Even if she saw Yuichi, it wasn’t as if there was anything she wanted to talk with him about. She’d been the one who trampled on his feelings, and she couldn’t very well face him now. Maybe two weeks in the hospital with hardly anyone coming to see her had weakened her will.

Still, she wanted to say something to him, especially after seeing him helping an old man into the hospital. If he could only tell her he was all right, that he was going out with an ordinary girl now. She’d been cruel when she broke up with him, and if he told her that, she felt that she could be forgiven for the way she’d acted.

Even though she worked for a massage parlor, Yuichi had rented an apartment on his own and had wanted them to live together.

As Miho watched her soothing the boy in the baby carriage, the old woman suddenly turned and said, “It’s nice and quiet here so I can relax.” She’d seen the old woman a number of times, but this was the first time she’d spoken to her.

Still wondering if she was going to see Yuichi again, Miho stiffened and approached the old woman, as if drawn to her. It was the first time she’d looked at the little boy up close. She’d imagined how twisted his body was, but the reality was far worse, and his weak, unfocused eyes wandered.

“Hey there, Mamoru.” Miho rubbed the boy’s frail arm.

The old woman gave her a suspicious look, apparently wondering how she knew the boy’s name.

“The nurse called him that,” Miho explained quickly, and the old woman, looking satisfied, said, “Mamoru’s a popular little boy, now, aren’t you? Everybody knows you.” She stroked the boy’s sweaty forehead as she spoke.

“If you rub him like this it takes away some of the pain,” the old woman said, stroking the limp little boy’s shoulder. The vending machine started humming a bit more loudly.

Lots of things to say sprang to Miho’s mind, but for some reason she couldn’t say them. She sat down next to the old woman and, following her lead, rubbed the arms and legs sticking out of the baby carriage.

Just then the elevator door slid open and Yuichi came out. The old man wasn’t with him now, and he had a sullen look on his face, hands stuck in his jeans pockets. Yuichi glanced in Miho’s direction but apparently didn’t notice her. He looked away and strode off.

“Yuichi!” Miho called out to him, as his retreating figure headed toward the entrance that was soon to be locked up for the night. Yuichi halted, startled for a second, and turned around guardedly. Miho stood up from the bench and looked directly at him.

The little boy’s leg, which she’d just been rubbing, brushed against her thigh. It moved, as if he was asking her to rub him some more.

The moment Yuichi’s eyes met hers the strength drained out of him. Without thinking, though she was still standing far away, Miho reached out her hand to him.

She hurriedly went over to him. She could see his face grow paler with each step.

“Are you-okay?” she asked, taking his arm. She’d just been holding the little boy’s arm, and for an instant the feeling gave her goose bumps. “I saw you a little while ago bringing in an old man and so I waited here for you.”

For a second the thought struck Miho that he wasn’t bringing the old man to the hospital, but that it was Yuichi himself who was sick.

“Anyway, why don’t we just sit down for a while?”

Miho tugged at his arm but he shrugged loose as if trying to get away.

“It’s not like I’m trying to apologize or anything,” she said. “It’s been two years, after all… It’s just that I haven’t seen you in so long, and it brings back lots of memories.”

She’d gotten closer than she’d realized and took a step back. The color slowly returned to Yuichi’s pale face.

“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to keep you,” Miho apologized.

She wanted him to tell her that he was okay now. That’s all she wanted to hear, why she’d called out to him. But the instant Yuichi had spotted her, he’d blanched.

She could only conclude that Yuichi still hadn’t forgiven her. She’d called out to him, thinking that the passage of time had softened things, only to be struck by the realization that that was the self-centered thinking of someone who’d betrayed another person.

“I, uh… have to get going,” Yuichi managed to say, glancing at the entrance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Miho apologized.

It was obvious he had no feelings for her anymore, but still Miho found his attitude cold.

Yuichi hurriedly exited the hospital. His figure as he headed toward the parking lot was lit up in the moonlight. The parking lot was nearby, Miho knew, but to her it looked as if he were heading somewhere far, far away. As if he were making his way toward another night altogether, one that lay beyond the present.

Yuichi disappeared into the lot. As if they hadn’t just seen each other for the first time in two years, he didn’t turn around, not once.

Three days had passed since the murder at Mitsuse Pass and all the TV talk shows were filled with reports on the incident. No matter what channel you turned to, there was the cold winter pass, the usual reporters standing in front of it as they professed their hatred for the murderer and his crime.

The talk show reports all basically boiled down to the same story line: A twenty-one-year-old woman working for an insurance company in Fukuoka City was murdered and her body was dumped at Mitsuse Pass. At approximately ten-thirty that night the woman said goodbye to her colleagues near the apartment building their company leased and went to see her boyfriend at a place a three-minute walk away. The boyfriend had not been heard from since. The police were looking for him as a material witness, but according to his friends, he’d been missing the past three or four days.

Along with the summary of the murder details scrolling along the screen, the TV showed scenes of the freezing pass to dramatize the cruelty of the deed. In contrast, when they discussed the missing boyfriend, relating how he was the most popular student on campus, how he drove an expensive foreign car and lived alone in a condo in a high-end section of Fukuoka, the screen was filled with lively scenes from the upscale Tenjin and Nakasu neighborhoods. To viewers it was obvious from the newscasters’ tones that it was 99 percent certain that this boyfriend was the criminal.

Kanji Hayashi, an instructor at a local juku, a prep school, was one of these viewers. As he stared fixedly at the TV screen in his apartment, he didn’t seem to notice that the piece of toast with marmalade in his hand was growing cold. It was three p.m., about time he had to get going or else he’d be late to class, but he remained glued to his chair.

Hayashi had first learned of the murder two days before, after he got up in the afternoon and had switched on the TV, just as now. At first he’d just thought, Hmm… over at Mitsuse Pass, huh? but when the photo of the victim came on the screen he’d nearly choked on his orange juice.

To him she wasn’t Yoshino Ishibashi, but Mia, a girl he’d met three months ago online.

Hayashi hurriedly checked his call records, and though it was unlikely he’d saved any since it was a while ago, he did find one e-mail from her:

Thank you very much for everything the other day. It was lots of fun. But as I was telling you, I’m being transferred next month to Tokyo and it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to see you anymore. I’m really sorry about the bad timing. Thank you so much. Bye bye. Mia.

So the only message from her left on his phone was this last one, basically telling him not to get in touch anymore. All the enormous numbers of messages they’d exchanged before that had vanished, but not the memory of the day he’d met Yoshino Ishibashi/Mia. That was still crystal clear in his mind.