You were sitting by the dining room table. The table itself was clean– you had taken the liberty to tidy it, realizing if you wanted to be able to unclutter your mind, perhaps it could start at the table. Now, while this was a step of improvement– the rest of the apartment was still a mess.
Your phone was sitting next to you, as you had called into work earlier today as sick. You were of course, not sick, simply concerned with how to find your son and keep your child support.
I will say, this is a moment of yours I can paint in a good light. You did have a genuine concern for Ryuzen, although money also played a factor, his sudden disappearance jolting you to your senses. Your anger at the world had dwindled in this moment.
A slight thudding sound could be heard from the door. You were alerted, and came towards it, frustrated at the disturbance. As you opened the door, you glanced around the corner, and saw nothing, no one, just a gust of air and a glimpse of a glimmer. Looking down, you would see a small envelope, covered in specks of dirt. You brought it inside, ripping it apart. Once you discarded the envelope, you were left gazing at a letter, written in a shaky handwriting:
I had assumed that you would immediately have suspects. I know you well, your short fuse and your quick accusations– though, I will not comment on the accuracy of them. I had made three guesses of what you would be doing after the kidnapping of Ryuzen.
You would have checked Irina's house. You are far too suspicious of immigrants.You would have laid out the suspects– probably something to do with your ex-husband.You would have assessed the situation– who would do what and why.
It's almost as if I know you– as if I am you. Maybe– maybe not. I also have guessed you want to know where your son is. You have probably run out of anger, it is exhausting after a while. Don't worry, it will come back soon. As for your son, if you find him is a matter of your own investigation I will let him talk to you— if he's still himself. I'm sure that by now you have ruled out going to the police, you've always been a proud woman, and I know that it would harm you– internally. Regardless, they would not find him. Only you, only you would.
But, I figured, maybe I'd jumpstart you on your path. I myself do have an interest in you finding him. I wanted you both to have a talk. However, you will only get that talk if you find him. Yes, yes– I know– the hint. I'm getting to that point, gods, be a little patient, would you? These letters are difficult to script. Check the bush below your apartment. Investigate who you think has done it. Maybe, the path will form for you. It will only show if it is meant to be, but if it is, I think you will be reunited with Ryuzen sooner than you may believe.
You fold the letter over after you finished reading it. Whoever had written it was certainly arrogant, you would think. Your blood boiled, not at the letter, but yourself. You had been so predictable, the author was certainly the kidnapper, and they knew you well, too well. But, nobody did. You had ensured to maintain a level of separation between everybody in your life, a wall so you could always do what you pleased.
The letter had been wrong, it made a miscalculation. Your anger had not entirely fizzled, but rather, inverted, now directed at yourself. It was really quite interesting to watch.
However, the letter had given you information, to check the bush. It had felt almost ridiculous to trust it, but you knew it was better that it meant nothing than to waste information.
So, you once again journeyed to the door, unwrapping a piece of chewing tobacco, and then beginning to chew on it. It was a calming, familiar gesture, and one which soothed you as you opened the door and strode over to the staircase. As you hurried down the stairs, each step growing faster with your increasing urgency– one which you could find no source for, your mind wandered, threading its way through different streams of thought. When you finally reached the bottom of the old concrete staircase– it took a while, you lived on the sixth floor, you would rush over to the bush below your window.
The bush itself was worse for wear, along with the other malnourished plants in the small block of greenery your apartment had. However, snagged, right on one of the branches of the bush was a small silver necklace, with a delicate seashell charm.
You could recall the purchase of the necklace, it had been before the divorce, before you set up your walls of defence. You had taken Ryuzen and Miyuki to the beach with Kazuki in celebration of Miyuki's twelfth birthday. The kids had been happy at the beach, Miyuki hadn't gone through her rebellious phase yet, and you had been proud of her.
Even now, you can remember exactly how Miyuki had looked on that day. She had had her long glossy black hair tied back in a ponytail with her bangs hanging by her warm almond eyes, and she had been happy, her small mouth smiling in that way it did– tilted up slightly more on the right side. She had been wearing a purple loose flowy dress, and these small silver earrings that caught the light when she tilted her head.
Miyuki at that point had reminded you a lot of your younger self. After dinner, you remember giving her the necklace you had slipped away to buy her, the one which matched her earrings. It warmed you knowing that she still had that necklace. But then again, she wouldn't have it now.
But, if the necklace was here—
Anger.
It hit you hot and quick as it often did. Your fists clenched around the necklace. Miyuki, that wretched girl, had taken your Ryuzen, your son.
It always shocked me how protective you were over Ryuzen, despite how you would treat him. Maybe, it was something I should have appreciated.
Now, all you needed to know was where she was. You took the necklace, unclasped it, and strung it around your neck, the shell sitting in the center of your collarbone. As much as this meant for what was happening with Ryuzen, it still had a deep sentimental value to you, reminding you of better times, both with Miyuki and Kazuki.
You rose from the ground, glancing up at the sky. It was overcast, threatening a heavy rain to come. You sighed, knowing that you would have to bike through it.
Although you did have a car, it was old, from 2001, and hardly ran. So, instead, you would have to bike through the oncoming rain. You kept your bike chained to a tree by the apartment, and, when you had finally unchained it, you walked it to the edge of the green patch, spitting your chewing tobacco in the trash as you passed the bin. Next, you would mount the bike and begin biking to the library.
It hadn't even occurred to you to wait until the rain passed. I had noticed that over the years. As soon as an idea came into that head of yours, it had to be acted upon, no time for patience.
You had almost made it before the rain came, which, as you predicted, was unrelenting. It pounded at your back, and the droplets fell on your glasses, making it difficult to see as you squinted through them.
When you finally did reach the library, you chained up your bike as quickly as you could, and sighed as you entered the warmed building. It was a relaxing place, with deep oak bookshelves winding around like a maze and tasteful pale blue wallpaper.
However, you were not there for the books, but rather for the computers. Not many people used them much more, but you did not have a computer as you were dirt poor. You booted up one of the library computers, and began researching Miyuki to glean information on where she was now.
You didn't stop to consider, at least once, that, if you had kept in touch with Miyuki, you would know where she was right now? This always frustrated me, your unwillingness to understand when it is time to make amends.
You managed to find her profile on LinkedIn after a long while— there were a lot of Miyuki Yamashitas, the profile told you that she currently worked as a freelance artist– you would sigh at this, seeing that she hadn't grown into what you had dreamed she could. She was only twenty-four, maybe there was still hope for her. At least from her photograph you could tell that she had cut those ridiculous–
"Ma'am?" The screechy voice of the old librarian interrupted your train of thought.
You turned, confused.
"Yes–", you glanced at her chipped nameplate, "–Mrs. Keiko?"
"Your session has timed out for the library today, please come again tomorrow if you want to consider using the computers."
You sigh, frustrated, "But nobody else is in need of these computers right now. I don't see anybody waiting to use them."
The librarian would reply quickly, as if she had had this exact conversation innumerable times, "I understand your frustration, but it is important that you end your session, it's against our policy for them to extend past one hour."
"I don't see a reason for it to be enforced. Please– this is important, and I don't have a computer at home."
"Then, you should consider the purchase of one." Her tone was sharp, the conversation was clearly over.
You gritted your teeth, standing, and then you stalked out the door, letting it slam shut behind you. At least by now the rain had lessened to a slow drizzle. You glanced down at your watch, checking the time, and it read APR 18, 6:48 PM. Should you go meet Kazuki at the park?
The message you had received the day before had been tempting, reconnecting with Kazuki could be a helpful insight towards if he had or not kidnapped Ryuzen. So, you hopped on your bike and turned north instead of south, heading towards the park.
By the time you reached the park, the sun hovered over the horizon, illuminating the sky in pinks and purples, painting the clouds in fanciful colours. You were sitting on a bench, your black coat discarded next to you– it was far too warm for it. As for your clothes– you wore a simple t-shirt, grey with cap sleeves, and old, stained linen pants. Your greying chin length hair you wore unbound, nearly brushing your slender shoulders.
You tapped your foot nervously, glancing down at your watch. It was only 6:58, he still had two minutes before seven. You began to fidget, twisting the rings you wore around your fingers all of the time– a bad nervous habit you had never been able to drop. Each of them had a special meaning, given by someone dear.
6:59. You slowly cracked each knuckle, one by one, the satisfying pop relieving your anxiety. Then, your wrists, and finally, you cracked your neck, relaxing back into the bench. You rummaged through your cluttered purse, looking for chewing tobacco, hoping it would help you through the difficult encounter you had to brace yourself for.
7:00. Holy shit, it was time. He was coming.
As you glanced up, you spotted him– Kazuki.