Midnight Calling

❍ 𝟖 - 𝐓𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰

Another trickle of sweat stung his eye but he hardly blinked. Never in all his years in rail traffic control had he witnessed something like this.

Chief supervisor Nakamura Hayato watched bar after bar on the computer screens flash from green to yellow to red. The estimated time schedules on the monitors were... nonsensical.

It had all begun with the 15h25 bullet train from Sendai, or what should have been the 15h25. The Tohoku Shinkansen had arrived an unfathomable 24 minutes late, the engineer relaying the news over the radio telephone to Nakamura at a complete loss to explain why. The train had left Sendai on time. Weather was fair, no natural occurrences or blockages on the rails. It was simply that the usual 2 hour 6 minute journey had —stretched? —to 2 hours 30. And those 24 minutes had been but the start.

Nakamura swiped at his damp brow then reached for his tea cup, huffing when he raised it to his mouth. The cup was empty. He'd known that. It was why he put the kettle on just before to make a fresh pot of tea.

How much more forgetful and distracted was he going to get with everything going on?

He grabbed a rice ball from his bento box and shoved it into the microwave on the service counter, punching in the usual 30 seconds.

All the bars on the screens were now flashing red.

This was unprecedented in the history of the East Japan Railway where punctuality was not merely a matter of pride, but of honour. Trains ran on a strict timetable, with the precision of the Buddhist monk's clanging bell.

Speaking of...

Distant alarms rang. They were coming from the city, underscored by a medley of police, fire, and ambulance sirens.

More immediate were the announcements that buzzed over the station intercoms, delivering profuse apologies to harried-looking commuters. Uniformed clerks were rushing like bees to distribute certificates, proofs of delay, should people be made late for work or appointments. Those hoping to eventually connect to the Narita Express for the airport would not find things much better there, Nakamura knew. Reports had been coming in of flight disruptions.

He reached for the teapot. It was cold to the touch. Nakamura frowned. He'd poured hot water into it but minutes before —he scratched the back of his neck— hadn't he?

The sudden stench of burnt seaweed had him lunging for the microwave to pop open its door.

He dropped the smoking rice ball onto the counter, its seaweed wrap completely scorched. The microwave's timer was flashing 00:00 but the power hadn't shut off.

What an utterly confounding day.

To add to the confusion, his friend had called earlier asking where he was. They were supposed to have met up at the hot spring bath some hours ago his friend said. Nakamura barely recalled what he'd answered before hanging up. What had his friend been going on about anyway? His shift wouldn't be over for another... his Apple watch display was blurry. He rubbed his eyes. Was it really almost 19h00?

He lowered his wrist, his gaze sliding over to the wall of security cam feeds, stopping upon the monitor for platform D.

The man was still there.

Nakamura had noticed the smiling, older man wearing a vintage black suit and dark sunglasses earlier, emerging from a train departing to Yamagata. At first he could have sworn the man had been holding a hockey stick but upon closer view, Nakamura saw it to be a cane. The man continued to linger on the platform –how long had it been now?– ignoring the flustered passerbys rushing about him.