February 13, 1989.
The night before Valentine’s Day.
Japan was still lingering in the subdued aftermath of nationwide self-restraint, but the restless energy of the younger generation was already beginning to break through.
Long lines stretched outside Ginza department stores, filled with girls waiting to buy beautifully wrapped boxes of chocolate.
But for Akina Nakamori, that night felt less like the eve of Valentine’s Day and more like a relentless hunt with nowhere left to hide.
Every gossip magazine in the country seemed to have its sights trained on her.
Reporters armed with telephoto lenses crowded the entrance to her agency, and some had even spent three days and nights hiding near the flowerbeds below her apartment, hoping to photograph her with that man.
“Akina-chan, Kanai-san said he has an engagement with his racing team tonight, so he won’t be coming back.”
“Akina-chan, about tomorrow’s schedule…”
Outside the van, camera flashes exploded against the windows.
Inside, her manager’s endless stream of schedules and reminders never stopped.
“Stop the car.”
“But—”
“I said stop the car!”
Akina finally snapped.
At a traffic light, just as the agency van slowed down, she yanked open the door, jumped out, and slipped into a taxi waiting at the red light beside them.
In one reckless move, she left her manager behind—and, for a little while, the suffocating chains of being Japan’s beloved songstress as well.
…
9:00 p.m.
Nakano, Tokyo.
Shin Kitahara was making oden in his apartment.
The daikon had simmered until it was soft and almost translucent, soaked through with the rich flavor of bonito broth.
The apartment was warm, filled with the comforting smell of home-cooked food.
Shin had the script for the Taiga drama in one hand and was studying the blocking for the next day’s shoot when the black pager on the corner of his table suddenly beeped.
He picked it up.
An unfamiliar public telephone number appeared on the display.
Shin considered it for a moment, then called back.
The phone rang for a long time before someone finally answered.
For several seconds, all he heard was heavy breathing and the distant murmur of traffic.
“Hello?” Shin asked cautiously.
“…I’m downstairs.”
Akina’s voice was low and hoarse with exhaustion.
“I didn’t know where else to go.
I thought about it for a while, asked your manager where you lived…
and came here.”
Shin paused in surprise.
He walked to the window, lifted one corner of the curtain, and looked down.
An inconspicuous black car was parked in the dim alley below.
Its lights were off, making it look like a wounded little animal that had crawled into a burrow to hide.
Keep the lights off.”
Shin’s voice remained calm over the phone.
“Give me two minutes.”
Two minutes later, Shin came downstairs wearing a gray tracksuit with a padded down vest thrown over it.
In one hand, he carried a stainless-steel thermos.
Tucked beneath his other arm was a thick wool blanket.
He didn’t walk toward the driver’s side.
Instead, he opened the passenger door and climbed in.
The car was freezing.
Akina hadn’t dared turn on the heater, afraid the running engine might attract attention.
She wore sunglasses and a face mask, curled tightly into the driver’s seat.
Both hands were locked around the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles had turned white.
Shin shut the door behind him.
Almost immediately, the cramped car seemed to gain a little warmth, carrying with him the faint, comforting aroma of the oden upstairs.
He didn’t say anything.
He simply unfolded the wool blanket and gently draped it over her shoulders.
Then he unscrewed the thermos, poured a cup of steaming barley tea, and placed it into her ice-cold hands.
“Drink some.
Warm your hands.”
Akina cradled the steaming cup as though it were a piece of heated iron.
She lowered her head, pulled off her mask, and breathed deeply, greedily taking in the scent of the barley tea.
It was simple and ordinary—the smell of everyday life.
Yet in an instant, it washed away the lingering perfume and cigarette smoke that seemed to follow her everywhere.
“I’ll only stay for a little while,” she said.
There was a faint plea in her voice.
“If this is inconvenient…”
“Nobody charges for parking here.”
Shin cut her off, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather.
“Stay as long as you want.”
With that, he adjusted the passenger seat, leaned back into a comfortable position, and reopened the script beneath the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp.
He didn’t stare at her.
He didn’t ask why she had come.
He simply read in silence, occasionally lifting the thermos to take a sip of tea.
As though the woman beside him wasn’t one of the most famous stars in Japan, but an old friend sharing a ride home after a long day.
The car remained quiet.
There was only the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional whisper of wind outside the windows.
For Akina Nakamori, whose life had become an endless storm of screaming fans, reporters, accusations, questions, and demands, that kind of silence was a luxury money couldn’t buy.
Her fingers slowly loosened from the steering wheel.
Beneath the wool blanket, warmth gradually returned to her body.
The nerves that had been stretched taut all day finally began to unwind inside this cramped little space where, for reasons she couldn’t fully explain, she felt safe. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Even Akina herself didn’t really know why she had come to Shin.
It had been instinct more than anything else.
After all, he had helped her once before.
So if it was him…
He probably wouldn’t hurt her.
It wasn’t trust—not yet.
It was simply the choice Akina had made after reaching the point where she had nowhere else to go.
Ten minutes later, Shin heard slow, even breathing beside him.
He turned his head slightly.
Akina had fallen asleep with her head tilted to one side.
Her sunglasses had slipped halfway down her face, revealing eyes that looked exhausted even while closed.
Shin didn’t move.
Even the sound of his turning pages became quieter.
For the next forty minutes, he sat there like a silent guard at the gate.
Only when the distant siren of a patrol car drifted through the night did Akina suddenly jerk awake.
She sat upright in alarm, and the blanket slipped from her shoulders.
“What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.” Shin glanced at his watch.
“You slept for forty minutes.”
Akina rubbed her eyes, looking slightly embarrassed.
She had actually fallen asleep beside a man, inside a parked car, without the slightest guard up.
“Sorry, I…”
“No need to apologize.” Shin screwed the lid back onto the thermos.
“Battery recharged?”
Akina blinked.
Then she nodded.
The nap had been short, but for those forty minutes, the noise and pressure of the outside world had been completely cut away.
She felt almost as though she had come back to life.
“Thank you.”
She put her sunglasses and mask back on, then rested a hand on the ignition.
“I should go.”
“Drive carefully.
The roads are slippery in this weather, so don’t go too fast.”
Shin didn’t ask her to stay.
He opened the passenger door and stepped out.
Standing in the bitter wind, he watched the engine start and the taillights bloom into two red halos in the darkness.
The car slowly rolled out of the alley, merged into the traffic on the main road, and eventually disappeared from sight.
Shin remained where he was for a while.
Only when the cold had begun to stiffen his fingers did he shove his hands into his pockets and turn back toward the apartment building.
The pot of oden upstairs was probably cold by now.