11 The Meeting of Burdens and the Setting Sun

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Senior Makino only seems strict on the surface. All I need is to admit my mistake actively, act a little cute at the right moments, and sincerely express how glad I am that she came to watch my match. Then, she lets me off without a word.

“You really have a talent for zoning out during matches,” she said one last time as we stood outside the gym bathed in sunlight. “Although you probably don’t need anyone to worry about your studies, I’ll ask anyway—are you feeling any pressure with your schoolwork?”

I smiled and shook my head. “That sounds like something I should be asking you.”

“...I’m more than capable of getting into the high school next door, thank you very much!”

This senior, who had just recently been pulled aside by a teacher for a talk about further studies, checked the watch in her pocket, glanced at it, and said, “Alright, go take care of your business, Your Highness Nishiga.”

She always manages to turn everything into teasing—such a stubborn person.

I responded in an old-fashioned respectful tone, “As you command.”

“Don’t let me catch you zoning out like this on the field again.”

“Understood.”

“If there’s still a competition this year,” she added calmly.

It was just past four in the afternoon; the sunlight wasn’t as intense.

“Of course there will be,” I said. “When the time comes, please feel safe leaving your back to me.”

Makino chuckled softly. It was the kind of laugh someone makes when they know the other’s gun is empty but still see it pointed at their own head.

Afterwards, she had to rush to the field to watch her own class’s match.

We parted ways there.

Her figure gradually disappeared into the distance. I stood still, basking in the sun for a moment.

Then I climbed up to the classroom building, first dropping off my numbered jersey and other gear in the equipment room, carefully checking them off one by one. Then, with a light step, I left that place of disputes and headed back to the second-year floor.

Exiting the stairwell, the first classroom was 2-A.

The human brain is always rebellious. The more you try to ignore something, the more it magnifies what you care about in your heart. I walked steadily past, slowed my pace, and calmly glanced through the window.

Near the door, second row from the back, second-to-last desk...

It was a pair of empty desks and chairs with no sign of anyone studying.

A black backpack hung on the desk hook, the zipper half-open, a lacrosse stick slanting inside. In the desk pocket, several round baseballs nestled together like well-fed sparrows; beside them, a brand-new textbook stuffed in crookedly. Judging from the curled, creased edges—likely from being pressed while sleeping—it was probably a math book.

I thought: Has this book even been opened since the semester started? Not good, not good. No intention to invade privacy, sorry.

A quick glance again confirmed that the owner of this crumpled math book was not in the classroom.

My brief look had already drawn the attention of some students staring out the window. I hastened my pace, passed 2-B, and returned to my own class.

After handling class affairs and tallying the match results, I chatted with some friends about which sushi place was best and learned where one of the shops was, then remembered my bag.

During the school sports festival, club activities in the gym were paused. I walked out of school with a few classmates, chatting and laughing side by side, saying goodbye at our usual intersection.

At that moment, the golden sunset peeked over the hilltop, embracing the boy’s steadily retreating footsteps. Some girls still walked together, chatting and laughing, their voices becoming part of the sunset’s scenery.

I took a couple of steps toward home, then stopped.

The setting sun warmed my back, casting my tilted, distorted, elongated black shadow on the orange-red street.

Suddenly, my bag vibrated lightly.

I snapped back to reality, pulled out my phone, saw the contact, flipped it open, and answered: “Hello, Dad?”

“Xiaowei, did everything go well at school today?” Dad’s voice came through the line, a bit distorted but caring as usual.

“Of course,” I said, stepping from the road’s center to the curb, nudging a small stone with my shoe. “Our class advanced smoothly in many matches. I just left school. Did you want me to bring something back?”

Dad said, “Yeah, could you pick up a carton of eggs? I just realized we ran out at home...”

He’s often busy with experiments and supervising graduate students at university, sometimes completely overwhelmed.

“No problem,” I replied.

“Thanks, Xiaowei.”

“No need! Oh, by the way, Dad—”

“Hmm?”

I pursed my lips, feeling the rough, subtle texture of small stones under my shoe. I paused, then stepped over them. “I have something to check with the student council, so I might be a bit late getting home.”

Dad’s tone was gentle: “Alright, be careful.”

“Got it. I’m not a kid anymore.”

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“Yes, yes.”

“I’ll hang up now and get home as soon as I can.”

After hanging up, I stuffed the phone back into my bag.

I could wait until tomorrow at school to find someone, but if the matter isn’t settled, I won’t be able to sleep. Besides, who knows what might happen overnight?

I should at least try. If I can’t find anyone, then I’ll reconsider. I can do it... Ah, I really don’t want to face the person who’s seen me at my worst.

Whether I want to or not, I have to.

I glanced left and right to make sure no one was around, then pulled out a small mirror from my bag and carefully checked my appearance: hair untangled, brushed stray strands from my forehead; eyes bright; face clean. I smiled a little. Good, looking lively.

If I procrastinate, it’ll only drag on longer. I must act quickly.

I closed the mirror, put it away, tidied my collar and the hem of my school skirt. Then I clenched the handle of my bag, steeling myself with a “If not me, then who?” resolve, meeting the distant twilight face to face, and firmly walked away from home.

Thinking back, I said a lot of things that were really harsh.

I unconsciously quickened my pace, but my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

Since I became aware, I haven’t shown that kind of emotion in front of others for a long time. And now, suddenly, to someone I barely know, a classmate... What was I thinking? Am I crazy, Nishiga Wei? It’s all because of... never mind, no use dwelling on it. No matter how much I reflect, it won’t change the facts. Boohoo. Ugh!

Honestly, I still can’t tell if Yamamoto really saw through me or was just pretending.

Is he the intuitive type? Playing dumb to hide his sharpness? But later, I saw that his character isn’t bad at all. A guy who smiles while exposing your weaknesses—easy to understand but also hard to grasp—how should I deal with him... Wait, is he even human?

Suddenly, an image popped into my head of Yamamoto actually being a monster in disguise, and my steps slowed.

That was a bit creepy. I didn’t want to go anymore.

I wished I could turn back time, wished I had a guardian angel... But then again, if I had a guardian angel, what would they look like?

As for a name, I’d hope for something cooler like “Miracle.” But compared to a king, they’d probably be more of a nerdy type. Seen only by other people with guardian angels or pure hearts... No, no, better not to have one.

Lost in these wild thoughts, I suddenly stopped walking.

I had long mastered the geography of Bensei Town. All routes unfolded in my mind like a precise map; once walked, I rarely forgot.

Two rows of low buildings, a few households growing small tomatoes behind fences. Familiar street scenes filled my view. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a wooden door with a retro charm—classic décor for many Japanese restaurants. A short, narrow eave, deep blue noren curtains outside, potted plants, lanterns.

The sky wasn’t dark yet, but the shop’s lanterns were already glowing warmly, heralding the coming night.

On the old signboard, three steady characters read “Take Sushi.”

This was Yamamoto’s family shop.

Take Sushi stood like an old man nestled in a rocking chair, quietly enduring the years. To me, it looked like a decrepit haunted house just waiting for adventure.

Standing before the door, I felt like facing a formidable enemy.

Earlier, I had glanced at the baseball field—Yamamoto wasn’t there. I was among the last to leave school; he had no reason to still be there unless something else was up.

Most likely, he was already home.

Of course, he could have gone for a run or self-training. Maybe visiting a friend—no homework these days, lots of people out enjoying themselves. I’d received several invitations from popular classmates, politely declined tonight’s with an excuse.

...I should just buy the eggs first.

But now that I was here, having studied in Bensei for so long without ever helping with the family business, maybe I should just be a customer and pick up some sushi to take home?

No, Dad has been cooking, and I can’t delay! If I put it off till tomorrow, then the day after, then a whole week. Objectively speaking, Yamamoto has been apologizing to me repeatedly, so he already owes me an apology for this whole mess.

Besides, I swore at him at the end, really harshly.

I want to run away.

No running away.

Go home and watch cartoons.

No running. Take responsibility. There’s nothing shameful about this. Don’t slouch.

I maintained a straight face and took a deep breath.

Alright.

I reached out and opened the door.

The rolling shutter made a dull rumbling sound. Accompanying it was a middle-aged man’s skilled and timely greeting: “Oh! Welcome!”

I put on a bright smile. “Sorry to intrude!”

“No, no—what would you like to eat?” He seemed to have just come out from the kitchen, quickly putting on his apron as he walked around the cooking counter, warmly looking at me. “Oh? A new face. If it’s your first time, you should try our signature dishes!”

Looking around, there were surprisingly no customers yet.

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Wooden tables and chairs were quietly arranged, leaving a narrow aisle. Perhaps it had just opened for business, but the lights were on. Warm-toned lighting illuminated the interior like candlelight. Simple Japanese paintings adorned the walls, along with calligraphy wishing customers an enjoyable meal.

Was the man who came out Yamamoto’s father?

Black hair, strong features, tanned skin. When he smiled, his eyes squinted happily, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes and mouth—signs of a straightforward, hearty person.

He looked quite similar.

But there are plenty of uncles like this around, so better not greet him rashly.

I stepped forward a couple of steps, not entering too far, and bowed slightly to the kindly elder in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, we already have food at home. I’ll definitely come to try it someday.”

“Oh, what a coincidence.” The middle-aged man widened his eyes and set down the knife he was about to use to cut fish. “That young lady, you’re... wait, you’re wearing the Bensei school uniform. Could it be you came looking for Abutake?”

Abutake. That was it.

My chest tightened as if gripped by disaster. I quickly controlled myself from overthinking and maintained my usual calm demeanor.

“Yes, is Yamamoto-san here?”

“He...”

Before the man could answer, a sudden loud clatter startled him. It sounded like heavy bowls and boxes being hurriedly set down. Then came fast footsteps from the kitchen getting closer.

Through the main entrance of Take Sushi, passing the dining area, there was an open door facing us. Inside was a horizontal corridor leading to other areas left and right.

Before I could react, a hand wearing a black wrist guard pressed against the doorframe, followed by another hand lifting the noren curtain.

The newcomer pressed the door and stood straight there.

His rapid approach hadn’t disturbed his breathing—a sign of calm and control. It was Yamamoto Takeshi, the troublemaker who drove me crazy. Just like before the whole incident, when I was alone helping a teacher move things and he suddenly ran up to ask if I needed help, here he was again, appearing right before me.

The boy wore a white chef’s uniform, his gaze fixed squarely on me. Rather than surprise, the unguarded expression looked more like delight. “Nishiga-san.”

The man’s eyes sharpened and he scolded him.

“Abutake, what was that noise just now? Didn’t I tell you to handle things carefully?”

“Sorry, Dad! Nothing broke.” Yamamoto grinned apologetically, aware of his mistake.

So they really were father and son.

I was about to greet his father again when Yamamoto lowered the curtain, strode quickly over, and stood beside me. I looked up at him, and he suddenly seemed to realize something, stepping back immediately.

“Nishiga, what are you doing here?” he asked, eyes squinting with happiness. “Hungry? The match today must have been tiring, but it was really exciting! Tell me what you want; consider it a celebration of your win. It’s on me.”

His youthful, handsome face shone with genuine friendliness.

It was as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t been the one unfairly kicked out. As if on that sunny day, we had only chatted briefly in the equipment room and parted with smiles.

I looked into his deep brown eyes. The carefully prepared apology in my mind was thrown off by this sudden warmth, and my throat tightened awkwardly.

...Could he have shown a little less willingness to talk to me? That would make me feel more embarrassed, more guilty.

This terrifying guy, Yamamoto Takeshi, not to be underestimated.

Especially with his father right there watching—this was a hellish start.

I wish I hadn’t come—No, I already came! This is the best chance to apologize today.

So I endured the exhaustion of feeling exposed, like a coffin opened under the sun, shook my head, and said in advance, “Thanks for your kindness, but sorry, I’m going home to eat soon.”

How should I say this? Quickly rehearse in my head: “Sorry, Yamamoto-san, about today. Wait, I should introduce myself to your father first; it would be rude otherwise. Right. I’m Nishiga Wei, your classmate, and then…”

“Hm?”

The black-haired boy listened, then put away his smile and looked at me seriously. Before I could speak again, he stepped forward, blocking me, and said to his father, “Dad, you go ahead. I’ll chat with Nishiga for a bit, then come back to help later.”

...Huh?

I looked up, a bit puzzled.

Standing so close, I could almost see the toned muscles under his shirt fabric.

Yamamoto’s father laughed heartily, teasing a bit: “You should’ve said you’re classmates earlier. Got it, go on now—don’t need you here yet.”

The boy quickly took off his chef’s coat, handed it to his father, revealing the Bensei school uniform underneath—shirt and pants. Only the tie was off, two buttons undone, showing a light blue round-neck undershirt.

As I was still focused on greeting the elder, my eyes followed the man who took the coat and left. But the next moment, Yamamoto gently pushed my shoulder, guiding me outside.

“Let’s go out first,” he said, “I’ll bring some sushi rolls out for you to try later. Just a few, so you can have them as a snack at home.”