against the rain, Amaya turns back the way she came, half-running to the side path.
Please—whoever is listening, don’t let him follow me, she prays, desperation breaking through the fog that usually blunts the world around her. It’s sharp, insistent.
She turns back once, but she can’t tell if the man’s looking her way or not. She decides it would be unwise to continue waiting.
The path is poorly lit and cuts deeper into the trees, their branches overgrown enough to scratch at Amaya’s arms, catch on her hair and straps of her bag. The gravel path is irregular—more of a mix of stone and mud. The trees grow dense, crowded the further she goes, until almost no rain makes it through the expanse of the overhanging branches, thick with night-blackened leaves. Amaya takes out her phone to use the flashlight function as what light disappears after she passes the last lamppost. Only small flickers of moonlight bleed through above. She doesn’t remember the path narrowing like this, the trees leaning inward at odd angles.
It’ll loop back to one of the main paths soon, she tells herself.
Doubt creeps in. Is this the path she thought it was? Did she take this—possibly wrong—detour for nothing? She couldn’t fully tell if it was Minato on the other side of the bridge. She could have overreacted for no reason. Did she really believe Minato would have tried something if he was there?
It didn’t really matter anymore, whether she’s making things up in her head again. If this is the right way, she should already be halfway through the path to the other main walkway.
Raindrops scatter across the leaves above, but the sound seems more muted than before. The air smells different, too. Older. A thought she didn’t think she’d have about a park in Tokyo.
“Quit being crazy,” she mutters, shaking her head like it’ll allow reality to replace whatever fantasy she’s creating.
Forcing herself to keep going, eventually the uneven path becomes stranger. Large, round stones, half-eaten by moss, line the way ahead. The path narrows further; thick tree trunks almost brushing her shoulders. She’s certain now—she came the wrong way.
Debating on whether she should turn back or not, a loud crack echoes through the trees. Amaya freezes, whipping her phone light behind her. Her sneakers sink into the mud as she tries to stay still, legs shaking, light wavering in time with her trembling hands, heart hammering against her ribs. She almost wants to dismiss it as her mind playing tricks on her again, a sign that the weeks of sleep deprivation have taken a toll.
Another loud crack shatters the thought—a broken tree branch. Closer than the last. Much closer.
Amaya stops thinking and runs forward. Her hand partially covers the light, limiting its reach so that she can just see the path immediately in front of her. The path must lead somewhere—it’s not like the forest is endless. There’ll be an exit, she just has to find it.
Her head turns at the sound of rustling behind her, even closer this time. She chokes on fear and picks up her skirt so it’s easier to run, and nearly smashes her head into the splintered pillar of a torii gate. Weathered komainu statues, mouths closed and expressions fierce, guard the gate. There are no lights, no placards marking this as an active shrine site. Steep, fractured stone stairs are the only way forward. Something about the threshold of the gate, the way it frames the world into a small window, the light of the moon gone and dark, carries a weight Amaya doesn’t know how to explain. She feels stuck, but she’d rather face the consuming dark than the human threat behind her.
Hands shaking, she turns off her light and starts the climb.