Forgotten Passenger

"Nagoya," Yuki replied, her voice barely rising above the quiet hum of the train.

Yokohama's neon sprawl blurred past the windows, a cascade of colors streaming over the glass to merge with her tired face staring back at her.

The old man across the aisle leaned forward, his eyes buried under brows like worn leather, his skin the color of smoked tea. “Long commute."

Yuki gave a non-committal shrug, her headphones already halfway over her ears.

The man took no notice. "I’m going to Hamamatsu. The five temples," he said, his eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the window. "It's a good place to clear the mind."

Yuki pulled her headphones entirely over her ears. "New job," she muttered, though she cared less if the old man couldn’t hear her. "Can’t afford to live in Tokyo."

He wore a ratty, camouflaged flak jacket.

He smelled like fish.

Half his teeth were missing.

Old people are terrifying.

“Train stations.” He paused, scratching at the stubble on his neck. “Where we all go to find our way home. Hundreds of people passing through, thousands every day, all trying to get back to where they belong.” His expression waxed nostalgic. “Returning to their husbands and children.” He turned his head toward Yuki. “Mothers and fathers?” 

Yuki shifted uncomfortably. Struggling to maintain a polite demeanor, Yuki forced a half-smile and pushed aside her green hair. She was exhausted. Work weighed on her. She had hoped to sleep, not be accosted by some creep.

The bullet train rushed through a clanging intersection, horns blaring. Bright white and neon red spilled in from the window, causing Yuki’s shadow to climb into the vacant chair beside her before sliding across the ceiling.

The train jolted suddenly, the overhead lights flickering, casting his wizened face in sharp, uneven shadows. The old man leaned closer, his gaze fixed on her reflection, appearing in the window as if he spoke directly to her.

“What would you do…”

“Hana,” Yuki lied.

“…Hana, if you couldn’t get home?”

"By train? I'd call a ride-share, I guess."

He gave a slow, rattling chuckle. “Convenient, yes,” he murmured, looking past her reflection out the window. “But what if you had no cellular telephone?”

Yuki’s mouth went dry. She didn’t know why his words bothered her, but they slid under her skin, leaving her uneasy. Yuki slowly lifted her backpack from under her chair. She gripped its straps. A cold sweat ran down the back of her neck. Her throat tightened, and her pulse thrummed heavy in her ears.

Why'd I sit so far back? So isolated?

“I’d ask for help,” Yuki said.

“Yes," he said, leaning towards a seat in the row before her and pressing his thumb alongside its headrest. He glanced at her expectantly, cocking his brows.

Yuki swallowed, hugging her backpack closer. His odd expression dragged her further from any sense of comfort. Smelling her backpack, memories of university barged in, bittersweet, tinged with longing.

She thought of Aiko, her best friend from her last year at Waseda. They’d spend afternoons sprawled out on the soft grass near the Shinjuku campus, laughing until their stomachs hurt as they shared the latest gossip or commiserated over exams. Aiko was always the bolder of the two, her laugh loud and infectious, drawing Yuki out of her shell. They had a running joke that Aiko’s laugh could be heard across the city.

Aiko had loved dragging Yuki out to explore every hidden cafe, bookstore, and record shop she could find. She’d introduced Yuki to an old, cramped ramen shop in Takadanobaba, hidden in a back alley. The place was dimly lit, with mismatched stools and faded 80s posters on the walls. Yuki longed for the taste of the warm, comforting broth they’d slurped down together after long study sessions, savoring the quiet moments between bursts of laughter and chatter.

When the job offer in Tokyo came, Yuki immediately called Aiko, excitement bubbling through the phone line. Aiko’s initial congratulations had been warm, but there was a pause, a slight dip in her tone when she’d added, "Tokyo’s a big place. You’ll be busy all the time, right?"

At the time, Yuki had brushed it off. She couldn’t imagine losing touch, not with a friendship like theirs. She’d promised to visit every month, to keep in touch as though nothing would change.

But Tokyo had its own gravity, pulling her deeper and deeper into long hours, draining her days, and leaving her evenings blank with exhaustion. Calls became texts and then only occasional messages. It had been months since she’d heard Aiko’s laugh, and she wasn’t even sure she’d recognize her voice on the phone anymore.

Obligations consumed her now, and her world was reduced to a daily grind. She spent her days in the office, poring over reports, answering calls, and attending endless meetings, each day blending into the next. By the time she got on the train to go home, she barely had the energy to keep her eyes open, let alone reach out to her old friends; the ride alone took well over three hours. Aiko’s laughter, the smell of ramen, and the sun on her face during those long afternoons felt like echoes from another life.

The weight of it pressed down on her, her backpack digging into her arms as if to remind her of what she’d left behind. The old man seemed to drag those memories into the open, forcing her to confront the hollow ache she’d been carrying.

He returned to his chair. "How about this." His eyes flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. “Have you ever tried to go home, only to find you can’t? That the road’s no longer there?”

Why do old people talk in koans?

A prickle of fear settled in her stomach. She forced herself to meet his gaze, feigning calm. “I can always get home.” She held up her phone. "I have maps."

He gave her a small, sad smile. “You think you know the way, but when you arrive, it’s different. And you wonder if it’s the road that’s changed — or if it’s you.”

More memories flooded her mind. Aiko had texted Yuki last week. Ever since you got that job, I don’t matter anymore. I get it. Your priorities have shifted. But stop pretending you're the same Yuki I used to know.

The old man's eyes went to the storage bins above her. He rose, running a gnarled thumb over a bin, leaving some unseen mark.

The cabin dipped slightly, the train swaying side to side.

“What are you doing?” Yuki's whisper barely made it past her lips.

He reclined into his chair, sighing as though weary with a heavy truth. "Imagine you’re drowning, Hana," he said, almost to himself. “The water fills your lungs and tugs at your legs, but no one is there. And you keep thinking, 'If only I could hold on, just a little longer.'"

Her blood chilled as he spoke, an involuntary shudder rippling down her spine. She wanted to move, to stand up and leave, but she felt anchored to her seat. Her backpack was the only thing she could cling to, a life preserver keeping her afloat.

Bending, he unzipped a worn duffle bag at his feet. He withdrew a hand-sized stone lantern, its base cracked and moss-covered. Striking a match, he lit a small candle inside, and a soft, earthy scent drifted through the car like fresh mud after spring rain. The candle’s flickering light offered a warm, almost comforting glow, though it did little to ease her fear.

He placed the lantern in the aisle separating them. "Tired and frayed, lost, unable to find your way,” he murmured, his tone almost tender. “It's so easy to drown when the world moves so fast around you. You'd cling to anything you could find."

Yuki’s eyes darted from the lantern to the head of the car. She didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

“You want to go home, but so does another.” He reached out his hand. “Stand up.”

“Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Yuki’s shadow crawled up the ceiling as the train sailed through another intersection.

The lantern cast him in a warm, earthy glow. “Because you are lost and drowning, Hana.”

She hesitated, the warmth of the lantern tugging her forward. Trembling, Yuki slipped her hand into his, feeling the roughness of his skin pull her up. His grip was firm, solid, grounding. She felt a tug, and her arms felt heavy, but she pulled herself to her feet.

The old man guided her gently around the lantern, and with a swift, deliberate movement, he pressed a thin paper lined with Japanese calligraphy onto the floor beneath her seat.

Turning, Yuki gasped and stumbled backward to find her shadow writhing and coiling, pinned to her seat by the soft glow of the lantern. It lunged to grasp at the row of chairs ahead of it to strike a wall, then recoiled like a snake to shoot upward. It struggled like a creature caught in a net, pushing against an invisible barrier, distorting and smearing as it pressed against the overhead compartment.

He crouched to adjust the lantern. "Ofuda," he said, holding up another slip of paper. His tone was matter-of-fact, as though this were an everyday occurrence. He gestured to the seat. "That Yokai's been riding with you for weeks now, I suspect, feeding off your weariness, your sadness."

Her mouth went dry. “How'd you…?”

“Could you not smell it? Feel it clinging to you? Draining you?” He grunted and then rubbed his jaw. “Kids.”

Yuki managed a shaky breath. “You’re… an Onmyoji? An exorcist?”

"Perhaps, in an older time." He smiled toothlessly. "Today, I'm just an old man with a good lantern."

She watched, spellbound, as he moved the lantern closer to her seat. Her shadow twisted and shrank, retreating from the light, trying to squeeze itself like a giant spider into the tiny crevice between the seat and the wall.

“Sit up front,” he instructed. “Take the lantern. Keep it by your bed and let it burn. It will keep you company on nights that feel too dark.”

Still trembling, Yuki bowed her head in gratitude. “My name… it’s Yuki.”

The old man chuckled, his eyes crinkling warmly. “Takeshi,” he said simply, nodding. He glanced at the shadow. "Go now, Yuki. I will see her home."

With the lantern clutched close, Yuki moved toward the forward cabin, her heart still hammering. The earthy scent wrapped around her like a blanket as she slid into a seat. A strange peace settled over her as she sat in the lantern's glow. The weight on her shoulders felt light for the first time in weeks.

Without thinking, she opened her phone and texted, Aiko?

Breathing deeply, feeling the lantern's warmth, the flicker of an old, steadfast light amidst the endless night guiding her way.