Takeda-san’s Story

It was raining the morning Takeda-san drove to Naebo station. A slow, steady rain that blurred the shop signs. The streets glistened under the pale light. He parked his old Toyota in the usual spot near Platform 1. The wipers stopped with a soft squeak. He checked hiswatch. Eleven forty-eight. The twelve o’clock Sapporo local was never late.

He took out a cigarette, lit it, and waited.

Same place. Same hour. Same car.

He had been doing this for almost nine years now. Three days a week. Pick up a passenger from  Naebo and drive them to a white building near Kitahiroshima. “No questions” he was told. The pay came every month, without delay.

A man had offered him this work one morning at the park. A distant cousin, he had said. Takeda had not been sure. Takeda couldn’t quite place him. Still, the offer had sounded simple enough.

He opened the glove box and looked at the small photograph inside. His wife’s picture was fading at the edges. She was wearing her favourite white kimono. Her hair tied neatly at the back. That same quiet smile that always made him feel calm. It had been twelve years since she died.

The doctor had mentioned something about a new treatment out of Kitahiroshima. An experimental program of some sort. She had fallen ill very suddenly. Her face had begun to lose its roundness. Her hands looked thin, the bones showing. By the time she passed away, she looked far older than her years.

He remembered that morning too. The rain had been heavy, just like today. He had sat by her side until the end, holding her hand, waiting for her to breathe again.

The train pulled in.

He could spot them easily now, after years of this routine. Most were men, though there were a few women too. All were well past eighty. The women came in elegant kimonos, their obi tied perfectly. The men wore tailored suits and polished shoes. Their wealth was quiet but clear.

Yet time had left its mark. Some were bent with age, others moved carefully on weak knees. All leaned on canes or some kind of support, their faces lined deeply with the stories of their lives. Still, there was a quiet spark in their eyes, as if they were saying, in their own way, bring it on.

Watching them, he often wondered what it meant to grow old with such grace.

“Kitahiroshima?” Takeda asked softly.

The old man nodded.

They drove in silence. They always did.

His hands rested on the steering wheel as he drove through the roads he knew so well. The faint scar on his left hand caught the morning light. It had been a deep cut once, a small accident at work, bright red at the time but long healed now. He hardly noticed the scar anymore. The road out of Sapporo was lined with trees turning yellow at the edges. The car engine hummed steadily. The old man sat still, looking out at the fields, his expression calm and almost content.

When they reached the white building, the man stepped out slowly. The place had no signboard. Just a tall white wooden door and a brass bell on the wall.

The man turned slightly. “Thank you, Takeda-san.”

He said it gently, almost kindly.

Takeda-san blinked. He had never told his name to any of them.

The man rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened from within. There was no one visible inside, only a faint light and a soft mechanical hum. The man walked in and the door closed behind him.

Takeda waited for a few minutes, as he always did, before driving back. He had learned not to wonder where they went into the building, whom they met or why. Curiosity only made the drive home feel longer.

That night, he dreamed again.

His wife was standing near the window, the rain behind her. She turned and smiled. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Her skin looked young again. When he tried to speak, her figure began to fade into the mist.

He woke up sweating. It was 3:40 in the morning. He made tea and sat by the small window till sunrise.

The days passed quietly.

He did his morning cleaning rounds, visited the coffee shop, and sat in the park before leaving for Naebo.

He liked watching the sunlight move through the trees, bouncing off the leaves to create shifting

shadows on the ground.

Now and then, he found himself thinking about his own younger days. He remembered one of his favourite lines from Paradise Ginja, a song his wife loved to sing.

Those thoughts came quietly and went the same way.

But lately, he felt something had changed. The shadows stood still, no longer moving or jostling with each other. He could not tell why. And sometimes, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he thought he looked a little less tired. It must have been the light, he told himself.

Then one morning, it happened.

His passenger that day was a woman. She wore a cream-coloured kimono. Her movements were graceful and slow. When she smiled, he felt a sudden tightness in his chest. She looked so much like her.

He looked at her carefully through the rear-view mirror.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

She looked back at him, her smile calm and knowing. “Perhaps,” she said, a hint of a smile, “A long time ago?”

They did not speak after that.

At the white building, she paused near the door and turned.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

The door opened. She stepped in.

But this time, it did not close. It remained slightly open, the faint light inside spilling onto the wet ground.

Takeda stood still beside his car. For a moment, he thought of leaving, but his feet wouldn’t move. The sound from inside was clearer now, a low mechanical noise mixed with distant voices. Then he thought he heard someone call his name.

He took a slow breath and walked to the door. The air smelled of disinfectant and lilies. Inside, a narrow corridor led to a single bright room.

He paused at the doorway. The air inside was still. For a moment, he thought he heard a faint vibration, then stepped in.

The door closed quietly behind him.

Spring came again to Naebo.
It was an unusually warm and sunny day in early May, and the sakura trees were in full bloom. The pink and white flowers meant more than beauty to the people of Japan. They stood not only for how brief life could be, but also for renewal.

Families gathered under the trees with picnic baskets. Children ran about laughing while their parents opened beer cans and shared food from bento boxes bought along the way. The park was alive with sound and colour.

A young man in a white shirt and dark trousers crossed the station platform carrying a bouquet of roses. He looked calm, his face bright in the sunlight.

He stopped under the station clock for a moment and smiled. In the reflection of the vending machine beside him, a faint scar showed on his left hand.

He turned and walked toward the exit.

The train to Tokyo arrived a few minutes later.

The young man boarded the train. No one saw him again.