The storage locker smelled like rust and mothballs. And something else. Something sweet and rotten. Vanilla air freshener from a can, long dead.
Kenji stood in the doorway. A single bulb swung overhead. Cast crazy shadows. The place was a tomb of his mother's things. After she died. Five years back. He'd paid for the locker. Never came.
Now he was here. Because the girl in the cab. Her mother. "My mom knew her." The connection. A thread. Frayed. Maybe cut. But a thread.
He'd called. The mother. Voice old. Tired. "Kenji? That Kenji?" A pause. A sigh. "I heard you were driving a cab."
She didn't want to talk. He begged. A sound he didn't recognize as his own voice. A whine. A crack.
She gave him an address. This locker. "Your mother left a box. With me. Before she went to Fukuoka. She said to give it to you if you ever… straightened out." A bitter laugh. "You never did. I forgot about it."
So here he was. In the tomb.
The box was cardboard. Stained with water rings. Tape yellow and brittle. He knelt. The concrete was cold through his jeans. He sliced the tape with his key.
The smell that came out was memory. Dust. His mother's rose perfume. Sour milk. Home.
He lifted the flaps. Junk. Old photo albums he didn't want to open. Knitting needles. A chipped teacup.
At the bottom. A manila envelope. His name on it. In his mother's shaky hand.
His breath hitched.
He pulled it out. It was fat. Lumpy. He tore the end. Dumped the contents onto the floor.
Papers. Bank statements. Old bills. The evidence of their ruin.
And a smaller envelope. Pink. Faded. A girlish sticker on the front. A cartoon star. Half peeled off.
His heart stopped.
It was addressed to him. At his old apartment. The one they got evicted from. The handwriting was hers. Aoi's. Loopy. Hurried. He'd know it anywhere. He'd seen it on math homework she'd let him copy.
The postmark was blurry. Kyoto. April. 1999. A month after the train.
It had never been opened.
The world went silent. The buzzing light. The distant traffic. Gone.
He picked it up. It was light. A few pages. He turned it over. The seal was still down. Stuck fast.
Someone had written on it in red pen. His mother's writing. RETURN TO SENDER.
Below that, another note. In his father's jagged scrawl. NO. DON'T WANT MORE TROUBLE.
His hands shook. The paper fluttered.
They'd taken it. The letter. His letter. Her words. They'd hidden it. In this box of shame. With the unpaid bills.
Fifteen years ago. This letter had been sitting here. In the dark. While he checked a phone that never rang. While he smoked on a bridge. While he drove a cab. While she lived. And died.
The rage was white. Hot. It blinded him. He wanted to scream. To tear the box apart. To smash the light bulb.
He didn't.
He just sat. On the cold floor. The pink envelope in his hands. A bomb that had ticked for fifteen years in silence.
He slid his thumb under the flap. The old glue gave with a brittle crackle.
He pulled out the pages. Two. Notebook paper. Lines. Her writing covered them. Blue ink. Faded in spots. Water stain in one corner.
He started to read.
Kenji,
I'm on the train. It's loud. I'm writing this so I don't scream. My father is watching me. He thinks I'm doing homework.
I don't know if you got my calls. The dorm phone is a shared line. It's awful. I feel like a prisoner. Everything smells like floor cleaner and old rice.
I'm so angry. At him. At my parents. At everything. But not at you. Never at you. My father told me things. About the debt. He said you were a bad path. I don't care. A path with you is the only one I want.
This is the plan. My plan. I finish this first year. I get good grades. I make them trust me. Then, next spring. I run. I have a little money saved. From my grandmother. I'll come back to Tokyo. I'll find you. We do the promise. We go. Just like you said. Anywhere. Nowhere. Together.
Wait for me. Please wait for me. One year. Just one year. Don't forget. Don't let go.
I'll find you. I promise.
Aoi
At the bottom. A P.S.
I tore the photo. My half is in this envelope. So we can put it back together. When I see you.
He turned the envelope over. Shook it.
A small, square piece of photo paper slid out. Fluttered to the floor.
Her half. The other side of the tear. Her face. Her smile. The blue sky.
He had both halves now. In his hands. On a dirty storage locker floor. Fifteen years too late.
The laugh that came out of him was a dry sob. A hollow thing.
She had a plan. She was coming back. She was going to run.
She waited for him.
And he never knew.
The investigation was over. He'd found the truth. It was in a pink envelope. In a box of ruin. Marked RETURN TO SENDER.
The truth was a knife. Twisting in a wound that never closed.
He sat in the dust. With the two halves of a photograph. And the ghost of a plan that never happened.
He'd spent his life mourning a goodbye.
Turns out, she never said goodbye at all.