“Pay me back later, Mr. University Student!” I say.

  “Leave it to me,” my sports bag laughs back.

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been on the Shinkansen. I pull the cap Rumi gave me down low over my eyes, glance nervously around the car with free seating, and choose a window seat, pushing myself against the wall.

  The train slides out of the station with almost shocking quietness and accelerates. We zoom through some tunnels, and before I know it, the city’s jumble of buildings is gone. We cross a few big rivers, and then we’re in the middle of fields and rice paddies. I open a map on my phone, and the image scrolls to the left faster than I’ve ever seen it go. When I whisper as much to Souta in surprise, he says, “Yeah, yeah, it’s fast.” But I’m so excited, even his nonchalance can’t dampen my mood. My eyes are glued to the landscape racing past outside the window.

  I see mountains, sea, buildings of all shapes and sizes, houses and factories and stores, deserted arrow-straight paths dividing the paddies, and a little truck idling along in the distance. I can see the tiny form of its driver. Next to a yellow-green rice field swaying in the wind, there’s a small wooden hut straight out of a period film. On the side of a mountain, a graveyard reflects the sun. Next to a river, I spot a couple walking a dog. As I watch it all go by, I have the odd thought that I’ll probably never stand in any of those places myself. I’m nearly certain I’ll never go into that convenience store or order a meal at that family restaurant or watch the train go by from that window. I’m so tiny, and life is so short; I’ll never be able to go to most of the places flying past outside the window. Most of the people in the world are living their lives out there, beyond my experience. The realization hits me with a mixture of surprise and loneliness.

  As I think about all of this, I drift off to sleep, and when I wake, the ocean fills the whole window. I open my map. We’re almost in Kanagawa Prefecture. “Now arriving in Atami,” a computerized voice says from the ceiling.

  “Souta…!” I say, almost in tears. “Did we pass Mount Fuji already?!”

  “Hmm, now that you mention it—”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says, casually brushing me off. To cheer myself up, I buy a sandwich, a coffee, and an ice cream from the food trolley.

  “You wanted to see it that badly?” Souta asks.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I reply.

  Then, before I know it, all I can see is buildings. An unbroken, constructed sea extends to the horizon and continues on and on. It has a different quality than anything we’ve passed, and the word metropolis, which I’ve only heard in geography class, pops into my mind. The landscape here is covered entirely with man-made things on the scale of a sea or a mountain range.

  Humid air and masses of people hit us as soon as we disembark at Tokyo Station. On the verge of suffocating, I follow the directions coming from the sports bag, turning right and left as the waves of people carry me along. I make it to the correct platform, but no sooner have I found a seat on an air-conditioned train than the voice in the bag hurries me along.

  “Get off at the next stop!”

  We step off the train at a station called Ochanomizu. There, I buy a bottle of cold water from a vending machine covered in a glowing black screen like something out of a sci-fi movie and gulp it down at the end of the platform. When I finally catch my breath, I glare over my shoulder at the bag casually hanging there.

  “…I feel like you’re making fun of me!”

  Souta laughs. “Before we look for Daijin, there’s somewhere I want to go. Would you mind making a phone call for me?”

  “Huh?”

  “The number is—”

  “Wait a second!”

  I scramble to type the number in, tap the call button, and hold the phone up to the back of the chair. It stops ringing, and a female voice says, “Hello?”

  “Kinuyo? It’s Souta. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

  Huh?

  “…Yes, I’m fine. I’m relieved to hear you sounding so well!” he says, his tone awfully familiar. Then he tops it off with an awfully debonair laugh. What?

  A Room like a Garden

  We walk along a river as green as matcha, climb a hill next to a big high school, continue for a while through a quiet residential neighborhood, and finally arrive at a shop. Contrary to what I expected, it’s a little convenience store that looks like it could be in my hometown. It occupies the first floor of a three-story corner building. Potted plants surround the entrance, an explosion of flowers threatening to burst into the road. More plants hang over the second-floor balcony, shamelessly covering the blue logo of the national chain. There’s an air of casual neglect to the place, like it’s telling the world not to sweat the small stuff.

  As I walk through the automatic doors, a familiar melody chimes loudly. I glance around but don’t see any other customers.

  “Um, excuse me…,” I say timidly to the back of a woman stooped behind the counter. She seems hard at work doing something or other down there.

  “What?”

  When she looks up, I see that she has pronounced features and a nameplate on her chest that reads CAROL.

  “Um, my name is Iwato.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Um, that phone call a little while ago…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Uhhh…”

  She’s staring at me suspiciously. Souta, what do I do?! Sending him psychic calls for help, I grip the bag on my back. Of course, he can’t answer me in this situation. But just as I’m starting to think I’ll have to temporarily retreat, someone calls from the back of the store. “Oh, yes, yes! You must be Souta’s relative. I’ve heard about you!”

  A tiny old woman with a mushroom of white hair comes pattering out in sandals. She’s wearing the same blue-striped uniform as Carol, and the nameplate on her chest reads OKINU.

  “Here’s the key to Souta’s room. It’s number 301,” she says, handing me the key. She must be the landlady he mentioned.

  “His relative?” Carol asks the landlady, who answers in what I think is English. Carol smiles at me.

  “When will he come back from his trip?”

  “Um, I’m sorry, I don’t really know.”

  “I do hope he comes home soon,” the landlady says, sounding quite lonely. Carol says something like “sweet” or “cute,” and the landlady adds dreamily, “He’s such a handsome man.” Quite the popular tenant, it seems. I grip the bag harder.

  “Um, thank you!” I say, bowing my head.

  “Go on outside, and you’ll find the staircase to your left. Take your time,” the landlady says, holding her hand up next to her face and waving.

  When I open the door, a wall of hot air hits me in the face. It’s followed by the smell of a school library, then the smell of soap and other household items, then a very faint, unfamiliar, elegant smell that makes me think of a foreign city. A grown-up smell, I think.

  “Go on in,” Souta says, sticking his head out of the bag.

  I take my shoes off in a little entryway that’s barely deep enough to fit them, then step up into his apartment. I’m in the kitchen, which is more a wide hallway than a room. Beyond it is a dim living area measuring around fifteen square meters.

  “Wow…,” I gasp. Lit hazily by sunlight filtering through the curtains, the walls and floor of the room are covered with books. Thick antique volumes are stacked on the tatami mats like we’re in a professor’s study or something—of course, I’ve never been in a professor’s study, but the room has that air that usually belongs to some sort of specialist. Wedged between the books is a low desk like a literary giant of the postwar period might have used, a round table for eating, and three big bookshelves. In one corner is a steel desk, maybe from IKEA or something, with a metal frame bed over the top of it. Meanwhile, the books in this corner are colorful and modern, like the ones you’d expect a university student to have.

  “It’s hot in here. Would you open that window?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  I push aside the curtains, and late-afternoon sun floods the room. When I open the window, a refreshing breeze blows in. I put my bag down on the floor. Then I take off my cap and set it on the bag. As I take in the sights, I think the bright room feels like a little garden. Oddly enough, even though it’s full of stuff, it doesn’t feel messy. The objects seem to have grown there of their own free will, like plants.

  “Suzume,” Souta says, looking over at me from one of the bookshelves. “I want to do a little research. Do you see that cardboard box on top of this shelf?”

  “Yes…”

  “Can you bring it down for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I stand in front of the shelf and reach for the box. It’s too high, and I stretch farther. No good. I climb on top of Souta. I can feel my three-legged companion quickly adjusting himself to hold my weight. My hands reach the box. It’s really heavy.

  “……”

  Suddenly, I feel like laughing. My lips curl. I hold the box and march in place a few times. I remember his cool, debonair voice when we left the convenience store. I said, “You sure are popular,” and he said, “Not really.” I stomp a few more times. One, two. One, two. Then I look at my feet and smile.

  “Souta, do you mind if I step on you?”

  “…Next time, ask me first!” he snaps, and the chair bucks under my feet. I shriek and laugh.

  The box is full of books. Souta tells me to open one called Excerpts from the Closer’s Secrets. I’ve only seen this kind of traditional Japanese book in photos before. The rough paper is bound with string and looks ready to crumble any minute. Taking care not to tear it, I solemnly open the book.

  Pictures cover both pages. The hair on my arms and legs stands up. One picture shows a volcano. A village and mountain are drawn in black ink, but the flames bursting from the mountain are painted with bright-red pigment. A crimson river writhes in the sky. I know that shape well.

  “Is that…the worm?”

  Souta nods, gazing at the picture. When I look more closely, I see that the flames are coming not from the volcano’s mouth but instead from a torii gate on the peak of the mountain. It must be a Gate. I can make out the word Tenmei and the number three in one corner of the picture. When was that, the 1700s? Souta tells me to turn the page, so I do.

  The next picture is of a dragon. Between the curves of its long, winding body are mountains, villages, and lakes, as if the dragon and the land are one. What appear to be enormous daggers pierce its head and tail.

  “Those are Keystones. The Western Pillar and the Eastern Pillar.”

  The chair leg points to each one in turn.

  “Keystones? You mean—”

  “Yes. There are two of them.”

  “So…there’s another one of those cats?”

  “The cat is only a transient manifestation,” he says in a low voice.

  I turn the page again. On each side is a stone monument with a throng of people praying to it. The word Keystone is written in red characters on each monument, and several people dressed like mountain ascetics seem to be trying to bury the stones in the earth. In the gaps around the pictures is fine cursive writing that I can’t read. The text next to the stones, however, I can just barely decipher. Something about “subduing the black Keystone” and “the terrible white tiger Keystone.”

  “Natural disasters and plagues come from Ever-After to our realm through Gates and terrorize everyone nearby,” Souta says, gazing at the pictures. “That’s why we Closers go around shutting them. We return those places to their cradle—their rightful owners, the gods of the land—and quell the unrest. But there are some disasters, the terrible kind that occur only once every few hundred years, that can’t be fully suppressed by closing Gates. For those situations, two Keystones were bestowed on this land in ancient times.”

  Souta points to another book. “Catalogue of Keystones” is written on the cover. This is also a traditional Japanese book, but it looks decades (or perhaps centuries) newer than the first one. I open it. Inside are what look like old maps. An amorphous shape like stones melted together is labeled “Map of the Land of Fuso”—at least I think that’s what the characters say. Large swords pierce either end of what seems to be an island.

  “The Keystones change locations with each era.”

  I turn the page to another old map. The coastline of this one is more realistically drawn. The two swords are piercing slightly different locations.

  “This looks like…”

  I turn to the next page. The resolution of the map improves. It’s packed with narrow roads and borders. The swords are piercing the Tohoku region and a spot below Lake Biwa.

  “…a map of Japan!”

  “It is,” Souta says. “The changes in the map reflect changes in the cosmology of the Japanese people. When people’s consciousness changes, the shape of the land changes, and so does the shape of its ley lines and natural disasters. That, in turn, changes where the Keystones are needed. It’s a slow and constant change in the interaction between people and land, so we enshrine the Keystones where they are truly needed in each era. The Keystones soothe the land over decades, even centuries—always in places we don’t see. The forgotten places.”

  I understand only a fraction of Souta’s matter-of-fact explanation. But his words bring back a memory of the Keystone when I first saw it. The empty ruins in summer, the frigid pool of water, the lonely stone statue… When I touched it, I felt like it was talking to me. Maybe I was hearing the joy of a cat, bored with its centuries-long task, who had just found a playmate. For some reason, that idea seems to mesh perfectly with what Souta is telling me.

  “The Keystone that was in Kyushu is currently running around in the form of a cat, right?” he says, as if he can read my mind.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “As for the other one…”

  He gestures with his leg for me to turn the page. There’s a familiar map of modern Japan labeled “Meiji 34.” That would be 1901. Souta points to a spot on the map. A stone monument shaped like a sword stands in the Kanto region.

  “Tokyo…?!”

  “Yes, it’s still holding down the head of the worm there. What I want to know is the exact location. Where in Tokyo is the Keystone? As far as I can remember, it’s not written down anywhere, and no one would tell me. But the answer might be in one of these books.”

  I turn the pages as he directs. When we finish one book, I open the next. He fluidly scans over cursive I can’t begin to decipher. As he reads, his voice darkens. “They say the location of the Keystone in Tokyo is the site of an enormous Gate. Once, a hundred years ago, it opened and unleashed a massive disaster across Kanto that went on until the Closers of that time shut it. I suspect…”

  His voice drops even lower.

  “…I suspect Daijin may be trying to open the door again. If that cat is amusing itself by giving us the runaround, we need to get to the door before it does and stop that from happening.”

  The constant drone of airplanes comes in through the window along with the breeze. I’m surprised by how many there are. Between the roars of jet engines comes the growl of motorcycles, the wail of ambulances, the tap-tap-tap of futons being beaten clean, the shouts of kids playing on their way home from school, and the distant clatter of a train. Birds are chirping, and not far away, two people are chatting. Someone is vacuuming. The low, layered hum of tens of thousands of cars never stops. I think again about the enormous number of lives playing out in this place. I have a hard time imagining an old stone statue or monument standing silently somewhere in this gargantuan city. The books I’m flipping through change from string-bound manuscripts to old university notebooks. Now the characters are written with a fountain pen, but the handwriting continues to change. The one we’re looking at currently seems to be a diary from around the twenties, but I can still barely read the beautiful mix of kanji and katakana script.

  “Dammit,” Souta sighs when we’ve finished going through all the books. “I think that diary had the information I’m looking for, but the key words are blacked out…”

  Sure enough, I notice several redacted words in the diary I have open. Thinking I might be able to help, I squint at the page. Before and after the patches of black, I can read the phrases “September 1, Saturday, sunny,” “Messenger from the man on duty in early morning,” “8 AM,” and “God benearth the earth appears.”

  “…I see!” I say.

  “You figured it out?” Souta asks in surprise.

  “No, sorry, I just wanted to say that.”

  He smiles wryly. “…I suppose we’ll have to ask my grandfather.”

  “What?”

  “My grandfather’s teacher wrote that diary.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes. He raised me. He’s at a hospital near here.” He looks back at the book, then says quietly, “I didn’t want to disappoint him by showing up looking like this…”

  His hunched back makes him look exhausted. So his grandfather is a Closer, too. We should have gone to see him in the first place! I’d think a grandfather would be worried about his grandson, not disappointed. Maybe he can help us. Or is there some reason why that’s not possible?

  Suddenly, there’s a loud knock on the door, and I yelp reflexively.

  “Hey, Souta, you in there? I think you are!” a man’s voice says. He keeps battering the thin wooden door. I look at Souta. The chair is looking at the door with a poker face, apparently unflustered.

  “I saw the open window! So you’re back? Hey, Souta!”

  Bang, bang!

  “Serizawa… I swear, now of all times,” Souta mutters.

  “…Who?”

  “A friend. Can you make up some excuse?”

  “Are you kidding?!”

  Souta is clattering off toward the wall. Serizawa continues knocking rudely on the door.