034. She and Her Cat

That night, as the city’s lights began to twinkle, a cool evening breeze carried the unique vitality of April through the streets. The clouds in the sky gradually sank lower, and the wind grew stronger. The pale moonlight, unlike other nights, failed to appear on time, as if someone had embarrassed the moon into hiding behind layers of clouds.

Soon, a fine spring rain began to fall in gentle, persistent threads, making the bustling city seem all the more hurried. Some passersby, already prepared, opened their umbrellas with practiced ease, strolling leisurely through the curtain of rain. Others, caught off guard by this sudden drizzle, held briefcases above their heads and hurried toward the tram station or the nearest office building.

A young woman with beautiful, long black hair stood beneath the eaves of a shop along the shopping street, her violet eyes betraying weariness and uncertainty. Recently, she had been so absorbed in her work that she hadn’t bothered checking the weather forecast.

As a soon-to-be graduate of Soka University’s literature department, she had, thanks to her excellent grades, respectable on-campus record, and skill with words, managed to secure a position as an editor (on probation) at Immortal River Press just a month ago.

The girl who once dreamed of making her debut as an author ultimately lacked the resolve to pursue that path and settled for becoming an editor instead. Native to Chiba, she had come to Tokyo a few years ago. Though she had braced herself for it, she was still taken aback by the city’s splendor and the high cost of living.

During her time at university, she juggled more than two part-time jobs at any given time. Now, with graduation imminent, she was about to become what the country infamously called a “corporate drone,” a term notorious even beyond Japan’s shores.

Though she wore a touch of makeup, it couldn’t conceal the fatigue etched on her face. Gritting her teeth, she pulled her clothes tighter and plunged into the rain, soon vanishing at the end of the street.

...

In a certain apartment in Chiyoda Ward, its current occupant had just returned home.

To make her internship easier, she had rented a studio apartment not far from her workplace. Standing in the entryway, she closed the door, peeled off her rain-soaked uniform, twisted out the water, and brushed aside strands of wet hair clinging to her cheeks, revealing a delicate, pretty face.

A soft meow echoed from the living room.

A sleek black cat with glossy fur padded quietly over, leapt onto the shoe rack, and flicked her cheek with its tail.

A smile, rare and sincere, bloomed on the girl’s face, as if the fatigue of the day had melted away. She reached out, and the black cat obligingly leapt into her arms, only to yelp and wriggle free, hopping to the floor and shaking its fur.

“Pfft—Curry, you’re still so afraid of water,” she said gently, her soft voice filling the quiet room.

The black cat let out a disgruntled meow, turned its back, and marched off to the living room.

She slipped off her shoes and followed, still smiling.

Though called a living room, it was, in this single room apartment, merely a shared space for both bedroom and lounge. One of the only two aspects of the place that satisfied her was the small, separate kitchen, where she could indulge her love of cooking—though, most nights, she cooked only for herself.

She took milk from the fridge and poured it into a tiny dish set aside for the cat. Curry approached just in time, gave a few soft meows, nuzzled her hand, and began to lap at the milk.

She watched the cat eat for a moment, smiling all the while. Then she stood, walked to the wardrobe, took out a change of clothes, and headed for the bathroom.

Despite being a studio, the apartment boasted a bathroom with a bathtub—the other aspect she particularly liked.

After shampooing and rinsing thoroughly, she sank into the hot water she’d drawn earlier, letting out a long, contented sigh. With eyes half-closed, she emptied her mind and savored this rare moment of relaxation.

Yet, as someone with work still waiting, such relaxation could not last.

Before long, she stood and left the bath, her slender figure—slighter than most girls her age—unveiled. Stepping out, she dried herself with a towel, pulled on a simple T-shirt and long pants, drained the tub, tossed her laundry into the washing machine, and, with a solemn expression, made her way to the wardrobe in the combined living and sleeping area.

From it, she took out a Gothic Lolita dress, intricately adorned with lace and ruffles—enough to make anyone doing laundry sigh in dismay.

With practiced hands, she changed into the outfit, then put in red contact lenses. At last, she donned a cat mask, paused for a few seconds, then removed it—the transformation instant and dramatic.

Where moments before she’d appeared a delicate, traditional Yamato Nadeshiko, she now exuded the eccentric, mischievous aura of a self-styled queen of darkness, brimming with adolescent flair.

From somewhere, she produced candles. Lifting the floor cushion revealed a carved hexagram. Wasn’t this, perhaps, an act of property damage?

She set out the candles with care, lighting each in turn, then drew the curtains and switched off the lights.

The black cat, unperturbed, curled up in its bed, watching her antics with the weary gaze reserved for foolish humans.

Once preparations were complete, she knelt devoutly before the array, hands crossed over her chest, and muttered strange incantations.

When her prayer ended, she rose and, by the flickering candlelight, began a bizarre dance.

Inevitably, she tripped over herself and fell flat.

Lying on the floor, she sneered, “So, you intend to disrupt my ritual as well? But it’s useless! As the Queen of the Night, I won’t lose my dark powers over such a trivial annoyance!”

She clambered up, rubbed her bruised knee, and gamely resumed her unfinished ceremony.

Once all the oddities were done, she flipped the lights back on and extinguished the candles—though she left the curtains drawn.

She removed the Gothic Lolita dress, took out the contact lenses, and slipped back into her casual clothes. Entering the bathroom, she hung the freshly washed clothes to dry, let out a long sigh, and fetched the laptop she’d bought years ago.

While waiting for it to boot, she scooped up the black cat, settled it on her lap, and began her work.

She checked her phone, replied to a message from her senior, Sonoko Machida, on LINE, and started reviewing the latest submissions.

With each uninspired or weakly written manuscript, she muttered in exasperation, “When will I ever encounter a work like Professor Kasashiko’s ‘Love Metronome’ again?”

And so began another long night of reviewing.

The night stretched on. Fine rain and soft wind tapped gently and silently on every heart exposed to the rain-soaked darkness.