Chapter Seventy-Four: Old Tales of Years Past

Year 1998 of the Common Era, the tenth year of Heisei. In Kyoto’s Nakagyo Ward, inside an unremarkable izakaya, “Hey, Tsugu, what are you spacing out about?” Kitakita Ito, cigarette dangling from his lips, tapped his partner’s shoulder. Such moments were rare, so he paid special attention to his partner’s expression.

A gentle-featured, seemingly bashful young man heard Ito’s words and offered an apologetic smile. Unlike Ito, who was already entering middle age, Ueno Tsugu had only become a detective a year ago.

“Sorry, Ito-senpai. I was thinking about something… Why did Takeda Takahiro choose such a method of suicide? Wouldn’t hanging or slitting his wrists have been less painful than disembowelment?” Ueno voiced his doubts.

Ito stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, then gave Ueno a firm pat on the shoulder. “Tsugu, with someone like Takeda Takahiro, born in the Showa era, who can say what goes on in his head? I mean no disrespect to the dead, but I’ve investigated the man’s background. He doesn’t measure up to the likes of the Yamaguchi-gumi; he was just a middle-aged guy drifting among the biker gangs. In other words, for all his years, he was nothing but a small-time hoodlum.”

Ueno nodded, but a vague sense of unease lingered. He wanted to say more, but Ito had already raised his foaming beer. “Cheers—to celebrate my vacation starting tomorrow!”

Ueno had no choice but to raise his own glass, watching the crystalline beer before downing it in one gulp.

“Enough, Tsugu. The case is closed—don’t dwell on conspiracy theories. You university types always imagine there’s a secret behind every crime. I was the same in my youth, always picking things apart. But life isn’t a novel; how many bizarre cases are there, really? It’s a pity you didn’t graduate a few years earlier; you probably wouldn’t have chosen this line of work. University graduates from the Showa era were in high demand. I remember back then, pretty much every company would invite graduates for training trips—government scholars went to America, the elite to Okinawa, ordinary students to Izu. Ah, I miss those days,” Ito sighed, downing another large frothy gulp. Already tipsy, he rambled on, his eyes filled with nostalgia for a bygone era. Half-drunk, half-awake, he seemed to hear the rumbling thunder of an era’s collapse approach from the distance.

Most middle-aged men, under the influence of alcohol, find themselves transported back to the prime of their youth, and Ito was no exception. Only late into the night did he pull on his coat and leave with Ueno.

Millions of Japanese lived their lives as ordinary people, and Japan itself seemed so unremarkable, as though it had never experienced a glorious age. Only those who remembered sometimes sighed: Is an era truly gone, just like that?

As soon as they left the izakaya, the roar of motorcycles echoed down the midnight street, fading into the distance. Ito muttered a curse under his breath. Ueno looked up but said nothing. The world was being rebuilt; external political pressures weighed heavily; the uncertainty of the future bore down on everyone. In comparison, a group of self-deluding youths racing motorcycles to kill time seemed a minor failing. The Bubble Era had crashed down like a landslide. Many awoke from a long dream, rushing to start anew—or else choosing to stop living altogether. In those years, the JR Chuo Line subway in Tokyo became the most popular suicide spot; in the jolting, suddenly halted carriages, silent passengers would know someone had jumped again.

Ueno watched as Ito’s figure disappeared around the street corner, then prepared to return to his rented apartment. On the way home, he passed a 24-hour convenience store where the bored shopkeeper was watching TV. On the screen, an actor shouted, “You should commit seppuku to atone for your actions!” Ueno paused, looked at his watch, then turned and walked in the direction of the subway station. Since the opening of the Karasuma Line in 1981, the Series 10 trains had been running on this subway corridor.

Sitting on the cold subway seat, Ueno smiled wryly to himself—maybe he was just being paranoid. Yet he couldn’t help wanting to investigate once more. Half an hour later, the young detective returned to the place where he had spent the entire afternoon.

Gazing at the spacious house, Ueno sighed inwardly. A place this size—he could only afford one back home. In Kyoto, unless you inherited property, you’d have to save for years to buy something like this.

Because Takeda’s death was ruled a suicide, there were no police seals or warning tape. Ueno easily entered with the key he always carried—a key provided by the police for investigation. The empty house was thick with the stench of rot. Even though he was prepared, Ueno couldn’t help feeling nauseated; the smell was like a week-old miso soup poured over a bachelor’s dirty socks and wrapped sushi.

It was this foul odor that led neighbors to call the police. Ueno recalled the young patrolman who had discovered the body earlier that afternoon: the pale-faced officer had vomited before describing the scene to him. Ueno lifted his collar to his nose, trying to block the stench, though it was of little help. He began his search, avoiding the area where the body’s fluids had corroded the floor—he’d spent the whole afternoon examining that. Unless the coroner found something new, Takeda’s death would remain a suicide. Ueno turned his attention to the bookshelves and drawers he hadn’t checked thoroughly. After a while, as expected, he found nothing.

Perhaps he was just being too suspicious. Seppuku sounded like something out of the early Showa era, but it was possible someone might choose such a painful method to end their life. He shook his head, preparing to go home. Suddenly, with a loud bang, he looked up at the window—its glass shattered. He rushed over, expecting to see a biker or a delinquent, but was met with a surprise.

A girl, as sweet as cherry blossoms in March, stared coldly at Ueno through the broken window. He couldn’t understand why a school-uniformed, well-behaved-looking girl would do such a thing. Yet, his instincts as a detective sensed something unusual. He decided to question her, but before he could speak, the girl—seventeen or eighteen at most—turned and sprinted away.

Athletics had never been Ueno’s strong suit, but this didn’t stop him from catching up with her.

“Name, age, and why did you break the window?” Ueno tried to sound like a seasoned, mature detective, but his overly refined features carried little authority.

The girl, panting, ignored him, keeping her head bowed in silence.

“Hey, I’m a police officer. Answer my questions properly.” Ueno scratched his head, at a loss before this unresponsive girl.

Finally, his forced sternness elicited a response—a single, crystalline tear slid down her cheek.

Flustered, Ueno fumbled. “Don’t cry, I’m not a bad person. See, I’m a policeman—I catch bad people.” He presented his badge, awkwardly thrusting it before her.

The girl finally looked up, like a small, defensive animal. “Police are the worst. You can’t catch the real bad guys.”

Ueno was baffled but spoke gently, “I’ve caught many criminals—truly.”

“Liar! It’s all lies! Police are useless. If you’re so capable, why is the person who hurt my sister still free?” Stung, she shoved Ueno away and ran.

Ueno lunged, catching her by the corner of her uniform. “Wait.”

Years later, Neko Kuroba would bend over her sleeping sister in the dead of night, murmuring, “I’ve wandered for so many years, so long I’ve forgotten I still have a soul. Many times, I felt it was meaningless—Akiko has gone mad, and even if those people were punished, it would be too late. Besides, it’s an impossible task. But every time, I remember that night I met Tsugu-kun—there was one thing that kept me from despair: the words he said to me that evening. ‘Wait’—he promised he would solve it. He was so confident. From that night on, I remembered Tsugu-kun. I repeated his words to myself every day, telling myself he would succeed. Perhaps it’s a foolish hope, but it’s the best hope I have.”

“Tell me what happened. I promise I’ll bring the person who hurt your sister to justice.” As soon as he heard those words, Ueno grew solemn. He never saw being a detective as just a job—it was a calling. From the day he first donned his uniform, he believed himself an emissary of the god of justice in the mortal world.

Neko Kuroba looked at the serious man before her, a feeling she couldn’t describe welling up inside. Suddenly, she burst into tears—a kind of crying Ueno knew well, the kind that comes only after long repression.

After some thought, Ueno awkwardly patted her on the back. In this early spring, on a street not yet free from the chill, this was the first meeting between Ueno Tsugu and Neko Kuroba. Many lives become entwined in just such unexpected encounters.

At this hour, only a few late-night izakayas remained open. The owner, accustomed to nocturnal business and proud of his experience, couldn’t help but smirk at the peculiar pair, casting a knowing look. Ueno had to show his badge and explain he was investigating a case. Even so, the owner’s gaze left him helpless.

“Name and age,” Ueno began again, once the girl’s sobs had ceased.

“Neko Kuroba. I’ll be seventeen in six months.” She kept her head low, dejected.

“Then, Miss Kuroba, could you tell me about your sister?” Ueno’s tone softened almost involuntarily.

“My sister is Akiko Kuroba, fourteen this year. She disappeared a month ago. We found her last week, but… but Akiko…” Neko choked up.

Ueno didn’t interrupt, waiting patiently. If she didn’t want to continue, he could always go back and check the files on Akiko Kuroba’s disappearance. Faced with this heartbroken girl, he’d rather spend hours in the archives.

“Akiko was badly hurt. When she woke up in the hospital, she didn’t recognize me at all—not just me, but the whole world.” Neko’s tears fell again, and Ueno handed her a tissue.

“Thank you.” She took it, and after a long silence, Ueno spoke. “It’s very late. Should I see you home? We can talk tomorrow.” “Alright.” After waiting a while, Ueno noticed she hadn’t moved. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you.”

Neko lifted her head, stubbornly, “You haven’t told me where and when we’ll meet tomorrow.”

Ueno felt awkward. In truth, he had planned to investigate alone—this tearful girl was more trouble than he’d expected. In the end, faced with her determined gaze, he relented, thinking what a strong-willed girl she was. He didn’t notice the small sigh of relief she gave after his answer.

Ueno watched as Neko stood alone before a distant house. The slender girl glanced around, then cautiously took out a key from her pocket.

As a detective, Ueno easily deduced her situation. Only one kind of circumstance allows a sixteen-year-old girl to let herself in at this hour—Neko Kuroba lived alone. That explained why she could wander the streets so late.

Ueno glanced at his watch. The hour hand, having made another circuit, marked the passing of another day in his life. He flexed his wrist, fighting fatigue as he headed for the station. With luck, he might manage five hours’ sleep at the precinct.

Young and full of promise, perhaps he would witness twenty thousand more sunrises—or perhaps he would not.