“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to explain that to you,” she replied with a cool expression, bowing her head a little. Yukio smiled, looking genuinely happy.

Lin-lin lin-lin lin-lin...

The chirping of a bell cricket could be heard coming from somewhere.

As if egged on by the chirping, Yukio began speaking as Kazu placed the change into his palm. “Kazu, Mum said she hopes you find happiness too,” he said, and promptly left the café.

They weren’t the words that he had heard from Kinuyo. But considering Kazu’s circumstances, he could easily imagine her saying such a thing.

clang-dong

With Yukio gone, Kazu and the woman in the dress were alone. The doorbell was still softly humming. Kazu took a cloth and began to wipe the countertop.

“Chirping throughout the long autumn night. Oh, what fun to hear this insect symphony!”

Kazu sang to herself softly. As if in response, lin-lin lin-lin, chirped the bell cricket.

The quiet autumn night wore slowly on...

iii

Lovers

A man from the past was sitting in that chair.

Not only could you go back in time in this café, but you could also visit the future. Compared with the number of people who choose to return to the past, however, hardly anyone chooses to venture into the future. Why? Well, whereas you can return to the past and aim to coincide with the person you want to meet, this is simply not possible when heading to the future. The prospects of meeting a particular person at the café at a specific time in the future are riddled with uncertainty.

For example, even if you set a date, all kinds of things could happen to hinder that person’s journey to the café that day. Their train might simply be delayed. There might be an urgent request from work; a road might be closed; a typhoon might hit; the person might be ill—the point is, no one knows what obstacles are waiting. The chances, therefore, of a person traveling to the future and successfully meeting the right person are extremely low.

Yet, there in the café, was a man who had come from the past. His name was Katsuki Kurata. He was in knee-length shorts and a T-shirt with beach sandals on his feet. The café, in contrast, was decorated with an artificial Christmas tree that reached nearly to the ceiling. It took pride of place in the center of the room; the middle table had been moved in order to make room for it in this tiny nine-customer café. Nagare Tokita’s wife, Kei, had bought the tree before she died for her beloved daughter Miki, wishing to leave behind something that could be decorated every year.

Today was 25 December, Christmas Day.

“You’re not cold, dressed like that?” asked Kyoko Kijima, who was sitting alongside Miki at the counter. She was half concerned, half amused at how unsuitable Kurata’s attire was for Christmastime.