This is the end of my story. I think I’ve talked about all the emotions I don’t want to forget and all the events I want to remember. The only thing left is a handful of recollections. I don’t think you could call this an epilogue, though. My life is still going on, busy as ever, without the sort of clear dividing line you’d need to call it an epilogue.
After I close the door, Souta and I go back to the place where my house used to be and find someone unexpected waiting there—Serizawa. He and Tamaki are both leaning against the concrete foundation among the weeds, sleeping soundly. Souta’s face when he sees Serizawa is quite the sight. His expression is a complex mixture of surprise, annoyance, and affection.
“I came to get that twenty thousand yen I lent you,” Serizawa says once he’s awake.
“Are you kidding?” Souta answers. “You didn’t lend me that money—I lent it to you!”
Maybe Serizawa isn’t cut out to be a teacher after all. Soon both Serizawa and Tamaki are wide awake, and after the four of us share a moment of surprise and relief, trading misunderstandings and justifications, we all pile into Serizawa’s car.
The front end of the red convertible is painfully crushed in, and every time Serizawa shifts gears, it jerks even worse than before. The door that came off is strapped back on with duct tape. It turns out Serizawa called his roadside service and got them to haul the car back up to the road. We drive along a stretch overlooking the ocean for a while, then stop at a train station halfway up a mountain. Souta and I leave Tamaki and Serizawa in the car and go through the ticket gate of the unmanned station.
“I wish you’d come back with us…,” I say as we wait on the platform for his train.
“The weight of people’s hearts calms the land where they live. I’m sure there are other places where that weight has vanished and left a Gate open,” Souta says, gazing at the distant sky. I can hear the train whistle and the rattling of its wheels approaching.
“I’m going to close some doors on my way back to Tokyo,” he says decisively. I think I’m hoping he’ll ask me to come with him. But I know he probably won’t. I have my own world I need to get back to, and he has work to do. With obnoxious speed, the little one-car train slides into the station and opens its doors. Souta steps on board without saying anything.
“—Hey, Souta!” I call out.
He turns around. The bell rings to signal the doors are about to close.
“I—”
I falter. He jumps back onto the platform and pulls me into his arms.
“Suzume, thank you for saving me,” he says into my ear. I’m wrapped in his strong embrace. My nose is tingling, and like a fool, I start crying.
“I’ll come see you, I promise,” he says confidently, then floats away from me. The bell stops ringing, and the doors close. A bird is singing sharply. I watch as the train pulls away with him on it. The long overshirt he gave me reflects the light of the morning sun onto me.
After that, the three of us spend another half day driving back to Tokyo in Serizawa’s convertible. To tell the truth, I’d give anything to be out of that car (try spending hours being blasted by wind in a convertible whose roof doesn’t close, and you’ll understand what I’m saying), but it would have been cruel to abandon Serizawa while Tamaki and I got on a sparkling new Shinkansen.
As expected, we get rained on, are pulled over by the police, and run into trouble with the engine, but we manage to enjoy the trip back. We’re too desperate not to. We buy a bunch of snacks at a rest stop and eat them in the car. Tamaki even holds the soft serve up to Serizawa’s mouth as he drives. We sing along at the top of our lungs to whatever pop music he puts on whether we know the lyrics or not. We get a lot of suspicious glares from the cars around us, but we don’t care. By the time we get back to Tokyo Station that evening, the three of us are exhausted. We say good-bye with stiff handshakes in front of the Tokaido Shinkansen ticket gate.
Tamaki and I take two more days to travel back to Miyazaki. We stay at Rumi’s karaoke bar in Kobe and at Chika’s inn in Ehime. Tamaki gives everyone loads of presents she bought at Tokyo Station and bows her head a lot, apologizing for all the trouble her daughter caused them. At Rumi’s place we help with the customers, and at the inn we do chores. Tamaki is bizarrely popular with the customers at the karaoke bar, both male and female, shocking me with her hidden talents. Rumi, Miki, Tamaki, and I perform passionate karaoke quartets (I’ve gotten pretty familiar with vintage pop music over the past few days), and at Chika’s, she and I lie on futons side by side and talk until the sun comes up.
Then Tamaki and I catch the ferry at the same port where I got off on my way to Ehime and ride it back to Miyazaki. Minoru picks us up at the ferry dock on the other side, and even though Tamaki looks annoyed, I think she’s secretly happy about it. I realize the map of Japan on my smartphone that I’ve been checking as we travel—in the car, and on the train and ferry—has become very special to me.
A few months have passed since then.
I’ve been going to school every day and studying more than I used to for the university entrance exams coming up next year. Tamaki and I have been arguing more than before, but rather than fighting, it feels like a comfortable exchange of ideas. Her lunch boxes are still as over-the-top as always. The sea I pass on my way to school is growing more brilliant by the day. It seems to me that as winter advances, the sea gets bluer, the clouds get grayer, the asphalt gets blacker, and everything shines more brightly. It’s like the world beneath the light is constantly changing as it moves toward a point on the horizon.
It’s a February morning without a cloud in the blue sky, like the day the world began. The wind is still sharp and cold, and the clear, clean sun is shining into every last corner of town. I’m riding my bike down the hill next to the sea, wearing my school uniform and a thick scarf wrapped around my neck. My skirt is flapping in the wind like it’s taking deep breaths.
I see someone walking up the hill.
He’s striding confidently up the slope, the wind filling his long coat. I recognize him instantly. I’m going to say the words no one got to say that day, I suddenly think. He stops. I step off the pedals and take a deep breath of sea air.
“Welcome back,” I say.