I was on my way home.
My companion was my old Mitsubishi Minica 1984.
The exhaust pipe coughed out its usual rattle.
A sound that had been part of my days for years.
Inside the car, the usual smell: dust and worn vinyl.
The destination was the usual one, too—the San'ya district. Murasaki Residence, on Seventh Street.
Through the windshield, the sky was nothing more than a sheet of gray metal over the buildings, with electrical wires forming a messy web from one roof to the next.
When I pulled up to the building, the engine shuddered one last time and fell silent.
Black and red graffiti covered the concrete, symbols of a kind I'd learned long ago not to look at too closely.
The crunch of gravel under my feet was the first sound as I stepped out.
Then came the sound of my own footsteps, dull and hollow in the concrete stairwell, all the way up to 406.
The door hung open.
Or rather, it had been broken open, the frame splintered.
With a push, it swung inward to show a mess of things thrown across the floor.
Scattered papers were the first thing I saw, some with the letterhead from my old office.
The sofa was flipped over, its guts of yellowed foam and wire springs spilling out.
My cabinets gaped open, doors hanging from single hinges, and on the walls... the same black and red symbols from outside.
The air was thick with the chemical smell of fresh paint. In the silence, the only sound was my own breathing.
And through it all, I felt... nothing.
But in all that ruin, one thing was left untouched: the telephone on its little end table.
The beige plastic was yellowed from age, but when I picked up the receiver, the dial tone hummed steadily.
My shoes kicked a piece of a broken teacup aside as I stepped through the debris. The receiver felt cool in my hand as I dialed the number I knew better than my own.
My son's number.
Shinji.
I waited. The clicks on the line gave way to a recorded voice.
"— Please leave your message after the tone."
The beep was loud in the quiet apartment.
After it faded, the only sound was the silence I was holding in my own chest.
It took a real effort to breathe.
I lowered the receiver, my eyes fixing on the red graffiti marring the far wall.
"—Shinji." — I began, and the voice that spoke was not my own.
"— It's your father. I... I imagine you're busy. That's good. I just wanted to say that you... you are a success. A true one." — The words felt strange in the ruined room.
I looked down at my hands, at the swollen knuckles and stained skin—the result of a life's work.
A hot pressure built behind my eyes.
Then a single warm drop traced a path down my cheek.
My hand, the one holding the phone, began to tremble with a weight that had nothing to do with the receiver.
"— I..." —My throat seized.
I swallowed hard.
"— I love you, son. You and Manami... are my whole world." — A pause.
"— I know I wasn't always... present. For all the things that mattered." — Another long silence.
"— But I will always protect you. Always." — I gently placed the receiver back in its cradle.
The line went dead.
I tugged the brim of my work cap down low, shielding my eyes.
There was nothing left for me in that room. I turned and walked back down the stairs, leaving the mess behind.
My old car waited for me like a faithful companion.
The driver's seat gave a familiar, welcoming creak as I settled into it. From the glove compartment, I took out a single sheet of paper, folded into a neat square.
On it, a few words:
Nakayama Racecourse. September 18th. 10:00 AM.
Which was today.