Miki Kashiwagi locked the infirmary door with Sakiko Toyokawa piggybacking on his back. He held a trench coat in his hand, and Sakiko's baseball cap was on her head.
Sakiko Toyokawa had chosen the second option.
To rest for the night at Miki Kashiwagi's place for the time being.
Returning to that home with only a useless father was essentially no different from staying in the infirmary—there was no one to take care of her there either; it would just be changing locations to die in.
Go to a hospital or a small clinic? She didn't have that kind of money. Sakiko Toyokawa didn't even have a thousand yen on her; buying stomach medicine would be a stretch.
In truth, the primary reason was that Sakiko was genuinely exhausted.
Ever since the incident, Sakiko had been rushing around for a living, taking on all sorts of part-time jobs to support her family. Most of the contracts she signed were unfair child labor agreements—she received the bare minimum hourly wage while having to give six or seven hours of her day to work.
It would be fine if she stayed healthy and injury-free, but people are most vulnerable when they are sick, both physically and mentally. Little Xiaoxiang in her current sick state could not handle that kind of pressure.
And she was merely a student.
Every night, a haggard Sakiko Toyokawa would slowly emerge from the last train. Looking up from the station stairs and catching sight of the twinkling stars, she would always pause for a moment.
Let me dim for a while; I am destined to twinkle after all.
Perhaps her literary pretensions were acting up, but at times like this, Sakiko Toyokawa often told herself things like that.
Hanging on Miki Kashiwagi's back, Sakiko Toyokawa was somewhat lost in thought. The baseball cap blocked her vision, but she could still occasionally catch sight of the distant horizon and the faint glow of lights.
"It seems... like it's twinkling." Sakiko Toyokawa murmured softly.
Actually, the word "Venus" failed to pass her lips; she couldn't be certain that what was twinkling was definitely Venus. She couldn't even tell the directions apart. Right now, the only thing she could be sure of was that Miki Kashiwagi's heartbeat was very strong, and her survival instinct made her struggle to breathe along with that rhythm.
Their footsteps were slow, and the campus was completely deserted. The couples who had deliberately stayed out late after school to sneak off for some kissing had all gone back to their respective homes.
Naturally, every word of Sakiko's soft murmur was transmitted straight into Miki Kashiwagi's ears.
"Gibberish, accelerated breathing—has the kid burned her brain out with the fever?" The completely dense Miki Kashiwagi quickened his pace.
What was twinkling in the distance wasn't lights, but the headlights of a black muscle car.
A Dodge Challenger—Miki Kashiwagi's romance!
He carried Sakiko over to the passenger seat, flattened the backrest so she could lie semi-recumbent, draped the trench coat over her, and finally fastened her seatbelt.
Every little bit of warmth helped, and keeping up appearances with the necessary precautions was still important.
Listening to the roar of the engine, a somewhat fuzzy jazz radio station began to play as the car slowly pulled out onto the asphalt road.
Six-thirty was the evening rush hour. Even though they lived quite close by, a twenty-minute drive would take twice as long.
...
"Mother, please make sure to get some rest and don't work too hard." A slender, brown-haired young girl said a reluctant goodbye to a neat and efficient woman.
The latter replied with a smile: "Soyo, you need to take good care of yourself too. Even though Mother doesn't have a lot of time, I'll still find a way to make time to keep you company."
After seeing her mother off to work, Soyo Nagasaki hummed a little tune, her expression relaxed as she walked home. Just walking her mother as far as the end of the block was enough for Soyo to hum three little melodies.
Her mother finally had time to spare to have dinner with her—how delightful!
She would buy some ingredients to keep on hand before going home later, then take a bath and go to sleep!
A sleek black Dodge drove past, the pleasant roar of its exhaust and the muffled sound of a saxophone from inside the car drifting faintly into Soyo's ears.
She had to admit, a well-maintained older car really was a huge head-turner, and even the normally unpleasant smell of engine oil seemed strangely comforting.
The smell of engine oil?
"...Sakiko?" Watching the Dodge slowly drive into the underground parking garage, Soyo stood still for a long moment before blurting that out for no apparent reason.
"Pfft, hahaha..." Obviously, Soyo had amused herself. "Sakiko doesn't even drive. I guess I must really miss her that much."
"Sakiko... where could you be now?"
"Sakiko..."
...
"...Sakiko-san, wake up."
It wasn't until Miki Kashiwagi helped her into the elevator and her feet actually touched solid ground that she grew slightly more alert.
Then came a wave of intense headache and scorching breath, making the world spin.
In a daze, the elevator stopped. The twenty-first floor.
The monthly rent for a mansion like this in the central district was exorbitant, and anything from the thirtieth floor and up was strictly not for sale. This apartment was rented to Miki Kashiwagi at a discount by his advisor while he was writing his thesis, and Miki Kashiwagi had always felt that kowtowing three times still wasn't enough.
Opening the door, a faint scent of tobacco drifted out, helping Sakiko Toyokawa snap to her senses a little more.
Sitting on the sofa, Sakiko Toyokawa slumped into it in a haze. After hanging up the trench coat, Miki Kashiwagi began rummaging through cabinets while humming a little tune.
"...Double Happiness oil... dried astragalus, bailian..."
Sakiko couldn't understand Chinese, let alone the song he was humming to himself; she only knew that Miki Kashiwagi was in a good mood, as if her visit had given him an excuse to cook up a feast.
Indeed, if he were home alone, Miki Kashiwagi would usually just eat instant noodles or Chinese snacks.
Soon, a tub of attractively packaged white ointment was handed into Sakiko Toyokawa's hands.
"A specialty from my hometown. Rub it on your temples, throat, and the top of your head; it'll help clear your head a bit."
"This is ibuprofen, a fever reducer. Instructions on how to take it are written on the package—ah, sorry, I forgot you can't read Chinese. Just leave it there, I'll handle it later..."
"There's Maojian tea on the tea table that was brewed just this morning—uh, tea water. If you're thirsty, you can pour yourself a cup, though it might not be very good for your stomach. I'd still recommend drinking plain water."
Though it was somewhat impolite, Miki Kashiwagi finished his instructions and plunged headfirst into the kitchen. He would take this opportunity to cook a proper meal and reward himself for his busy day.
And by the way, feed the malnourished and sick Sakiko.
Unlike a typical Japanese apartment kitchen, Miki Kashiwagi's kitchen fit every single stereotype a Cantonese person has about a kitchen.
There was a mahogany cupboard filled with stainless steel tableware, atop which sat bottles and jars containing various medicinal herbs used for making soups—mostly inexpensive ones, because the expensive and hard-to-get items were hidden away in various corners, such as preserved lemons, sliced and air-dried ginseng, and earthen soup pots of all different sizes scattered across the floor.
He washed an earthen soup pot, put a whole old hen into cold water, added scallions, ginger, and cooking wine, brought it to a boil over high heat, and then let it simmer slowly. The chicken was a full-year-old hen that had already been thawed; young chickens wouldn't produce a fragrant chicken fat flavor, and roosters had meat unsuited for soup.
After about half an hour, he lifted the lid, skimmed off some of the floating fat, added half a handful of dried bailian, red dates, and goji berries, and continued simmering.
Before that, he switched to the cutting board, took a piece of aged Chinese sausage from the fridge, and sliced it diagonally into thin pieces half a finger wide. Half of the leaner pieces went into the rice cooker with washed fragrant rice, while the other half—the fatter ones—were added to a hot pan with a base of oil to render out the fat, after which he tossed in sectioned garlic scapes.
The unique fragrance of lard drifted out, dispelling the tobacco smell in the apartment and adding a touch of cozy, domestic warmth.
Sakiko Toyokawa looked around her surroundings.
It was relatively clean and tidy for a single man, but that was only by comparison.
The trash can was full, mostly containing tea leaves and peanut shells; one of the sofa cushions was missing, probably stuffed under the sofa or used as a body pillow in the bedroom; and many clothes were casually hung out on a drying rack—though they were mostly cheap items, that was still money!
An electronic keyboard stood in the corner, alongside large and small violins leaning against the wall, covered with a layer of transparent white plastic sheeting for dust protection—likely improvised from an electric bicycle canopy and held down by paperweights.
The tea was both cold and bitter, but surprisingly refreshing. Two jade toad tea pets reflected a soft luster under the gentle lighting.
An Eastern man dressed in Western-style clothes was cooking a Chinese dish—and a rather distinctive regional one at that.
As for how Sakiko knew it was regional cuisine: when she used to eat Chinese food, she had never smelled such a rich and complex aroma, which at least meant that the dish Miki Kashiwagi was making wasn't mainstream.
This person was truly contradictory—or rather, far too self-willed.