I held Mommy’s hand while she tightened the scarf around my neck and gave me an affectionate smile. I smiled back, showing her the dark hole where one of my teeth had fallen out last week.
Today was my birthday and I just turned seven. Mommy said I was a big girl now, so I had to act like one. But she still let me blow the candles in the cake like I told her that I wanted to do. I’d seen one of those—what did you call them?—Ah-muh-ree-cans blow candles on their birthday and make a wish in a TV show. I made a wish, too. I wished for a new doll, chocolate taiyaki, a puppy, and world peace, because Mommy told me I couldn’t be sel-fish.
We exited the Bakery and started walking down the streets of Ginza. Yuki told me that Ginza was one of Tokyo’s richest districts, and I believed him. The lights were so pretty! And there were so many people!
“Come on honey, it’s already 10:30 pm and we have to hurry home. It’s already past your bedtime.” Mommy tugged on my arm and I followed her, admiring the giant buildings. They looked so pretty at night.
Snow started falling and I jumped around, trying to catch a flake with my tongue. Mommy laughed and shook her head, tugging on my arm. I giggled as I licked a flake and felt it melt in my mouth. It was cold.
We crossed the street. People were walking around and I saw a man slip on the floor and fall on his butt. He, that was funny. I tugged on Mommy’s arm to show her but there was a bright light all around me suddenly and a very ugly noise. Mommy pushed me very hard and I fell against the concrete. I heard a scream and a crash. My head hurt and my hand felt funny. And then, I saw the blood.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The man sat atop Ginza Station, feet dangling from the roof with little caution to their owner’s safety as the winter wind moved them to and fro. He watched the busy city nightlife with little interest, as if it had nothing to do with him, sipping the soda in his hand carelessly. The humans below him paraded like a miniature circus of ants, walking quickly from one place to another, entering and exiting the metro station, crossing the streets in a wave of human traffic. The lights of the buildings that surrounded him like giants displayed neon colors that illuminated the streets and the night sky itself. All in all, it was a beautiful if not entertaining view, but it didn’t awe or amaze him. Nothing seemed to move him these days.
He’d arrived in Tokyo little over a month ago. Before that, he had spent some decades by the countryside, enjoying the fresh air and traditional culture that was still prevalent in the villages. He’d thought that maybe going back to his roots would bring him some peace, remind him of his identity. But instead of that, he’d felt more stuck than he already was, like an old teapot forgotten by its owner and left to gather dust in a storage closet. He had not felt sorrow or agitation, only that deep detachment he’d been feeling for a very long time. The detachment he still felt. It was his curse, he knew.
It had been—what? Maybe eighty years? A century since he’d last been in Tokyo? He had stopped counting the years so long ago that he couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter anyways. The last time he’d been here there had been no skyscrapers or neon lights, that’s for sure, and the population hadn’t exceeded thirteen million people. He was still adapting to the changes, the colors, the buildings, the amount of people living per square meter, and the amount of people that died every day. And every night. The work kept him busy.
The winter winds blew with more force, freezing his face and moving his ponytail to his shoulder. Snow began to fall and gather all around him, forming tender hills of ice that covered the streets and the tops of buildings. The neon lights reflected off the snow in vibrant hues, and people squeaked in delight at the falling crystals, while others tightened their coats around their shoulders in irritation and hurried their steps. The man regarded the snow with apathy, feeling no wonder or awe, no annoyance or hurriedness. At the very least he felt the cold as the snow seeped into his clothes.
He looked at his watch. It read 10:30 pm. Someone would die in a bit about four blocks away. In the beginning, knowing information like this and what would soon follow had shocked him, but now he felt nothing. It was difficult to feel something, to remember who you were, when you had lived for a thousand years. He touched his hair with one hand as he stood up, clearing away the snow and adjusting it to its original position. He’d kept his black hair on a ponytail since the war, the beginning and end of it all. Back then he had been a warrior, a killing machine that had ended hundreds of lives on the battlefield. People had whispered his name in fear, baptizing him Shinigami, God of Death. He’d killed for duty and even for pleasure, for the adrenaline that shot through his veins like a drug. In the end, the real Gods had delivered his punishment; and here he was a thousand years later, the God of Death, the collector of souls. His eternal retribution.
10:35 pm. Four blocks away, a car’s wheels screeched against the asphalt, followed by a loud crash. The man shrugged and started to make his way to the accident. He wondered when it was exactly that he had lost his humanity, his capacity to feel and care. He wondered when he had stopped feeling human. What was it? Two centuries ago? Four? He had stopped counting the years so long ago that he couldn’t remember. But it did matter. As he arrived at the accident and took in the puddle of blood staining the white snow, the disfigured car, and the disfigured corpse without flinching, he wondered if he would ever feel something again.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Police sirens sounded across the streets of Ginza, four blocks away from Ginza station at 10:40 pm. People had gathered around the accident, looking at the macabre combination of snow and blood, limbs and metal. Some noticed the small girl on the floor and asked if she was hurt, if she was in pain. The girl said nothing. The physical pain she felt did not compare to the pain she felt inside in her heart. Her mother was dead. But she was also alive. She stood alongside her corpse, a silent spirit at a loss of what had just occurred.
A man dressed in a black coat walked down the street, taking little note of the commotion, the gore, and the loss happening around him, as if it had nothing to do with him. The police arrived, checked the survivors and the witnesses, and asked questions in sharp demands. The man ignored them and passed through them like smoke, like he didn’t exist. He had come to do his job.
The girl stared at him as he reached his mother and took out a white card with something written on it. “Sagamoto Yura,” he said in a flat voice that betrayed no emotion, “Age 32. Cause of death: Run over by a car. Your time has come.” He extended his hand, eyes bored and static, dead. A silent invitation. The girl saw his dead black eyes, his extended hand, his boredom at being alive and felt rage inside her. Who was this man? How dare he take away her mother? She pushed the people holding her and ran to the man.
“No!,” she screamed at him, not caring for the people staring at her like she was crazy, who did not see the man she was talking to. “You’re not taking her anywhere! Give her back! Give me my Mommy back!”
The man felt something akin to shock spark in his chest. He was invisible here, nobody could see him. But this girl could. He was speechless. He didn’t know what to do. The police noticed the girl now and started walking towards her.
“Give her back!” The girl said again, tears falling down her face. She grabbed his coat with a small and delicate hand, tugging tightly, demanding. The man looked at her with sadness in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he said. He took the spirit woman’s hand and vanished from the scene, as if he had never been there. Only later did he realize that for the first time in centuries, he had finally felt something again.