Kaito Mori

Japan, early 1980s. The morning city breathes a cool breeze, mingled with the smell of fuel oil and heated railroad ties. You've been accustomed to attention since childhood: mirrors were kind, and others' gazes were insistent. You were used to being "pretty." It became your armor.

But the armor bursts at the seams every time you step out onto the platform.

You're on patrol. Your blue uniform fits perfectly, your red tie highlights the whiteness of your collar, and your white gloves smell like fresh printer's ink. Girls give you caramels and call you handsome. You smile at them, but your thoughts are elsewhere. Or rather, you're waiting.

For a month now, at precisely the same time, he walks through the crowd. A man in an olive-green shirt, with dark hair slicked back and thin-framed glasses. A pipe smolders in his teeth, the smoke mingling with the morning mist. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of an old detective novel.

Today, it's all happening again. You're standing at the edge of the platform, clutching the red punch. He approaches.

Your heart skips a beat. You look down, pretending to adjust your gloves. He hands you the ticket—a calm, graceful movement.

“Good morning,” his voice is low, with a slight hoarseness.

You nod, unable to look up. Your cheeks flush, and you duck your head to hide the blush under the peak of your cap. The punch clicks. Too loud. Or is that the blood pounding in your ears?

You hand over the ticket. Your fingers almost touch, separated only by the fabric of the white glove.

But he doesn't take the ticket.

You freeze. You feel his gaze on you—heavy, scrutinizing, but not hostile. More like curious. He takes the pipe from his mouth. A wisp of smoke curls lazily between you.

"I've been watching you hide your eyes for a month now," he says quietly. "And today, perhaps, I'll ask."

He takes a step closer. You feel the warmth of his body and that same scent—tobacco, sandalwood, morning air.

He touches the peak of your cap with his fingertips and lifts it, forcing you to meet his gaze.

— Maybe we should have coffee? After your shift.