He recalled his childhood in Fukuoka. He thought of the house he used to live in, and the traditional garden surrounding the old building. His mother had a master gardener who came in every month to look after the place. The man was too old to do manual work, but he had an assistant with him. The gardener had worked for his mother’s parents and many other families in Fukuoka for generations, starting as a young apprentice himself. Before he came, his mother would make a trip to a specialised confectionery store to buy some wagashi. She’d serve the traditional sweets with seasonal tea to the gardener and his assistant. After that, she would sit with the master on the front porch, listening to him talk. His mother, who used to be a professional musician, was always in tune with the changing of seasons and appreciative of nature.

Slowly, Shoji’s rapid breathing started to ease. Thinking about his mother somehow calmed him down. He stared at the sky, wondering if the same paleness could be seen in Fukuoka.

But wait … What was that?

A cloud of thick black smoke billowed into the sky, rising from the other side of the park.

Shoji stood up. It came from the direction of his apartment.

His stomach churned. Could this be related? Had they assumed he had returned to his apartment? Was it another attempt on his life?

Cautiously, Shoji walked through the park towards the source of the smoke. But what if they were trying to lure him in? The thought crossed his mind, but he felt more at ease in the crowd of people drawn in the same direction out of curiosity. He could easily blend in with them.

He turned to his right and saw a middle-aged woman in a red puffer jacket.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Her face grew animated. ‘The apartment building behind the park is on fire.’

Shoji hurried on.

A big crowd had formed outside the old building. Blazing embers leaped and snarled, flickering and crackling. His chest tightened. The car, and now this fire. He couldn’t dismiss them as coincidences.

The crowd grew larger. Shoji knew that if he wanted to get away, he shouldn’t miss this opportunity. He slipped through the onlookers and headed to the phone booth on the other side of the park. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the fire, but he was still nervous someone might spot him. The walk felt long.

When he finally reached the booth and closed the door, a wave of relief came over him. He inserted some coins and punched in Mr Odagiri’s number. There was a ringing tone before someone picked up.

‘Mr Arai?’ a man said in a muffled voice.

It wasn’t Mr Odagiri. They must have got to him.

‘I know it’s you, Mr Arai,’ the man continued. ‘Good weather, isn’t it?’

Shoji tried to think if he recognised the voice. Could it someone he’d never met before? But if that were the case, the man wouldn’t bother to muffle his voice.