Canon's Diary

Saturday, May 24. I left my family home in Tokyo and boarded a bullet train bound for Osaka. Nozomi No. 391, departing Shin-Yokohama at 2:29 p.m., arrived about five minutes late. Feeling drained, I closed my eyes and sat still. I could hear the train slicing through the wind. The subtle vibrations pulsed through my body. When we entered a tunnel, the sound of the wind grew louder, pressing against my eardrums.

As we neared Shin-Fuji, I heard the clicks of passengers taking photos with their smartphones. I opened my eyes to find Mt. Fuji floating darkly against a sky of thin clouds. The snow on the summit seemed to have melted. A man in a suit, young women scrolling on their phones, schoolkids absorbed in their games, and a foreign couple in T-shirts with large suitcases stowed above—the car was filled with all kinds of lives.

I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Just letting the train’s sway carry me along. The scenes inside the car, and those slipping past the window, stirred no emotion in me. I simply stared at them, absentmindedly. No, that’s not quite right. I was thinking—about two Sundays ago, when I received a LINE message from my wife on another bullet train, on my way to a Tokyo hospital. She told me that my father had just passed away. That moment came back to me.

By the time we reached Nagoya, raindrops had begun to strike the window. The droplets traced horizontal lines along the glass, flowing backward with the train’s motion. As the speed increased, the flow of water diminished and eventually disappeared, likely swept away by the wind pressure. A haze covered the outside world. We arrived at Kyoto Station, and the rain was still falling. I stepped off the platform and transferred to the JR Kyoto Line, heading for Settsu-Tonda Station.

A woman sat across from me, holding a newborn in her arms while gently chatting with a little boy, about three years old, who was in a stroller. The boy was full of energy, gleefully swinging around a toy in his hands. His voice echoed through the train, but no one seemed bothered. Suddenly, he dropped his toy. The mother, cradling her baby and steadying the stroller, struggled to pick it up. I reached out and retrieved it for her.
“Thank you so much,” she said with a small bow.
I didn’t reply, just smiled quietly.

At Settsu-Tonda Station, I bought a large vinyl umbrella. I walked through the rain-streaked shopping street. The new umbrella repelled the rain well. Bicycles and scooters zipped by, people crossed paths on either side, cautious cars moved through the crowd, and the sound of the crossing bell rang out. Though I had only moved here a month ago, it already felt like I had walked this route many times.

I returned to the apartment. The room was still in disarray—I had rushed out after a sudden call from my mother in the middle of cleaning. For now, I decided to leave things as they were. I would resume the cleanup tomorrow.