"There's just no place left for an old guy who's behind the times."
That was what I was told, early that afternoon. At an office desk in a corner of the warehouse, soaked through with the smell of machine oil, the young site manager slid a sheet of paper across to me, apologetic but matter-of-fact.
Starting next month, all the shelf management would switch over to an app. Take a picture of the stock with a smartphone, and the AI would count it in seconds. So my job wasn't needed anymore.
To Mr. Amane Kashiwagi: Notice of Expiration of Employment Contract
For nearly four years, it had been my last refuge, a place I'd chosen because I wanted someone to need me. I folded the paper neatly in half and put it away in my bag.
Well, that's the way things are now.
I wasn't even angry. There was only a quiet, helpless feeling, as if the warmth were draining out of me little by little through the soles of my feet.
Forty-two years old. No trade, no family, not even a smartphone. A man like me is what the world calls an "old guy," I supposed. Fair enough, I thought.
I didn't take the train. I walked a long, long way home. Though calling it home was generous; it was only a place to stay for now. A room in an old Western-style house, left behind by the woman I owed everything to.
Nightlight.
The wooden nameplate with that word on it floated pale and hazy in the dusk.
A house built in the Taisho era, they said, a blend of Japanese and Western styles. Ivy-covered brick, creaking hallways, a living room with a fireplace. Once, an old woman named Tomi Yoshinaga had run it as a women-only share house, a place to shelter women who had been hurt.
When I'd collapsed and had nowhere to go, she was the only one who took me in. She asked me nothing. She just set down a bowl of warm plain rice porridge in front of me, with a soft little clink.
It was a rainy night. I'd been on a park bench, unable to move, and Tomi came up to me without even bothering to put up her umbrella and said:
"Oh my, you're hungry, aren't you. It's written all over your face."
She brought me home, and what she gave me was plain rice porridge, without a single frill. A tiny pinch of salt. That was all.
But the moment I sipped the first spoonful, I broke down and wept out loud.
It wasn't made to earn anyone money, or to impress anyone. It was a bowl made for no other reason than to keep the life in front of her going. I had forgotten that kind of cooking, for a very long time.
Six months had passed since Tomi died. All I'd done was inherit this house and her beloved dog, and I hadn't done a single thing a real house manager would do.
When I opened the front door, a golden ball of fur came flying at me.
"I'm home, Komugi."
Komugi. The golden retriever Tomi had left behind. His tail swung so hard it smacked me in the face, and I couldn't help smiling.
He, at least, never treated me like an old guy.
Back in the manager's room, I finally sat down in front of the cardboard box I hadn't been able to open all this time. Tomi's things.
I'd been too scared to open it, and for six months it had stayed shoved at the back of the closet. I felt that if I saw her handwriting, it would really, truly be over.
But now I had nothing left to fall back on.
I let out a breath and peeled off the packing tape. Old photographs. A faded kitchen smock. A collar from when Komugi was a puppy.
And a single letter. It was addressed to me.
To Amane
With trembling fingers, I opened it.
You probably think of yourself as "a person who's finished."
But I know better. I know you're someone who notices a person's hunger and loneliness faster than anyone.
You don't need to be a perfect concierge.
Just become a "middle-aged guy who's good at cooking," someone who lights up the nights of girls who've been hurt.
Because that's a job only you can do.
Oh.
Before I knew it, drops were staining the paper. All along, I had wanted to be needed. I'd wanted to be of use to someone.
Tomi had seen through that wish long ago, and she had made sure to leave me a job.
I wiped my eyes roughly with the back of my hand and stood up. In the corner of the manager's room sat a black landline, its cord still unplugged. Made to look like an old black telephone, it was the only means of communication in this house.
I picked up the cord and slowly pushed it into the jack in the wall.
Click.
With that small sound, a phone that was never supposed to be used again was connected to the world.
Once more, just for the people who live in this house.
I murmured it to myself, deep inside.
That night, everyone came home late. Four women live in this house. Every one of them goes out and fights with everything she has, and then comes back here.
When the clock was nearing midnight, the front door opened quietly. The first to come home was a tall woman in a suit. Ms. Tono; I'd seen the name on the nameplates. She worked at an ad agency, apparently.
The moment she got in, she kicked off her shoes in the entryway, left them where they fell, and collapsed onto the living room sofa.
"...G-good evening. You must be tired."
When I spoke to her, she jerked upright.
"...Who are you?"
A low, wary voice.
Right. To the residents, I was still nothing more than "the male manager." In a house full of women, some middle-aged man they didn't know was standing there in an apron. Of course she'd be scared.
Then three younger women trickled in, one after another. A petite one with her makeup smudged, who looked like she was new at her job. Ms. Nanase. A trendy student type who came in staring at her phone. Ms. Odagiri. And a woman with her hair yanked back in a messy bun and dark circles under her eyes. Ms. Makabe. A manga artist, I'd heard.
All four of them froze when they saw me.
"...A man is the manager...?"
Ms. Nanase shrank back a little.
I couldn't blame her. I lowered my hands so they could see them and spoke as gently as I could.
"I'm sorry to startle you. The previous manager, Tomi, entrusted this place to me. I'd like to think I'm not a suspicious person... Well, I do look suspicious, don't I."
Nobody laughed at my self-deprecation. The four of them still looked at me stiffly.
Just then, at my feet, Komugi let out a soft whine through his nose and pressed himself right up against my leg. Then he flopped over, belly-up.
This guy doesn't have an ounce of caution in him, does he.
His carefree silliness loosened the tense air, just a little.
"Um. Have you all had dinner?" I asked.
None of the four answered. They probably hadn't eaten yet. Not one of them, this late.
As I headed back to the kitchen, I said, "It's only leftovers. But it'll be ready in no time."
Before long, a thin thread of white steam rose from the gap under the pot lid. The smell of dashi drifted softly out, all the way down the hall.
The four of them still hadn't moved from the entryway, their faces still wary. Even so, I thought I heard someone's throat give a small, quiet gulp.