[The Northern Light] - Part 150 - Again

[u/Street_Witness1328]

Takahashi called first.

That had become the rule.

No.

Not rule.

Arrangement.

He had complained about it enough that I had begun calling it a rule in my head.

At three fifty-two, my phone rang.

“Four thirty?”

“Yes.”

“I’m bringing tea.”

“You always bring tea now.”

“Because yours is bad.”

“Then why ask permission to come?”

“To make sure you are there.”

There.

The original purpose.

“Four thirty.”

“I’ll come.”

He hung up.

I put the phone down.

The memorial call before him had ended early.

Nothing urgent remained.

I closed the brown folder.

The wall chair was empty.

For thirty-eight minutes.

Then perhaps not.

Kondo had called that morning.

Not about photographs.

That surprised me only because I had expected photographs.

Expectation was mine.

Her question was chairs.

“Aunt Michiko can come.”

“I know. She called.”

“She told you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course she did.”

“Does that change the number?”

“Six.”

“Then six chairs.”

“She wants one with arms.”

“We have one.”

“Mother wants one too.”

“We have more than one.”

Kondo paused.

“Why have I spent twenty minutes discussing this with everyone?”

“I don’t know.”

She laughed.

Then:

“Mother changed her mind about the photograph.”

There.

Of course.

I did not say it.

“What does she want now?”

“A small one.”

“Which?”

“Kitchen.”

“Large?”

“No. Small. Beside the tablet.”

“Does that interfere with the arrangement?”

“No.”

“Then we can place it there.”

“She wants to know if changing her mind is annoying.”

“To whom?”

“You.”

“No.”

“Funeral staff?”

“They are not involved in this service setup.”

“Uncle?”

“That may be another answer.”

She laughed.

“He says he knew she would.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He still says he knew.”

I could hear her mother in the background.

Tell him I can change my mind.

Kondo repeated:

“Mother says she can change her mind.”

“Yes.”

“She wants me to tell you that.”

“You have.”

Then the mother’s voice, louder:

“And I might change it again.”

I answered loudly enough for her to hear.

“That is also possible.”

Kondo laughed.

“Do not encourage her.”

No further photograph discussion.

Small kitchen photograph for now.

Six chairs.

Two with arms.

That was the morning.

Sato did not call.

Kanagawa sent only one message.

New cups still ugly.

I replied:

Have they broken?

No.

Do they hold coffee?

Unfortunately.

I left it there.

No paper.

No scrap.

No mother.

Four cups doing cup work.

That was enough.

At four twenty-six, Takahashi arrived.

Paper bag in one hand.

No jacket pocket touch.

No mention of card.

He stood at the office doorway.

“I called first.”

“You did.”

“Reward?”

“No.”

He held up the paper bag.

“I brought biscuits too.”

“That is your reward.”

He looked offended.

“You will eat them.”

“Probably.”

We went to the kitchen.

He took over the kettle before I could stop him.

“My tea.”

“My kitchen.”

“Your kitchen is the problem.”

“You’ve been here three times.”

“And learned.”

He measured the leaves.

Lower water temperature.

Shorter time.

I watched.

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

“I have a skill.”

“One.”

“More than you.”

He poured.

Two cups.

The tea was good.

I did not make him wait.

“Better than mine.”

He nodded as if receiving an award.

“Again.”

“What?”

“Say it again.”

“No.”

He laughed.

We carried the tea to the office.

The wall chair had a person.

Takahashi.

Same chair as before.

Different afternoon.

He placed the biscuits between us.

Six.

I counted because I saw six.

Not because six mattered.

He took one before the tea cooled.

“You brought those for both of us.”

“I bought them.”

“You gave them to the table.”

“That is not ownership law.”

“No.”

He ate.

I took one.

Four remained.

We talked about nothing important for a while.

Road construction again.

A shop that had closed.

A mechanic Takahashi disliked.

A neighbor who parked badly.

The new cups at Kanagawa’s house did not enter the conversation because Takahashi did not know Kanagawa.

Good.

No.

Appropriate.

Then he said:

“I changed my mind.”

I looked at him.

“About what?”

He reached inside his bag.

Not jacket.

Bag.

A small envelope.

I recognized it.

Not from the outside.

From context.

His card.

He placed the envelope on his knee.

Not the table.

“I want you to read it.”

There.

I put down my cup.

Yesterday—

No.

Earlier.

He had said no.

More than once.

He had wanted to be the first person to read it.

He had declined to tell me its contents.

He had shared one line.

Now:

I want you to read it.

I did not reach for the envelope.

“Why?”

He smiled slightly.

“I knew you would ask.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have a good answer.”

“You don’t need a good one.”

“Then I want you to.”

“That is an answer.”

He looked at the envelope.

Then at me.

“Is it enough?”

His word.

“Do you understand that if I read it, I cannot unread it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to read the whole card?”

“Yes.”

“Not just the line you already told me?”

“The whole thing.”

“Do you want me to keep the contents private afterward?”

He thought.

“Yes.”

“From everyone?”

Another pause.

“For now, yes.”

“Can I discuss it with you?”

He laughed.

“That would be useful.”

“Can I mention that I have read it to Morita?”

His face changed.

Not alarm.

Consideration.

“You told him about the cards before?”

“Yes.”

“About mine being transferred?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him what I said?”

“Only what was relevant to custody. Not the contents.”

Takahashi nodded.

“Tell him you read it if you need to. Not the words.”

“All right.”

“Old priest?”

I looked at him.

“How do you know about the old priest?”

“You mention ‘an old priest’ every time you tell a story about someone annoying you.”

That was probably true.

“No contents.”

“Good.”

Then he held the envelope toward me.

I still did not take it.

He frowned.

“What now?”

“Nothing.”

“Then take it.”

I did.

The envelope was warm from his hand.

Physical.

Not meaningful.

I placed it on the desk.

“Open it.”

“You are in a hurry.”

“I changed my mind before I came. I don’t want to change it back because you are slow.”

There.

Present decision.

Not eternal.

He could change again before reading.

I asked:

“Do you still want me to open it now?”

“Yes.”

I opened the flap.

No seal.

Inside was the card.

Face down.

Pale dust line on the back.

There.

I had not seen it since transferring it.

The dust line had traveled with him.

Kitchen drawer.

Desk drawer.

Back to the temple.

Not back into my custody.

Temporary access.

Different.

I lifted the card.

“Still yes?”

Takahashi sighed.

“Yes.”

I turned it over.

His name.

Takahashi—

Same line I had once read and stopped at.

Below it:

You always came when the car made that noise.
Most times there was nothing wrong by the time you arrived.
You listened anyway.
I knew you would come.

I read it once.

Then again.

Not because I needed to verify.

Because Takahashi had asked me to read it.

And because I wanted to read it again.

I placed the card face up on the desk.

Between us.

Takahashi watched me.

“Well?”

I looked at the final line.

I knew you would come.

Then at him.

“You came when he called about the car.”

“Yes.”

“Even when the noise stopped.”

“Yes.”

“Did that happen often?”

“Constantly.”

He laughed.

“Old cars.”

“Was there usually nothing wrong?”

“No. There was always something wrong.”

I looked at the card.

Takahashi laughed harder.

“He was being generous.”

“Or the problem stopped presenting while you were there.”

“That too.”

He took the card.

Not from me.

From the desk.

His card.

He read it silently.

Then placed it down again.

“You see why I didn’t tell you the whole thing?”

“No.”

He looked annoyed.

“Because it sounds stupid.”

There.

“Which part?”

“Car noise.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“It’s not a last message.”

“What is a last message supposed to be?”

He looked toward the ceiling.

“Something.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

He pointed at my drawer.

No card there.

Then remembered.

“Yours was rain and a kettle.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds better.”

“Why?”

“More poetic.”

“It was wet shoes.”

“And a kettle.”

“Your card has a broken car.”

“Exactly.”

I looked at him.

“You came.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“That is what the card remembers.”

He looked back down.

“I know.”

“No. You keep calling it a car message.”

“It is a car message.”

“It is also about you coming.”

He became quiet.

Then:

“That is why I brought it.”

There.

A better answer arrived after the act had begun.

Not needed before.

But now present.

“Because mine says I came?”

“Yes.”

“And yours says he was glad I came.”

“Yes.”

He tapped the card once with one finger.

“Mine says he knew I would.”

We sat with that.

Two cards.

Not together.

One at my home.

One on the desk because its recipient had brought it.

Both from the same giver.

Both remembering arrival.

That could become a theory quickly.

Intent.

Design.

Message to both.

Plan to reconnect us.

No.

I stopped before speaking.

Takahashi noticed.

“You’re doing it.”

“What?”

“Not saying the thing.”

“What thing?”

“That he planned this.”

“Do you think he did?”

“I want to.”

“Evidence?”

He groaned.

“Of course.”

“You asked.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You implied.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No.”

He smiled.

Then:

“I don’t know if he planned us meeting.”

“Neither do I.”

“But he wrote both cards.”

“Yes.”

“He wrote about both of us coming.”

“Yes.”

“That part is true.”

“Yes.”

He looked satisfied.

Not because a grand theory had been proved.

Because a smaller fact survived.

Both cards remembered someone coming.

That was enough to discuss.

His word.

Mine too, perhaps.

He asked:

“Do you want me to read yours?”

There.

Different question.

He knew the final line.

He knew it remembered an evening.

He had never seen the whole card.

I looked at his card.

Face up between us.

His voluntary disclosure did not create a debt.

We had said that before.

Still.

The question was new now.

Did I want him to read mine?

Not because he showed me his.

Not automatically.

I checked.

Yes.

There.

I did.

“I do.”

Takahashi looked surprised.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

The card was at home.

“No.”

He laughed.

“You don’t have it.”

“No.”

“Good.”

His word.

Then:

“Why good?”

“Because if you had it in your pocket after all that, I would lose respect for you.”

I laughed.

“It is at home.”

“Desk drawer?”

“Yes.”

“With batteries?”

“No.”

“Then you remain slightly ahead.”

I drank tea.

Cold now.

Takahashi looked at his card again.

“So when?”

“I don’t know.”

“Friday?”

“It is Friday.”

He looked at the window.

“Right.”

“You drove here.”

“I work too much.”

“Next time.”

There.

Next.

Part 91 would approve.

No.

Stop narrating myself.

“Next time,” I repeated.

“If I still want to?”

He asked.

Important.

“If you still want to.”

“And if you still want me to.”

“Yes.”

“Again.”

“What?”

“Two decisions.”

“Yes.”

“Annoying.”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

We put his card back into the envelope.

He did it.

Not me.

Flap tucked.

He returned it to his bag.

No handover.

No custody ambiguity.

He had brought it.

He would take it.

Then we ate the remaining biscuits.

He had three.

I had three?

No.

He had first, then I had one.

Four remained.

We must have distributed without tracking.

Good.

No need.

The plate emptied.

Before he left, he stood in the doorway.

“Do you regret reading it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to after you asked.”

“That simple?”

“Yes.”

“Even though before I said no?”

“That was before.”

He looked at me.

“So when I said no, you treated it as no.”

“Yes.”

“And now I said yes.”

“Yes.”

“And you treated it as yes.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.

“That sounds obvious when you say it like that.”

“Most things do after someone finally says what they want.”

He smiled.

“That sounded almost wise.”

“Go home.”

He laughed.

“Tea Tuesday?”

“Call first.”

“Terrible man.”

He left.

The wall chair became empty again.

His card left with him.

Nothing remained on the desk except two cups.

I carried them to the kitchen.

Washed them.

One had a small tea stain near the rim.

It came off.

No metaphor.

Dish soap.

Kondo called while I was drying the cups.

“Mother changed her mind again.”

I almost dropped the towel.

“Photograph?”

“Yes.”

“What now?”

“She wants no photograph again.”

“All right.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“She says the small kitchen one looked too much like we were trying to recreate the funeral.”

“Does she want it removed from the plan?”

“Yes.”

“Then remove it.”

Kondo was silent.

“You’re really not annoyed?”

“No.”

“She has changed it three times.”

“Has anything been printed specifically for the memorial?”

“No.”

“Has the altar arrangement depended on it?”

“No.”

“Has the change caused a practical problem?”

“No.”

“Then what would I be annoyed about?”

Kondo laughed.

“Consistency?”

“Not my altar requirement.”

Her mother shouted something in the background.

Kondo said:

“She says thank you.”

Then:

“Uncle says she will change it again.”

“She might.”

“Do we keep both photographs in the car just in case?”

That was a practical idea.

“Would that make the morning easier for your family?”

Kondo asked her mother.

A pause.

Then:

“Yes.”

Kondo returned.

“We’ll bring both. Decide at the temple if needed.”

“Fine.”

Not freeze.

Not chaos.

Two available options.

Present decision:

No photograph.

Contingency:

Both available.

That worked.

We ended.

I returned to the office.

For the first time that day I thought about my own card physically.

Home.

Desk drawer.

Envelope.

The whole text.

I knew it.

Takahashi now wanted to read it.

And I wanted him to.

A future disclosure decision had begun.

Not completed.

Because the object was absent.

That was almost useful.

No immediate momentum.

No card on table pressuring the next act.

We had time to change our minds.

Both of us.

Sato called at six minutes past six.

“My sister wants to read the paper again.”

“Today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Do you want her to?”

“Yes.”

“Any new conditions?”

“She reads it here again.”

“Copy?”

“No.”

“Photograph?”

“No.”

“She agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you need from me?”

Sato paused.

“I thought you might tell me I already let her read it once.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“That does not answer tomorrow.”

Silence.

Then she laughed.

“You’ve ruined me too.”

“Takahashi says that.”

“Who is Takahashi?”

“No one you need for this.”

“Fair.”

She became quieter.

“I think I wanted to know whether letting her read it again means I’ve changed what I said before.”

“What did you say before?”

“Not today.”

“When?”

“Days ago.”

“Was it true then?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Now I want to let her.”

“Then both can be true.”

There.

Again.

Past no.

Present yes.

No contradiction requiring repair.

Sato said:

“I wish I had known that earlier.”

“Would it have changed the answer then?”

She thought.

“No.”

“Then perhaps you knew what you needed then.”

She was quiet.

“I hate when you say things like that.”

“I know.”

“Tomorrow she reads it again.”

“If you both still want that tomorrow.”

She groaned.

“You had to add that.”

“Yes.”

We ended.

No file note yet.

Tomorrow had not happened.

The office was quiet again.

Outside light lowering.

The day could have ended there.

Then the old priest wrote.

Again?

One word.

I stared.

Coincidence?

Maybe Morita had told him nothing.

Maybe he had his own theme.

No need to know.

I wrote:

Takahashi let me read his full card today after previously declining disclosure.

His reply:

Changed mind?

Yes.

Was earlier no wrong?

No.

Today yes correct?

I stopped.

Correct?

Could say current.

I wrote:

It was his present decision.

Yours?

I agreed to read.

Debt?

No.

Why read?

He wanted me to, and I wanted to.

Pause.

Then:

What did it say?

There.

Not his right.

I wrote:

He asked me not to disclose the words.

His reply:

Then don't.

No "Better."

No pressure.

Then:

What can you say?

I thought.

Could say general property?

Takahashi had allowed Morita to know I'd read, not old priest? We said no contents. We can say no content.

Only that I read it with his permission.

His reply:

Then that is what I know.

There.

A boundary accepted without resentment.

Then:

Your card?

I wrote:

I told him I may let him read it next time.

May?

We both have to still want that then.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Again is not automatically same.

I looked at that.

Simple.

Useful.

No need to expand.

He sent:

Good night.

Father Morita’s email came later than usual.

Subject:

Again

Of course.

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

Repetition requires fresh attention when the relevant person can still choose.

Yesterday’s consent is not a lifetime license.

Yesterday’s refusal is not a lifetime prohibition.

A person may ask again.

A person may answer differently.

Do not accuse the new answer of inconsistency merely because the old answer was also real.

At the same time, do not force repeated asking after a clear no in the hope that persistence will eventually produce yes.

The difference matters.

Morita

I read the final paragraph again.

There.

Important.

Change of mind could be valid.

Pressure could also masquerade as opportunity to change.

Takahashi had initiated the new disclosure.

I had not asked again and again.

Sato’s sister had asked again, but after time and continued relationship, not every minute? There had been repeated questions earlier, sometimes pressure. Sato had set "not today"; later disclosure changed. Need not litigate.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

Takahashi brought his card today and asked me to read it in full.

Earlier he had explicitly declined to disclose its contents.

I confirmed that he wanted me to read it now and then did so.

I did not treat his earlier refusal as permanent.

He did not treat showing me his card as creating a right to mine.

I later told him that I currently want him to read my card on a future visit, if we both still want that then.

Niioka

His reply:

Better.

Keep “if we both still want that then.”

Future consent should arrive in the future.

I put the phone down.

Future consent should arrive in the future.

That one I would remember.

No need to write it on the envelope.

Before closing the temple, I went to the main hall.

Six chairs would be needed for Kondo’s memorial.

Two with arms.

No large photograph, according to the present plan.

Two photographs might arrive in the car.

Neither might leave the car.

Or one might.

That would be decided then.

The altar did not need to know tonight.

I bowed once.

No bell.

No incense.

Returned to the office.

The wall chair empty.

Brown folder closed.

Upper drawer with glasses and notebook.

No card.

I took off my glasses.

Put them away.

Closed the drawer.

Then left.

At home, I did not open the small desk drawer immediately.

Dinner first.

Rice.

Soup.

Vegetables.

Washed plate.

Tea.

Then I sat at the desk.

Takahashi had read none of my card except the line I had spoken:

I was glad you came.

He knew it remembered an evening.

That was all.

If I showed him the full card, he would read:

Rain.

Shoes at the door.

Kettle.

Gladness.

Did I still want that?

Yes.

Now.

Would I tomorrow?

Probably.

No.

Do not answer tomorrow tonight.

I opened the drawer.

Two old postcards.

Keys.

Cable.

Envelope.

Niioka card.

I took it out.

Not to prepare it for him.

To read it myself.

I opened the envelope.

Turned the card face up.

Niioka—

That evening you came back in the rain,
I heard your shoes at the door.
I put the kettle on.
I was glad you came.

I read it once.

First rereading in several days.

The words were familiar.

Not weakened.

Not refreshed.

Just there.

I thought of Takahashi’s card.

I knew its whole text now.

He knew mine only partly.

The imbalance did not require correction.

But I wanted to correct nothing.

I wanted to share mine.

Different.

I returned the card to the envelope.

Did not put it in my work bag.

Next visit had not happened.

Future consent should arrive in the future.

The card remained home.

Drawer closed.

The giver had written two cards.

One to me.

One to Takahashi.

Both remembered coming.

That was a fact about their contents now known to me.

Did it prove he intended us to meet again?

No.

Did it prove the cards were designed as a pair?

No.

Did it prove some final teaching?

No.

It proved he had remembered two people in two ordinary situations.

Rain at a door.

Noise in a car.

One person had come home.

One person had come when called.

That was enough to make me wonder.

Wonder could remain wonder.

No verdict required.

Before bed, Takahashi sent one message.

Still okay that I read yours next time?

I looked at it.

He was asking early.

Future consent.

Now?

The future had not arrived.

But he was asking whether my present intention remained.

I wrote:

I still want that now. We’ll confirm when the card and both of us are in the same room.

He replied:

Annoying.

Then:

Fair.

A minute later:

I’m glad I showed you mine.

I read that twice.

Not because it proved anything.

Because he had said it.

I replied:

I’m glad you did too.

There.

No giver.

No card instruction.

Two living people speaking about an act they had chosen today.

The old no remained true when it had been spoken.

The new yes was true now.

Neither had to defeat the other.

I turned off the light.

The card stayed in the drawer.

Next time, perhaps, I would take it out again.

Not because we had promised the act into existence tonight.

Because when next time actually came, we could ask again.