Before the Coffee Gets Cold

The [snack bar] patrons weren’t only men, either. Hirai was popular among women too. Her blunt way of speaking sometimes dented the pride of patrons, but they knew there was no malice intended, and there were never hard feelings. Patrons always felt comfortable around her; she had a natural gift for being able to say anything and get away with it. She dressed in a flashy way and couldn’t care less what anyone thought about it. But she believed in good manners and etiquette. She would listen to anything anyone had to say. Though if she thought a patron was wrong, even if they were of high social status, she would have no qualms about setting them straight.

[Hirai’s] walk was the same as normal, but she was dressed rather differently. Rather than wearing her usual loud clothes in red and pink, she was in mourning dress. Rather than a head full of curlers, her hair was done up in a tight bun. Anyone would agree that she looked like a different person.

[…]

The crease deepened on Kohtake’s brow as she leaned forward.

“Was it today?”

“What today?”

“The funeral, of course,” Kohtake replied, betraying her uneasiness with Hirai’s attitude.

“Yeah. Look,” Hirai said as she stood up and spun round to show her funeral attire. “It kind of suits me, don’t you think? Do you think it makes me look a bit subdued?” Hirai made some model-like poses, adopting a proud face.

Her sister was dead. Unless the people in the café were mistaken about that, her irreverence seemed over the top.

Kazu continued with her outlandish plan. After filling the cup with coffee she would offer again: “Would you care for some coffee?” She went on doing this, and every time it was offered, the woman in the dress would reply, “Yes, please,” and drink it down. But after a while, the woman began to look uncomfortable.

[…]

“She looks so uncomfortable. Why doesn’t she just refuse?” Kohtake commented, sympathizing with the woman in the dress.

“She can’t refuse,” Kei whispered in Kohtake’s ear.

“Why not?”

“Because apparently that’s the rule.”

“Goodness…” Kohtake said in surprise to the fact that it wasn’t only those traveling back in time who had to follow annoying rules.

Apart from the matter of how she had treated Kumi so unkindly, there was also the matter of Kumi being made the successor to Takakura.

When Hirai left home and was cut off from the family, Kumi automatically became the successor. She was too obliging to betray the expectations of their parents, as Hirai had done.

But what if this had shattered a dream that she held?

If she once had a dream, ruined by Hirai’s selfish decision to run away, it would explain why she had so often visited Hirai to beg her to return home—she would want Hirai to come back so that she could have the freedom to pursue her own ambitions.

Water flows from high places to low places. That is the nature of gravity. Emotions also seem to act according to gravity. When in the presence of someone with whom you have a bond, and to whom you have entrusted your feelings, it is hard to lie and get away with it. The truth just wants to come flowing out. This is especially the case when you are trying to hide your sadness or vulnerability. It is much easier to conceal sadness from a stranger, or from someone you don’t trust. Hirai saw Kei as a confidante with whom she could share anything. The emotional gravity was strong. Kei was able to accept anything—forgive anything—that Hirai let flow out. A single kind word from Kei could cut the cords of tension that ran through her.

But [Hirai] was wrong. Kumi didn’t resent her. Nor was it true that she didn’t want to inherit the inn. The reason that Kumi didn’t give up trying to persuade Hirai to return was because that was her dream. It wasn’t because she wanted her own freedom, and it wasn’t because she was blaming her: it was her dream to run the inn together with Hirai. That dream had not changed, and nor had her little sister, who was there in front of her with tears of joy streaming down her face. Her little sister Kumi, who had loved her big sis with all her heart, had, time after time, come to persuade her to return to the family, never giving up. […] Hirai felt more love for Kumi than she ever had before.

“Hirai!”

“I can’t drink it!”

Kei could see how distressed Hirai was. She bit her lip and looked grave.

“You just promised…” she said with a trembling voice. “You just promised your sister, didn’t you? That you would return to the inn. […] You said that you would run it alongside her. […] That means you have to return. That makes it more important than ever. […] How unhappy would your sister be if she knew that your promise was only made for today? She would be devastated, don’t you think?”

Yes! Kei’s right. […] Even if Kumi is dead, I promised her when she was alive. I have to make sure her happiness was for something.

I was so absorbed in the things I couldn’t change, I forgot the most important thing.

Filling in for her, Fumiko had been by Miki’s side for these fifteen years. Nagare had been there for Miki as her father, showering her with love, no doubt going some way to make up for her absence. Also filling in for her, Kazu had lavished Miki with kindness, playing the role of mother and big sister. She realized that there had been all these loving people around Miki, earnestly supporting her growth for the fifteen years she had been gone, wishing for her happiness.