Grey Spring: Ruins of Tokyo Manji and the Love We Left Behind - Neighbor

The moment he opened the door. Across the hallway, someone was there. Amber evening light spilled into the dim corridor of Corp Minase. And in that light, a girl stood. Her hand was still on the door to Room 202, and she had just begun to turn toward him. Takemichi froze. He'd been on his way to work, hair barely combed. His convenience store shift didn't start until ten—nearly two hours away—but the apartment had felt like a cage, and he'd wanted to wander somewhere, anywhere. That was the moment she appeared. The girl at the far end of the hallway stopped moving too, just for an instant. Their eyes met. No words came out of Takemichi's mouth. He knew her. He knew that face. Hinata Reina—Hina. Her black, straight hair bounced lightly at her shoulders. She looked a little more grown than before, but the color of her eyes hadn't changed. Gentle, yet with a core of steel—that same shade. She was wearing an apron. She must have stepped out mid-cooking; a faint scent of dashi drifted from her. It had been two years. Something flickered through Hina's eyes, just for a moment. Surprise, maybe. Or pain—he couldn't tell. But it lasted less than a second. The next instant, she smiled with perfect naturalness. An ordinary smile, as if they'd seen each other just yesterday. "I never did give you the moving-in greeting, did I." As she spoke, she held out a plastic container she'd been carrying in both hands. White plastic. A sweet-spicy aroma leaked from the gap in the lid. Nikujaga. Plenty of it. Takemichi's hands wouldn't move. He just had to take it. That was all. But his fingers locked up and refused. If he took it, he'd be connected to someone again. And if he was connected—again— Drakken's face surfaced in his mind. He smelled blood. For two years, this was how Takemichi had lived. Build walls. Keep distance. Even his relationship with Katagiri Minoru was nothing more than senpai and kouhai—that was it. Don't get deeply involved. If you don't get deeply involved, you won't lose anyone. And if you don't lose anyone, that pain— "It'll get cold." Hina's voice was calm. Not accusing. Not rushing him. But she didn't lower the container, either. She just stood there, holding it out. Not a millimeter of give in her stance. Takemichi reached out awkwardly with both hands. The warmth of the container seeped into his palms. "...Thanks." His voice barely came out. ＊ Sasazuka Sakura Park smelled of rain. Three minutes on foot from the apartment. At Hina's suggestion, they'd sat down together on a bench. If they were going to eat in a room anyway, it might as well be here, she'd said. Takemichi couldn't refuse—or rather, by the time he'd started searching for a reason to, his feet were already moving. The park was small. Two swings, one sandbox, four benches. The streetlights hadn't come on yet, and the red of the evening sky reflected faintly on the wet asphalt. Only the sound of insects, continuing at even intervals. They sat side by side on the bench and ate the nikujaga. Hina didn't ask anything. Where he worked, what he'd been doing for two years, why he lived here—nothing. She just sat beside him, poking at her own share with chopsticks. That helped, just a little. Because if she'd asked, he wouldn't have known how to answer. The potatoes were properly cooked through. Soaked in the sweet-spicy broth, soft to the point of nearly falling apart. How long had it been since he'd eaten something like this? Convenience store bento, or cup noodles. Takemichi took one bite, and after that, he couldn't move for a while. It's good, he thought. And that feeling pushed slowly, gently, into the depths of his chest. He didn't know why. Why would good cooking make him feel like this— The park streetlight flickered on with a soft click. Orange light illuminated the wet sandbox. The chains of the swings swayed faintly in the evening breeze. Without realizing it, Takemichi's eyes had blurred. He tried to stop it. But he didn't know how. For two years, he'd known how to stop this. Just don't feel. Just freeze it. But now, something—just a little—was beginning to thaw. A single drop traced down his cheek. Takemichi turned his face away. He didn't want Hina to see. What good would it do if she saw—what would it change— But Hina was watching him from the corner of her eye as he looked away. She said nothing. She simply placed a white handkerchief softly on his knee. Takemichi's hand clenched around it. He gripped too hard, his fingertips going white. Someone was beside him. Just that—just that one fact—was it really this heavy? Inside Hina's chest, something was quietly beginning to regain its warmth. Something she'd carried for two years. Something that had never disappeared, even alongside the pain. But tonight, she wouldn't put it into words. She just sat beside him, poking at her potatoes. ＊ A little before ten at night, Takemichi headed for the Daily Shop Sasazuka branch. Seven minutes on foot from Corp Minase. He walked the usual route at the usual pace. The night wind was damp, and the last traces of the rainy season still lingered at the bottom of the air. He was still dragging the park behind him. Crying in front of Hina—that thought spun round and round in his head. He hadn't intended to cry at all. But it overflowed. He didn't even know how many years it had been since he'd last cried, and the tears came anyway. (What the hell is wrong with me.) The convenience store sign came into view. The blue letters of Daily Shop floated in the night. The moment he approached the glass automatic doors—Takemichi stopped. Something was wrong inside. Through the glass, three figures stood in front of the register counter. Not customers. Their clothes were wrong. Black tokkoufuku—with a large "manji" symbol embroidered on the back. And beneath it, unfamiliar letters. "WALDSTATT." In a font eerily similar to the old Tokyo Manji emblem. One of the three had both hands planted on the counter. Katagiri Minoru was frozen on the inside. His face was pale. His lanky frame seemed to shrink in on itself. Takemichi's body wouldn't move. Not one step forward. Once—two years ago—he would have pushed through that door without a thought. That was the natural reflex. If a friend, if anyone, was in trouble, his body moved first. That was how Takemichi's body was supposed to work. But now his feet were nailed to the floor. The night of the Kanto Incident flashed through his mind. The roar of that night, the smell of blood, the red spreading across the asphalt, the moment Drakken's body tilted—it all expanded behind his eyelids in an instant, and strength drained from the ends of his limbs. If I go in, what can I do? Nothing. I couldn't do anything. That night, I couldn't do anything. I couldn't protect anyone. He heard the boys laughing. The one who seemed to be their leader was banging on the register drawer. Katagiri was opening it with trembling hands. Takemichi watched from behind the glass, unable to do a thing. The three left before long. Laughing. Not hurrying, not scared—just strolling out. The automatic doors slid open. Takemichi shifted one step to the side, pressing himself against the wall. The three boys passed by. They didn't seem to notice him. They disappeared into the alley. Just before the last one vanished, he said something. Glancing at his phone, murmuring quietly to his companion—at a volume just barely audible, the words drifted over. "Hanagaki Takemichi is in Sasazuka. He's usable." Takemichi didn't hear it. He wasn't watching the alley where the boys had disappeared. His gaze had fallen to his own hands. They were shaking. His right hand, his left hand—trembling finely, without stopping. From inside the store, he heard Katagiri's voice: "Hello, is this 110—" A cracking, young voice. Listening to it, Takemichi fought back nausea. ＊ His shift ended at six the next morning. The police came, took a statement from Katagiri, and asked Takemichi a few questions too—he'd been outside just before the incident, so they'd called him in. He described the heights and number of the boys in tokkoufuku. That was all. No one asked him why he hadn't helped. Back at Corp Minase, Takemichi closed the door to Room 201 and leaned his back against the wall. Without even taking off his shoes, he slid down to the floor. Outside the window, the sky was whitening. The light of a rainy-season morning slipped in thin through the gap in the curtains. He looked at his hands. Placed them on his knees and stared. They weren't shaking anymore. But the fact that they had been—that wouldn't disappear. He'd cried in front of Hina. He hadn't been able to save Katagiri. The two collided inside him. Both were true, both were his own—and yet they pulled him in completely different directions. (Maybe I'm already done for.) The thought surfaced like muddy water. Words that had risen and been pushed back down countless times over two years. But tonight, Hina's white handkerchief was still in his pocket. He'd forgotten to return it. No—he hadn't been able to. He'd meant to wash it and give it back, but it had stayed in his pocket all night. He had no intention of clutching it, yet his fingers were searching for it. From the other side of the wall, he heard a faint sound. The same melody as last night. Hina's humming. Just the melody, no lyrics—a soft sound. It passed thinly through the wall of Room 202 and reached Takemichi's ears. It was already morning. Was she already awake? Or had she been unable to sleep since last night? He couldn't tell which. But he could hear it. Takemichi hugged his knees and listened to that sound alone. He had neither the will to reject it nor the courage to accept it. Just—someone was on the other side of a single wall. Only that fact existed in this room this morning. The humming continued. Calmly, indifferently, as if she had no intention of letting anyone hear. Takemichi closed his hand gently around the handkerchief in his pocket.

日本語

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Episode 2

Name: Grey Spring: Ruins of Tokyo Manji and the Love We Left Behind
Author: Novelia

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