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「5.」
The world outside was quick and blurry, like a dream.
Kaminaga stole a glance at his watch, three o’clock right on the dot, just two minutes before his stop. The train car smelled like something pleasant and familiar; he couldn’t wait to get off.
Came through the speaker was the conductor’s voice, tired and raspy, announcing the name of the next station. He looked through the window once more, but the scenery was ever the same; slanted roofs covered in white and a string of mountains carved on the farthest reach of horizon, passing meaninglessly like a recording being played too fast.
One, two, three—days became weeks, weeks became months, how long had he been on the road? He neither remembered nor wanted to know, because after all, you only need to move forward.
(Or so he told himself over and over; don’t look back, just move forward like the train, move forward like the unforgiving flow of time.)
「4.」
One, two, three—how many cigarettes had he lit tonight? Kaminaga didn’t remember, he only watched the smoke raised and swirled above their heads, like a ghost dancing under the yellow lights. One, two, three—he counted the seconds as he took a long drag, holding it in, tasting the mild bittersweet flavor while it stayed heavy in his mouth. Jitsui sat across the table, hands shuffling cards absent-mindedly. His eyes glanced at the empty whiskey bottle, before scrutinizing Kaminaga from top to bottom.
“He will not come back.” Jitsui’s words were salt over an open wound, soft yet unapologetic, and mostly just brutally honest. So you need to stop being like this, he didn’t continue the rest of the sentence, because they both knew he didn’t have to.
“I know.” Kaminaga replied. He really did. “That’s why I came here today, to say goodbye.”
“Don’t do something stupid.” Jitsui also didn’t sugarcoat. That’s what Kaminaga liked and hated about him.
He only puffed as an answer, engulfing himself in the thin white mist, trying to erase all of the other scents that still clung onto him.
「3.」
Like something rare and exquisite, Miyoshi was hard to comprehend, then harder to explain. One, two, three—years and counting, yet Kaminaga still couldn’t put the right words to describe him. Miyoshi was one of a kind, not completely flawless, yet somehow still perfect.
Not exactly the person that mirrored Kaminaga in every thoughts and acts, but more of someone who complemented him in everything. He wasn’t sentimental enough to say soulmate, but had played around enough to know that this wasn’t just some love song he’d sing every night for two weeks before moving on to the next. This is the one, Kaminaga had thought to himself.
And now although Kaminaga would like very much to forget, even just for a while, of how life with Miyoshi had been, the space they used to occupy together was filled with phantom traces and false hopes.
The bed, the pillows, the blankets—anything and everything Miyoshi had touched smelled like him. An elegant blend of faint musk and warm cinnamon, distinct but not suffocating, just enough to make you go breathless. The towels in the bathroom cupboard, the sofa they used to cuddle on, the kitchen where Kaminaga brewed his morning coffee and cooked his simple breakfast; it all reminded him of the time when that figure was still around, smiling and laughing.
One, two, three—he counted and waited for the fragrance to dissipate but it never did. It simply lingered in the house, as if the man himself was still present, refusing to go away no matter wide Kaminaga had opened the windows and let fresh air in.
To him, Miyoshi smelled like home and wistful dreams.
「0」
At home, they had one room dedicated for work.
Kaminaga with his cameras and Miyoshi with his painting tools. Initially, the room had been divided equally for each of them, but nearly all of his photos were processed digitally and he mostly worked on computer, so gradually Miyoshi’s stuff started to occupy his space. Canvases full of sketches, cans and tubes of paint, things that had been taken in for inspiration but then left there unattended. Kaminaga didn’t mind. If Miyoshi had even taken his heart, why couldn’t he take his space too?
The time they spent together there was indeed one of his favorite moments, when Miyoshi was painting at the other side of the room while Kaminaga sat at his desk, editing photos and dancing his fingers across the keyboard, chasing deadline for travel articles.
“Kaminaga,” a mug was placed beside his laptop before he could look up, “why don’t you take a break?”
He turned to Miyoshi who’s pulling a chair to his side. Kaminaga didn’t like his work being interrupted, but the painter had always been an exception. “Thanks.”
“Writing another article?”
“Yeah, from my Kanazawa trip,” he scrolled up to check his writing before picking up the glass and holding it under his nose, appreciating the smell of coffee in it, “you know, it’s been a while since the last time we went somewhere far, why don’t you come along on the next trip?”
“Already planning for another voyage, Mr. Crusoe?” Miyoshi chuckled, his hand rubbing Kaminaga’s arm fondly. “I’m also very busy, you know.”
“Oh, come on,” eyes glancing to the canvas set near the window; it was another portrait of Kaminaga, “if you have the time to draw him, why can’t you spare some for the real guy?”
“Perhaps because he’s more bearable in paintings,” Miyoshi said, “especially since he shuts his mouth there.”
“Ouch.”
The other man smiled, then leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Tell me the dates and I’ll take some time off.”
「1」
When Kaminaga woke up, the first thing he noticed was the reddish tinge on the floor. The blinds on the side of the room was half shut, but he knew instantly that it was the time for sunset.
The second thing, was the unfamiliarity. The room was foreign, the bed wasn’t theirs, and the clothes on him wasn’t what he remembered putting on. A twinge of panic swelled in his chest but Kaminaga counted to three again and again, composing himself, forcing his eyes to stay open, and blinking a few times before the focus of his sight returned.
Exactly at the direction where his feet were pointing stood the wall, spotless and sickeningly white. He tried to lift a hand, but his whole body sluggish, as if someone had poured a bucket of cement on him earlier and it’s now starting to turn concrete. When he finally paid attention to the IV bags on one side and a small monitor on the other side, Kaminaga realized that he’s in a hospital room.
When and how? His mind was running, his senses were feeble, the sensation strangled him in the way water did when he dove too deep under the surface.
The third thing that came back, was everything at once.
Train, snow, sound of metal screeching and clashing when they got derailed. People screaming, window glasses breaking, sudden frostbite—he remembered shouting someone’s name, blood, and then just pain and pain and pain—and the world turned dark.
His memories were jumbled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but there’s one that thing that he was sure of:
「2」
Miyoshi was dead. Kaminaga knew that much.
「6」
The train moved slower until Kaminaga could see the wooden structure of an old station building, before it stopped entirely. The door opened and he stepped off the train, glad to finally be free.
Just then, like a sprinkle of cotton balls, light snow descended from grey sky. The wind blew slightly, but the freezing weather didn’t wait to bite his skin. The whistle was blown, followed by the rumbling of engine; Kaminaga turned his head right as the last car left the platform, continuing its journey to the next station. Silence grew after. Kaminaga was the only one who got off.
The station was tiny, almost a nameless stop in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by pine trees. Kaminaga inhaled the cold and crisp air, counted to three, and caught the faint scent of deep cinnamon and delicate musk, slowly filling his lungs up to the throat, both tender and haunting.
Checking his watch once more, he began walking toward the exit gates. The familiar scent followed.
You could only move forward, Kaminaga repeated to himself again, and didn’t dare to look back.