Last Train from Shinjuku

It’s five before midnight in Shinjuku. Soft breathing echoes down the vast, empty station. The last train’s sleek frame disappears into the tunnel, its lime-green sash glistening.

Isao shuffles down the escalator, his suit clinging in the August heat. He can’t go home like this. He missed the train after yet another obligatory drinking party with his boss. His head throbs, though he managed to avoid touching a drop of sake.

He should have. Might as well look the part—his family always knows where he’s been.

Except they’ve been in Kesennuma since March.

His phone rings. A once-beloved tune pierces his ear like a needle. Astro Boy. Once cheerful, now an alarm.

He answers.

"Hello, Mr. Shinoda. Sorry to bother you at this hour. I’m Matsubara Naomi, a co-worker of your wife’s. She… left your contact info with me before the— Anyway, I’m here if you need anything."

Isao listens, absorbing her voice. He’d heard of Naomi—Eriko used to talk about her often.

"Naomi-san, kind of you to call. Eriko said you were like sisters."

Naomi laughs softly. “We were. I teased her too much about becoming a full-time wife. Maybe that’s why we drifted apart after she left the company.”

“We’ll never know, now. But it’s good of you to reach out.”

“I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but I can help with the paperwork—family registry, legal matters concerning Eriko. If you don’t mind my asking... where are you?”

“Shinjuku Station. Missed the last train. Should’ve taken that cab with the boss,” Isao mutters.

“I live on Shinjuku-dori. If it’s not inconvenient, you’re welcome to stay the night at my place.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the handle of his briefcase. He’s never spent the night with anyone but Eriko. The thought of soaking in a tub after a fifteen-hour day—plus the morning commute from Shinagawa—gives him a strange, quiet buzz.

“Mr. Shinoda?”

A soft voice behind him. He turns. A woman in her late twenties stands there, her hair pinned elegantly, her pastel pencil skirt and jacket mirroring the station's sterile calm.

He bows lightly. Naomi reciprocates.

“It’s not healthy to wander around at night, even in the world’s safest city,” he says.

“You’re right,” she replies. “Shall we?”

Together, they ascend the escalator and step into the neon hush of the Shinjuku night.

They walk side by side through narrow streets, the city glowing in quiet technicolor. Shinjuku at midnight isn’t dead—it breathes differently. Vending machines hum. The occasional taxi sighs past.

“I used to love this hour,” Naomi says. “When the city feels more like a memory.”

Isao grunts, unsure how to respond.

At a convenience store, she pauses. “Do you want anything?”

He hesitates. “A beer.”

She nods and disappears inside. Isao waits under a flickering sign, watching two drunk salarymen weave by, laughing too loudly.

When she returns, she hands him a can of Kirin. “Figured you wouldn’t ask for help if you were thirsty.”

He cracks it open and drinks. It’s bitter and lukewarm. It feels deserved.

Naomi’s apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up, tucked behind a closed soba shop. It’s tidy, small, filled with the scent of yuzu and floor polish. A futon’s already been pulled from the closet. Isao bows slightly.

“I appreciate this.”

Naomi shrugs. “I’ve been meaning to clear out my guest linens.”

He sits stiffly. She disappears into the kitchen, returns with tea. They sip in silence. The only sound is the occasional whir of the fridge.

On a low shelf, a small frame catches his eye. Two women—young, sunburned, laughing—pose in front of a windswept cape. Eriko and Naomi, maybe ten years ago.

“That was Hokkaido,” Naomi says. “We almost missed our flight because Eriko wanted one last bowl of uni-don.”

Isao stares at the photo. Eriko’s eyes crinkle in a way he hadn’t seen for years, maybe ever.

“She never mentioned that trip.”

“She told me she didn’t want to make you jealous.”

He frowns, gently sets down the tea.

“I wasn’t the jealous type.”

“Then maybe she didn’t want you to know how happy she was… with me.”

The silence stretches.

“I didn’t mean—” Naomi begins.

“No. It’s fine.”

He gets up, walks to the window, looks out over the city. Below, a cat darts between parked bikes. In the distance, sirens echo—faint, like an old melody.

“She started sleeping on the futon a few weeks before the quake,” he says. “Said my snoring was unbearable. We both knew that wasn’t it.”

Naomi doesn’t answer.

That night, Isao doesn't sleep.

He lies on the futon, staring at the ceiling fan slicing the darkness. The beer sits unfinished on the low table. He hears Naomi move in the other room—her quiet footsteps, the rustle of sheets. The city hums faintly beyond the thin windows.

Somewhere between two breaths, he slips into memory.

It was early March. The air was heavy with oncoming rain. Eriko had placed a small white envelope on the kitchen counter.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Nothing urgent,” she replied. “Just something for later. Don’t open it unless you need to.”

He hadn’t opened it. Not even after the sirens. Not after the silence. The envelope still sat in the drawer next to expired coupons and forgotten keys.

That morning, she'd left for Kesennuma to visit her parents. The trains had still been running then.

“Want me to come with?” he’d offered, not quite meaning it.

She had smiled. “You hate seafood. And I need space to breathe.”

They hadn’t fought. That was the problem.

“Do you think she knew?” Naomi asks from behind the half-closed door.

“Knew what?”

“That it was goodbye.”

Isao doesn’t answer.

Naomi steps into the room, arms crossed over a thin cardigan. She sits on the edge of the floor cushion, knees drawn up.

“She talked about the sea a lot. Said it made her feel clean again.”

“She always said Kesennuma smelled like salt and miso. I thought it sounded awful.”

Naomi chuckles. “That’s because you hate things that linger.”

Isao looks up. “You think I hated her?”

“No. I think you loved her more than you could show. And that scared her.”

He looks at the photo again. Eriko, laughing without restraint. He wants to be angry, but all he feels is tired.

Naomi picks up the beer, takes a sip, grimaces. “Still warm.”

“She told you everything, didn’t she?”

“No. Just the things she couldn’t tell you.”

Isao exhales sharply. “I wonder if that makes you a better friend… or a worse one.”

Naomi gives a small, sad smile. “Both.”

They sit in silence. Outside, the faintest light begins to edge the skyline.

Isao wakes to the clink of porcelain and the scent of miso soup.

Naomi stands in the kitchen, tying her hair up, humming something faint and familiar.

He sits up slowly. The city outside has shifted again—commuters, delivery scooters, the thrum of weekday urgency.

His phone buzzes on the table. A notification.

1 Unheard Voice Memo

His heart stutters. The timestamp reads March 10. The day before everything changed.

He taps play.

“Isao. I know I said I needed space, and I do, but I also want you to know I miss you already. Don’t laugh. Just… maybe check the envelope when you get a chance. Also, try not to forget your umbrella—it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. That’s all. I love you.”

The recording ends.

He stares at the phone a long moment. Naomi places a bowl of soup in front of him, then sits across the table.

He doesn't cry. But something behind his eyes lets go.

Naomi sees him to the door. The morning sun spills over the concrete stairwell, warm and uninviting.

“If you need help with the envelope,” she says gently, “you know where to find me.”

He nods. They stand awkwardly in the stairwell. For a moment, he thinks to bow, then doesn’t.

Instead, he simply says, “Thank you. For… being there.”

Naomi smiles. “Eriko would have wanted that.”

He steps out into the street. The city smells like damp asphalt and brewing coffee. He turns toward the station—not for work, but to go home.

Back in Shinagawa, a white envelope waits in a drawer.