Chapter 3

“Yochi, for you, this is the first time we’ve met, right? I’m Miri Yuzunoha. Yuzunoha is written as ‘leaf of the yuzu tree,’ and Miri is ‘beautiful village.’” So she was talking to me from the past…! I asked, my voice trembling, “Yochi…?” “A future Youichi said I could call you that. The first time I met you, it was under cherry trees in full bloom.” “A future me…? So it’s true. You—” The woman from the cat’s eyes nodded in confirmation. “I can see the future.” 2 The train doors closed behind me. I checked my distance from others and took a deep breath. The pandemic had largely subsided, but being inside a train still unsettled me. Every cough set me on edge, and my breathing instinctively grew shallow. The cat carrier, litter box, cat food, and other supplies I bought at the Takadanobaba pet shop weighed down my hands. Carrying all that made it hard to pass through the ticket gates, and after exiting Komagome Station, I removed my mask. The fresh air of early summer greeted me, reminding me of childhood. Smell and memory are deeply intertwined. These days, memories feel fleeting, probably because of the constant masking during the pandemic. It took about ten minutes to walk back to my apartment. I climbed the old, weathered exterior staircase and made my way down the slightly grimy hallway. Nodding to the police officers going in and out of room 204, I continued to my own door—room 203, second from the end. The grim-colored door, a shade I’d dubbed veggie juice green, creaked open. I slipped off my shoes, and my new roommate came to greet me. “Saburou, I’m home.” He mewed in reply. That was the name the woman in his eyes had called him. Saburou eagerly jumped into the litter box as soon as it was set up. He must’ve been waiting—a cat with manners. I poured food into his bowl, and his eyes narrowed into slits as he ate, tail swaying while I petted him. After he finished, I picked him up and gazed into his eyes. The scene appeared again: the woman sitting on a cushion, smiling and waving both hands at me. The image came through as clearly as before, free of distortion. “Yochi, hello. Did you sleep well?” “I dreamed that elves were building a castle on my stomach.” “A castle?” “I woke up and Saburou was sleeping on me.” Her laughter bloomed like a flower. “Did you sleep well, Ms. Yuzunoha?” “Call me Miri. And here, it’s only been about ten minutes since we last talked.” “What—?” I fumbled. “Oh, I get it. We’re having a conversation between the past and the future, connected at ‘a certain point in time,’ so the same amount of time doesn’t pass for both of us.” Now that I noticed, she was wearing the same white shirt and canary yellow skirt as before. Time flowed differently between here and there—so if I broke the connection now, the next time I speak with Miri could be three seconds later or three days later. I thought of the second tale in The Elves and the Shoemaker: A servant girl becomes the godmother to an elf child and spends three days with them, only to return to her village and discover seven years had passed. “How many years in my past are you?” I asked. “About three. Saburou’s still a kitten here,” she said, gently stroking his head with her left hand. I could feel the “memory” of that sensation. It rattled me. Experiencing what it felt like to be a kitten, the soft fur, the sensation of Miri’s delicate fingers… “What happened to your finger?” I asked, noticing something. “Oh, this?” She held up her left hand, showing a bandage wrapped around her pointer finger. “I cut myself while slicing an avocado yesterday. I’m a bit of a klutz,” she said with a laugh. “I may be small, but I still manage to bang my head on everything. And I’m really sensitive to pain. I cry a little every time.” I laughed, feeling some of the tension ease. “So getting your ears pierced must’ve been tough, huh?” “Oh, these are clip-ons.” She took off her earrings and showed them to me. “I’m too scared to get my ears pierced. But there’s less variety with clip-ons, and it’s really hard to find a pair I like. It’s not easy being me,” she joked, eyebrows lifting as she laughed. We chatted for a while before a brief silence fell between us. Eventually, I noticed a subtle tension in the air. Saburou’s ears perked up. “Say,” I started, “how does all of this work? I can see the memories stored within someone’s eyes when I look into them, but I can’t control it well. Memories jump around, and I’m pulled toward those with strong emotional links. So something like this—picking out an ordinary memory—it’s really hard. But here I am, talking with you again, like something drew me here…” Miri looked at me seriously. “Yochi, do you believe in fate?” “Fate?” The sudden shift caught me off guard. “I don’t know about fate. I don’t trust the morning horoscopes on TV.” Miri didn’t laugh. “Fate exists, whether you believe in it or not. I can see it. Or at least the shadow it casts.” I hesitated, then said, “If you say so, I’ll take your word for it. Maybe fate really does exist.” “Thank you,” Miri said softly. “What do you think fate looks like?” I thought about it, then decided to have a little fun. “Like stains from the bottom of a coffee cup.” “Oh, that’s a great answer!” Miri said excitedly. “That could be true from certain angles. Like how a wall clock looks like a line when seen from the side.” “And how do you see it, Miri?” “I see it like raindrops running down a train window.” Miri’s pupils seemed to swell. “We are each like a single water molecule, joining and separating with the passage of time, each following our own path. And we are influenced by other droplets, the wind, the train, the Earth, and even larger forces… And I can see it. Seeing it means I can interfere with it. I can’t control the train, but I can change its path at certain junctions.” “So the two of us talking right now. That’s because of your powers?” “I’m making that kind of future happen.” I shook my head in disbelief. This was extraordinary. “And now a certain train has started running beyond my control,” Miri whispered. “That shooting… It’s the start of a series of murders.” A chill ran through me. “A series of murders…?” “Unless someone— No. Unless you, Yochi, change its course.” My mind reeled. “Me?” I stammered. “Yes.” Miri nodded. “You’re the only one who can change this fate. If you don’t find the killer, the murders will continue.” “What…?” I pressed my hands to my head, trying to process it. “Wait. Miri, if you can see the future, can’t you see what I’ll do? Can’t you see who the killer is?” Miri shook her head. “There are limits to what I can see and how much I can interfere with fate. I don’t know who the killer is, and I don’t know if you’ll stop them.” I swallowed hard. The touch of death I had felt when reliving the gunshot came flooding back—the flicker of light, the suffocating fear. My heart pounded, and cold sheen of sweat covered my skin. I was trembling. “I can’t do it. I’m not smart enough to solve a murder, and I’m not strong enough to fight someone with a gun. I can see the past, but that’s all. It’s like a strange record player.” “That’s not true!” Miri insisted. “You’re incredibly smart and strong.” “And how do you know that?” “Because I’ve seen the future. And from what you’ve said so far, I can tell—you will try to find the killer.” I shook my head. Then I cut the connection. Saburou wriggled out of my arms and stretched on the floor, as if commenting on how long that conversation had been. For some reason, Saburou always sat patiently when Miri and I talked. At some point, it started to rain. Drops of water ran down the sliding glass door. I focused on one—a large drop that looked like it would travel straight down the glass. I watched it for a while. Then, suddenly, it veered sharply to one side, rushing toward a destination I never would have guessed. 3 The doorbell roused me from a restless sleep. I hadn’t slept a wink all night and had just drifted off, thanks to a slightly heavier dose of anxiety meds and sleeping pills than usual. The TV was still on, the news discussing yesterday’s shooting. My familiar, decrepit apartment, the somber tone of the newscaster. They had moved on to criticizing the officer who lost his gun. The doorbell rang again. Slowly, I became aware of my awkward, slumped body. I glanced at the clock. It was ten AM on a Saturday. This apartment didn’t have the luxury of an intercom system. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I tried to fix my hair. The doorbell rang once more. “I’m coming, I’m coming…,” I mumbled, thrusting my feet into my sandals. I unlocked the door, released the chain, and pulled it open. A devastated couple stood there. A smoky gray air, tinged with a bluish-black hue, seemed to creep into my apartment. They were dressed in all black, their clothes somehow hesitant, as if reluctant to cling to their bodies. His stubble and her patchy makeup looked fragile, ready to unravel like the loose threads of a frayed cloth. “Hello. We’re sorry to disturb you so early in the morning…,” the man said, his voice strained. He appeared to be in his early fifties. “We’re the parents of Karin Amagasaki. She lived next door.” It dawned on me that this was the first time I’d heard the dead woman’s name. “Hello…” I bowed slightly, feeling confused. “They say you rushed over when you heard the gunshot. Thank you.” Apparently, they had come to express their gratitude. Still groggy, I struggled to process their words. Karin Amagasaki had been a student at the same university, a year ahead of me. The mother burst into tears as she explained that her daughter’s autopsy was underway, and they didn’t know when her body would be returned. Something felt off. My gaze drifted downward, to a fresh bandage wrapped around the mother’s left wrist. It looked recent, contrasting with her suntan. The more I observed, the more details sharpened in my mind—her disheveled hair, pale skin, puffy eyes, and an aura of raw vulnerability. The father asked me to recount the day of the incident, so I described it in detail, leaving out, of course, any mention of the cat or my ability to see into the past. As I spoke, the mother kept looking at me, as if searching for something, anything to cling to. Our eyes met. I sensed danger. A strange sense of duty told me not to look away. There is one condition for me to make an eye-to-eye connection. With human beings, the person must have tears in their eyes. For anything other than a human, like Saburou, I can make a connection anytime, but with humans, that condition is a must. Presumably, their rational minds act as a security measure, a defense mechanism. Only when they’re crying do those defenses falter, if only slightly. Thankfully, Amagasaki’s mother was already crying. I looked into her eyes, and— Her memories rushed toward me instantly, like a shaken can of soda bursting open. The “force” of those memories was overwhelming. I was drowning in them in an instant, my mind bubbling, my hippocampus irreparably stained. I quickly broke the connection. Tears streamed down my face. The parents, bewildered, glanced at each other in confusion. I needed to make some kind of excuse, but all I could do was sob. The mother began crying with me. “I’m so sorry,” the father said. “You’re in shock, too, and we showed up out of the blue…” I wanted to tell them that wasn’t the reason, but I couldn’t speak. They left, and I slowly shut the door behind them. I stood there for a while, crying in the entryway. Suddenly, my stomach churned, and I rushed to the toilet to throw up. It felt as though the carbonation from those memories had soaked into my bones, turning them to jelly. 4 A pair of eyes open in the darkness. A piece of salmon flies through the air, flailing wildly as it sails before landing on the floor with a splat. A plate shatters. They’re having a terrible fight—a torrent of curses brimming with murderous intent. It’s escalating fast. Another plate becomes a casualty, and a second piece of salmon is launched across the room. I sigh in annoyance. In the next moment, I contort my face and begin to cry, adopting a childlike tone to stir their pity. “Please, Dad, Mom, don’t fight. Calm down and let’s eat this salmon.” I pick the salmon off the floor, place it back on the broken plate, and return it to the table before taking a bite. Mom and Dad, looking crestfallen, stop arguing. They must have realized how foolish they were acting. “I’m so sorry,” Mom says softly. “I’ll cook more salmon. You should go wash your mouth…” As she heads to the kitchen, I walk to the bathroom. Once there, I spit the salmon I had pretended to eat into a tissue, throwing it in the trash. I glance at my reflection in the mirror—there’s no hint of sadness. My eyes are slightly red, but there’s no trace that I’d been crying. I smile. I am so smart. So adorable. 5 A pair of eyes open in the darkness. An announcement informs us that the fourth-year students’ play is about to begin. “They will be performing Romeo and Juliet.” The gym falls silent as the curtains rise. Handmade scenery and props sit beneath a banner that reads THEATER FESTIVAL. With each grade, the quality of the props has improved, and I find myself admiring how well crafted they are. Children step onto the stage from the wings and begin to recite their lines. I wait and wait for the lead to appear. And then she steps into the spotlight. The stage is instantly transformed, as if adorned with an elegant flower hairpin. She wears the handmade dress that had cut my hands so badly while making it—her Juliet, a vision of pure, innocent beauty. A wave of soft sighs ripples through the audience’s hushed calm. “Karin is easily the best one out there,” my husband whispers in my ear. “She could be an actress someday.” My daughter, an actress. The thought makes my heart bloom, warming me like the first day of spring. My life has felt like a plain rag. I remember the first year of elementary school, when everyone brought out their rags to clean the classroom. My three friends had rags embroidered with flowers, animals, or anime characters. Mine was the only plain one. Looking back, that rag feels like a metaphor for my life—never pure white, but rather a dull, stained color of an ordinary, tarnished existence. The only part of me that has ever felt pure is my fair skin, my secret source of pride. And now my daughter—who shares half my DNA—stands on that stage with that same fair skin, bathed in the spotlight, her cheeks glowing. I place my left hand over my chest and feel my pulse quicken. As she shines in the spotlight, the light seems to reach me, distant but glowing like a firefly. The play ends, and the curtain call begins. The children stand in a line, raising their joined hands high. The house lights come up, allowing the kids to see the audience. You find the two of us, burst into a smile, and wave. I grasp my husband’s hand with my left, and we wave together. The only reason we’re still married is because our Karin wedged herself between us. Our Karin. You are so smart. So adorable. 6 A pair of eyes open in the darkness. A woman’s face reflects in the mirror. She looks somewhere in her forties. But she seems strangely aged, like an old woman. Laugh lines have etched valleys beneath her swollen eyes. Her cheeks sag, and saliva trickles out the side of her mouth. Her animal moans neither sob nor growl, her gray-streaked hair wild, hands tearing the skin on her head. The bright-red fingertips of her right hand grip a shaving razor. She howls as though she is about to burst. Touching the blade to her left wrist— 7 I leaped out of bed, covered in sweat, feeling as cold as ice. Pressing down on a fierce pain in my left wrist, I was certain I would find bright-red blood gushing between my fingers. —Fearfully, I pulled my right hand away. But my wrist was completely fine. I exhaled and wiped the sweat from my face, realizing it was one of the remnants of memories. Fragments from the memories that had flooded into me from her eyes still lingered in the depths of my mind, appearing in my dreams. Francis Crick, the scientist who identified the double helix structure of DNA, once proposed that dreams are the brain’s way of processing information. According to that theory, the memories that had passed through my eyes had stained my brain and, during sleep, intermingled with my own memories, causing me to dream from someone else’s perspective. In the span of a single night, I had experienced life as both Karin Amagasaki and her mother. As I had suspected, her mother had cut her own wrists. My body had absorbed her dangerous mental state. The balance between life and death can be tipped in either direction, even with the weight of a single razor blade. A girl in my high school volleyball club who often cut her wrists once told me that doing it was like breathing. She said she was just a species of guppy. And just like guppies can only breathe underwater, she could only breathe in darkness, with the cuts as her gills. She would show her scars to anyone, which eventually became such a problem that the school expelled her. If what she said was true, then Karin’s mother was struggling to find a new way to breathe, to survive. I showered, opened the sliding glass door, and sat down. Summer clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Saburou came up to me and stretched out over my lap. I stroked his soft belly. Taking a deep breath, I stood up. Sitting at my desk, I began typing on my computer, carefully choosing the right words. Even Saburou coming up for affection couldn’t break my focus. About two hours later, I finally finished. I printed it out, sealed it in a light blue envelope, and used a ruler to disguise my handwriting. On the front, I wrote: A Letter from the Deceased 8 I took a long-distance bus from Shinjuku Station to Kofu City in Yamanashi Prefecture. The ride took just over two hours, and it was the farthest I had traveled from Tokyo since moving there. I left Saburou at home. I slept through most of the ride, probably because I hadn’t slept well the night before due to the remnants of memories. The air was thick and muggy when I got off at Kofu Station. The sun blazed overhead, making it feel even hotter than in Tokyo. It was two in the afternoon. I walked into CELEO Kofu, grabbed something for lunch, and headed up to the sixth floor. Toward the Misaka Mountains, the peak of a blue Mt. Fuji glimmered beneath a sky filled with bubbling cumulonimbus clouds. I sat down on a bench and unfolded a piece of paper. As they were leaving yesterday, Karin’s parents had given me their phone number and address so I could contact them. I double-checked the route to their house on my phone’s map. I took another bus through Kofu City and then walked through a quiet suburb for about ten minutes. Suddenly, a powerful feeling of déjà vu hit me. The house—it should be just ahead. I turned the corner as if something was leading me. And there it was: the Amagasaki house, a single-story home that looked fifty or sixty years old. Time and space seemed to warp, disorienting me. This was the house from my dreams. When I was Karin Amagasaki, when I was her mother, I had lived here. My chest tightened with an indescribable sadness. I pulled the letter out of my backpack and placed it on the doormat. Just then I sensed a presence behind me. Instinctively, I ducked into the yard. I knew where to hide. I had played hide-and-seek here before. “Huh? What’s this…?” Her father had returned from walking their dog. He picked up the light-blue envelope, adjusted his reading glasses, and eyed it suspiciously. Without hesitation, he pulled out the letter and rushed inside the house. The Shiba dog he left behind circled three times before settling into its doghouse. Oh no. The dog was blocking my exit. I heard footsteps approaching and immediately ducked under the porch. Karin’s mother and father came out and sat on the porch, their four calves now lined up in front of my eyes. “A Letter from the Deceased…? Is this some kind of joke?” “It doesn’t seem like it. There are things in here that only Karin would know, and it even sounds like her writing.” The contents of the letter weren’t completely made up. It came from the memories of a dead person that had stained my mind, memories that I used to write it. In a way, it was essentially a form of necromancy. “Dear Mom and Dad…,” her mother began, reading the letter aloud. Dear Mom and Dad, I’m using a very special method to have someone write this letter on my behalf. This has all happened so suddenly that I still haven’t processed it all, and I’m sure it’s the same for you, too. I feel so horrible thinking about that. The reason I’m writing this letter is that, simply, I’m worried about you, Mom. I can’t bear that I’m the reason you’re suffering this much. The three of us used to sit on the porch eating watermelon and watching the clouds. Dad, I remember how you would spit the seeds so far, then we’d find sprouts in our yard, which we’d grow into fruit, and laugh as we’d eat together. For some reason, I get sleepy when I eat watermelon, so I always used to use your lap as a pillow, Mom. I loved grabbing your left hand as it tickled my ear and making it stroke my cheek. Your skin was so soft, Mom, and cool like kitchen tiles… It felt wonderful. It’s summer here in heaven. There are clouds, watermelon, and a porch. I can be anything I want here. Know that I’ll be waiting for you, looking like a child with round red cheeks like apples polished on a sleeve. All while chilling watermelon in crisp, clear spring water. Please, live long, full lives and bring lots of stories to tell me. The three of us will eat watermelon and I’ll doze on your lap while you tell me those long, lovely stories. When we meet again, Mom, please stroke my cheeks. I love you. Karin Her mom wailed, calling out Karin’s name through her sobs. The four calves huddled together. In the darkness, a mix of emotions passed through me. But at least I was able to let her cry. It was like opening the cap on a plastic bottle a little and gently releasing the carbonation inside. I imagined the scales. The letter settled on the side opposite the razor, and the scales tilted away from the blade. 9 After finally escaping the Amagasaki house, random notions swirled through my head—things I couldn’t even call proper thoughts. They persisted even after I was back in my apartment, lying in bed. I’m such a coward. I want to help people, but I’m too afraid to face any danger head-on. I’ve always been like this. I couldn’t do anything at all, even back then. A solitary umbrella dances upward in the darkness behind my eyelids. A bright-red umbrella. It flutters against a backdrop of gloomy black clouds. The umbrella falls beside a yellow raincoat, a schoolbag hanging from its back. A red bag—a girl’s. Her eyes, wide with shock, stare in my direction. And with frightening speed, the light in those eyes vanishes… The sleeping pills must have worked because, at some point, I had fallen asleep. After wandering through a bewildering tempest, I had finally broken through into the eye of the storm. A serene, golden light filled the space. Miri’s dream. She relaxed in her room with its bookshelf. Light seeped through the lace curtain, warming her soft, delicate hair. A hairpin decorated with a cherry blossom flower sparkled above her ear. Why did it feel like I had seen this before? I couldn’t recall from where, though. Miri continued to read quietly. She looked so very beautiful. 10 I drank a cup of water right after waking up. Nothing else passed my lips. “Saburou, come here.” Rising from his nap, Saburou’s ears perked up, and he came over, hoping for some food. I hadn’t planned on feeding him, but I felt bad for him. So I filled his bowl with cat food. Then I looked into his eyes, and— Something pulled me forward, and Miri appeared in my field of view. It seemed to be a different day than the last time we met. She wore a light-green oversized sweater made for spring, its long sleeves waving as she greeted me with a cheerful “Hello, Yochi!” “Good morning, Miri. I just woke up.” “I thought so. Your hair is still a mess.” I patted my bedhead, trying to smooth it down, but it popped back up as soon as I removed my hand. Miri laughed, her teeth showing in a wide smile. “Miri, there’s something I want to tell you about today…,” I started, then told her about the letter from the deceased. “This isn’t the first time. I’ve written a lot of those letters. They caused quite a stir in town, almost becoming an urban legend. I made mistakes at first, but I gradually got better and helped a lot of people.” My voice faltered. Miri listened attentively, then spoke. “But now you’re starting to have doubts about what you’re doing, right?” I was stunned. It was like she had read my mind. “…That’s right. I think so. Isn’t it hypocritical? Peering into someone’s memories without their permission, then writing a letter on their behalf… Who am I to do that? But I’m also scared that something terrible will happen if I don’t do anything. In the end, it’s all just to make me feel better.” A silence filled the room. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but one that felt protective, like waiting for the wings of a newly emerged insect to harden. Finally, Miri spoke. “But what makes something actually ‘good’?” “Actually good?” “For example, what if I killed someone?” I was shocked. Miri, killing someone? She couldn’t hurt a fly, much less a person. “Killing someone is ‘bad,’ of course,” I replied. “But I can see the future. What if that person is going to kill fifty thousand people someday?” I hesitated. “…Then that would be ‘good,’ I guess.” “Really? But what if each of those fifty thousand people was going to kill fifty thousand more?” “But now you’re just speculating, aren’t you?” “Exactly. If you can’t know everything, then the ‘what ifs’ are endless. They’re inescapable. There’s nothing you can do about it.” “…I guess so.” “In the end, I believe the boundaries of our knowledge define the boundaries of our ethics. If you don’t know about the fifty thousand victims, then killing one person is ‘bad.’ I can see the future, and you can see the past. We know things others don’t, so our ethics are different, too. We have to follow our own personal morality.” “But isn’t that personal morality just something we use to make ourselves feel better about our decisions?” “That’s exactly what morals are—ways to help you feel satisfied with your choices. We’re not gods. With the knowledge of gods, the good and bad in the human world would seem trivial. All humans can do is try their best while figuring things out along the way.” The knowledge of gods… I broke out in goose bumps. A terrifying thought hit me. “With what you know, was yesterday’s letter from the deceased a good thing? Or was it bad? You know what happens if the letter arrives and if it doesn’t, right?” Miri looked at me, silent. This silence was heavy, like it would prevent those fragile wings from ever fully unfurling. After a long pause, she spoke, her expression unchanged. “It was ‘good.’ If the letter hadn’t arrived, the mother would have killed herself, and the father would have wasted away and died the following year.” I sighed with relief, the tension leaving my shoulders. I had saved their lives. A warmth spread through my chest at the realization. “Miri,” I said, my resolve hardened. “I’m going to find this killer. Honestly, I’m scared, and I don’t know if I can do it. But if I’m the only one who can help, then I want to try.” Miri smiled warmly. “I knew you’d say that. Well, I believed you would. Let’s catch this killer!” She shook Saburou’s paw. I shook his paw, too, and laughed.