Page 12 of The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop

TWO

‘A hundred years had passed.’

A sudden flare of light poured from the trees and shot through the glass, the brightness making him squint for a moment.

To say that he was dazzled would be an understatement.

The sun had caught him completely off-guard.

The thought of his vision going white, even for a split second, struck him with a surge of overwhelming fear.

He could have overlooked anything – a monkey, a deer, a rock or a fallen tree – and that alone was enough to send a chill down his spine.

Instinctively, he blinked rapidly, clenched his teeth under his chinstrap, and pointed forward.

This safety procedure had become second nature to him.

As the train cut through the mountains, it occasionally passed beneath an arcade of trees.

Every time it did so, his grip on the controls tightened, ready to react should he need it to.

The responsibility he bore for the vehicle, which weighed tons on its own, was an immense pressure on his shoulders, not to mention the lives of the passengers it carried.

Moreover, he knew that averting would be impossible.

Looking well ahead was about the only thing he could do to avoid a potential collision.

Even so, Shingo preferred the alertness required to navigate the route through the mountain range.

From early spring to early summer, the vivid green of young leaves reigned over the landscape until they were eventually overthrown by the relentless midsummer sun.

Soon, shades of yellow and orange would emerge here and there before swiftly surrendering to deep crimson and dazzling gold.

But only a short while later, the entire landscape would be blanketed in silvery white.

Such were the distinct changes that marked the transition of seasons, which Shingo believed to be one of the greatest joys of this country.

The train eventually approached a station at the foot of a mountain.

Across the tracks from the station building , atop an elevated stretch of land, stood a cluster of Yamazakura – wild cherry trees – that, during the spring season, adorned the landscape with beautiful blossoms. At one point, the station even became a bustling tourist spot after news of the stunning trees spread through word of mouth.

Under Shingo’s control, the train glided smoothly into the platform. As usual, he brought the train to a flawless stop, the hand on the speedometer resting on zero at precisely the designated position. The train would be held at the platform for exactly five minutes.

Confirming the safety of the platform, Shingo conducted another check on the brakes before finally exiting the train, then immediately stretched out his arms to loosen his shoulders.

Perhaps because it was early morning, a veil of fog hung over the station, the cherry trees dissolving into white.

What a shame , Shingo thought, as he turned around to the station building and the ticket barriers on the other side of the tracks.

In that instant, a gust of wind swept away the fog entirely, suddenly uncovering a building that Shingo had never seen before.

A traditional Japanese structure with wooden walls and many windows, a bronze weathercock stood atop its green-tiled triangular roof.

Blimey, where has that come from? He was certain that no such station existed on his train line.

In fact, the building looked nothing like a station.

Doubts filling his head, Shingo noticed a figure sitting on a bench right next to the ticket barriers.

He didn’t need to strain his eyes to see that it was his wife, Yuriko.

‘Yuriko, what on earth are you doing here?’

When Shingo called out to her in surprise, his wife stood up, opening her mouth to say something, but her voice did not reach him.

Just then, the fog returned, thickening rapidly.

His arm, which he had extended towards his wife, had vanished from the wrist down.

For a moment, he stood in utter confusion.

Then, an intense feeling of urgency crashed through him as the alarm bell signalling the train’s departure began to ring.

What is Yuriko saying? I need to hurry, or else the train will be delayed…

This was the dream Shingo Kikukawa was having just before he woke up that morning.

Memories were curious things. Though merely a dream – a world without physical form – it was the most vivid, faithful recreation of the routine he’d repeated countless times for more than forty years, down to the smallest detail.

The speed at which the rails passed beneath the train, the steady vibrations and rhythmic sounds, the order in which the trees appeared, the colour of their leaves, the angle of the signals and the curve of the track, all but that strange station he witnessed at the end of the journey was exactly as Shingo had seen and heard throughout his life as a train driver.

Yet by the time Shingo awoke, he didn’t recall any of it; he didn’t even realise that he had been dreaming.

Moreover, he didn’t fully understand that he had long retired from his work as a train driver.

There was no reason, then, that he would know why tears had gathered at the corner of his eyes as he stirred from sleep.

The room Shingo lived in had one large west-facing window.

On some summer evenings, the smothering heat of the westering sun was so intense, it drained Shingo of the energy to speak, but he was still grateful that he had such a generous view of the outdoors.

Plus, his room was on the side that overlooked the mountains.

The way nature changed its attire as the seasons passed by filled Shingo’s heart with deep appreciation. It gave him the reassurance that time was still flowing.

Pulling himself up, Shingo carefully laid his feet on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

He placed both hands on his knees and exhaled.

Aware that his heart and lungs were still functioning properly, he silently expressed his gratitude.

Then, he opened and closed his right hand repeatedly, around five times.

All good. Next, he tried the same with his left hand.

Although a few of his fingers seemed to lack strength, he was doing much better than before.

Shingo tried to stand up but wasn’t able to, not straightaway.

Just as he expected, his left leg was unstable.

His cane, which he was certain he’d put by his pillow, seemed to have disappeared – until he realised that it had fallen over and was lying on the floor.

Frowning , Shingo leaned forward and stretched out his hand, somehow managing to pull it towards him.

He found it frustrating that a task so simple had taken him such a long time to accomplish.

Relying on his cane, Shingo walked over to his in-room sink and washed his face.

Then, looking in the mirror, he carefully ran the electric shaver over his skin.

He would clean his teeth after breakfast. And if he didn’t want anyone telling him off, he mustn’t forget to take his medicine.

What a nuisance, Shingo thought to himself. He didn’t even know what they were for.

After combing his hair, he sat back down on the bed for a moment to steady his breathing before standing up again to get dressed.

He removed his pyjamas and threw them on the bed.

He would leave them there for the time being.

Then, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his collared shirt, he fastened his tie.

Everything had gone smoothly up to that point, but putting his trousers on was going to be a different story.

First, he had to sit down, then, taking his time, he pulled them on one leg at a time. The same went for his socks.

The final step was his uniform. Removing his gold-buttoned jacket from the hanger, he put it on.

Then, he fixed his cap on his head. As soon as he did so, he felt his body straighten up.

By then, the fact that he had needed his cane to lift himself out of bed had been erased from his mind.

It was now time for breakfast, and that was the only thought that filled Shingo’s head.

The canteen was on the ground floor. Shingo took the lift down.

When he got off, he turned right. He was quite confident that this was the correct way, and his chest lightened as the smell of cooking came wafting over.

Glancing at the serving counter, he saw that a queue had already formed.

Everyone’s head looked white from behind, except the one person who had dyed her hair purple.

Why anyone would do such thing was beyond him.

Her name was… Hmm… What was it again? Not that it mattered, as he wasn’t even sure if he knew her.

While he recognised the hair colour, he couldn’t remember what her face looked like.

Soon, it was Shingo’s turn. Everyone had the same meal, that morning’s dishes being rice porridge, rolled omelette, grilled salmon, simmered kombu seaweed, and pickled nozawana leaves.

‘Oh, Grandpa. That outfit again. Isn’t it about time that you had it dry-cleaned?’

One of the female cooks spoke to him as she ladled out the rice porridge. On her name badge was the surname ‘Matsumoto’. She was tall, and although her hair was neatly tucked into her hat, he could tell that it was very long. A friendly, vibrant smile lit her face, giving off a cheerful impression.

Yet Shingo’s mood began to sour as he watched her behaviour.

He found her lively energy rather irritating, and besides, she had called him ‘Grandpa’.

Who did think she was, lumping all older men together like that?

She obviously didn’t bother learning each person’s name.

As he stared at the young lady before him, his annoyance only grew.