1964 was an interesting year—if you had the luxury of paying attention. She did, now. Between the Olympics chatter, Vietnam on the broadcasts, and the Beatles leaking into every café radio, the world wouldn't let her forget it.
Guess that was fitting. It had been almost a year since she arrived here, to a land that was once her enemy, now her home. The seasons had come and gone, and somehow she stayed. Time did what time does.
There was a steady stream of visitors from the Americas, Europe, and other parts of Asia, and Haneda had been bustling with activity, as planes and jets landed from all over the world.
The arriving Pan Am Clippers were nostalgic to watch. The rides on the recently opened monorail were worth it. Funny, she used to watch the skies only for threats, but her warrior instincts were now dulled by the quiet life.
She drew curious glances from foreigners. The hakama did it. No—too neat. The way she stood, maybe. Like she was waiting for a briefing.
The garments were never plain, but never fancy either. Hakama, in particular, had a utilitarian elegance to them—structured, modest, but dignified. She wasn't a fancy person, and certainly had never been, and it wasn't in her plans to become one, even after she shed the soldier's mindset (with effort). Mikasa and her sister ships had taught her that much through the gift.
She didn't quite understand the meaning behind each design, but appreciated the work and skill that had gone into them. So did many locals, who'd given her appreciative nods.
One last look at the jets. What would it feel like flying on one?
But where would she go anyway?
She didn't regret coming here, to the land of former adversaries.
***
Another shift, another night.
Grim, once her eyes on the battlefield, was perched atop the counter, watching with his sharp gaze, his wings occasionally fluttering. A small bowl of fresh mackerel sat nearby.
Her cook and lone server wouldn't be coming in for a few more hours. She had enough time to clean up and maybe even pour herself a drink—not the nihonshu. Something else.
Flair. Grace.
Atago's idea about hospitality.
Pouring out of her mind like the drink from the bottle.
Atago was a good enough teacher that even someone as socially inept as her picked it up quickly, even though her lessons tended to be a little embarrassing. Pretending to be a patron was one thing, but being coy with her was another.
Always treat serving like it's your first date. It was a baffling line of thinking, and she had no idea where Atago came up with it. Apparently, it only made sense when one was as outgoing as she was.
That means give your all, darling.
Or so Atago had said, anyway.
And didn't she always give her all?
But not as a warrior anymore. A friend willing to learn and listen.
So, she'd been keeping her eyes and ears open.
The TV clicked on. The 100-yen monthly license was a mild inconvenience compared to how it kept customers planted on the counter. Longer stays, more orders. She smacked a corner when it acted up. She could replace the Toshiba. Preferably not with another secondhand set.
The fuzzy screen flickered, then cut into the Tōkaidō Shinkansen zooming past Fuji-san in a silver blur. The Americans always stared at it. So had she, the first time.
No train had any right to look like that. Like a sci-fi reel on tracks. Maybe moved like a rocket, too. One regular raved about getting to Osaka in just a few hours.
Like the country was, wasn't it? Outrunning its past—faster than she'd ever managed.
All this, in just two decades after the war.
She didn't begrudge them. There was nothing to begrudge, nothing at all.
Saejima-san came in a little before dusk, just as he always did, moving like someone who'd spent years working in cramped galleys. Everything in its place, no motion wasted.
The place smelled like home—or what a home ought to smell like if she'd ever had one—as the aroma of prepped ingredients wafted from the kitchen.
Yamatani was getting ready to work, putting on the apron like it was a hachimaki—with conviction—all while humming Hibari Misora, that somehow segued into The Beatles mid-song.
Inspiring, that earnestness for a dream. Very Earhart.
Between them and Grim's occasional squawk, the izakaya felt less like a business and more like…a small crew. A ship that never sailed, but still had its rhythm.
The bell above the door jingled. No need to look. Only one man in Tokyo drawled "Evenin', Skipper" like that.
Same easy grin, same Carolina sun in his voice, now wearing a suit instead of a flight jacket, peace sitting on him like it had finally decided to stay.
"Howdy, Jerry," she shushed Grim with a quiet snap of her fingers. "The usual?"
"If y'please."
She slid an ice-cold Coke his way. She'd yet to find another place that'd hand a man a Coke like it was nothing. Most Americans came for novelty; Jerry came for the quiet.
"Thank ya kindly," he tipped his glass like it was a toast.
"Karaage'll be out soon."
"Always takin' good care of me."
"Someone's got to."
On the TV, the Olympic torch relay was winding through the countryside, all white uniforms and cheering crowds. The whole world would be watching soon.
Jerry nodded toward the screen. "Hard to believe, huh? The country we bombed to bits twenty years ago—now we're drinkin' here like old pals."
She paused, polishing a glass. "Maybe war just makes peace feel like a miracle."
"Or maybe folks just get tired of fightin'."
"Amen to that," she murmured.
"Well, the Games and how they rebuild are gonna be something people coming here talk about, that's for sure," Jerry nursed his Coke. "Security's been tighter ever since the ambassador got stabbed. Can't even sneeze without someone checking your papers. But he's recovered, so it's all good. Got any more of this? I'm feeling like drowning in sugar and caffeine tonight."
She gave him some more, and the door opened, signaling another customer. She smiled at the newcomer, and the newcomer smiled back, scratching his cheek as he did.
The Yokota airman again, here to spend his off days in Tokyo as he always did, traveling a distance of 24 miles just to spend his time in a quiet neighborhood instead of Roppongi or more exciting places.
For someone, maybe. Or just the quiet. Either way—she poured, he paid, nobody asked questions.
"Welcome, airman."
"Thank you, Skipper."
Ever so polite and a little shy, his sandy-brown hair slicked back and his cologne not too strong. He'd either vanish after his meal, or linger. She'd seen both.
Soon after that, it was Kanzaki-san who showed up, clutching a newspaper. Her fourth visit. Or maybe fifth.
"Okami-san," she bowed, and received a smile.
This time, she kept her distance from the two Americans at the counter, instead choosing a seat at the corner and a newspaper as her companion. Yamatani went over to get her orders.
No, not just that. They talked about that new overpass above Nihonbashi, which a lot of the locals were not happy about, as well as the ongoing talks with South Korea.
At least they grumbled. Back home, old neighborhoods had been torn down to make way for clean, efficient, and forgettable highways. There was no outcry for the so-called progress. Here, people still fought and remembered what they lost. She hoped they would keep doing that.
And just now, the NHK had moved from the preparations for the Games and was now showing coverage of Vietnam.
And with it, echoes, memories.
Midway, Guadalcanal, Leyte Gulf. Lethal rounds lighting up the darkness.
A knot was twisting in her chest, growing taut.
Kanzaki-san looked at the TV for a few moments, then went back to her newspaper, her fists clenching on her lap.
She shook her head, as did Jerry and the airman. Even Grim seemed to bristle.
How would the war have gone, had the KANSENs she knew been involved? Her own ship had been scrapped just a few years back, and the attempt to preserve her had failed. The successor, a nuclear-powered marvel, had just been commissioned.
But the age of the KANSENs had ended. "Ethical concerns and other considerations" had led the powers-that-be to decide that no more would come to be, one way or another. She didn't make the decision, was not asked about it. Maybe for the best.
And so here she was, an old warrior, a relic of a bygone era, in an era where people looked into the future. Cautiously. Optimistically.
The door opened again with a loud creak. She smirked at the newcomer.
"Grey Ghost! I came here to challenge you to—"
"Serve you the damn best meal you'll have all week. Sit down, Zuikaku, and don't bother anyone else."
Zuikaku grinned sheepishly and scratched her head, Grim giving her a side eye. Behind her was Atago, still carrying herself with pleasant coyness, with Takao trailing silently, looking around the establishment. Her face gave nothing away, but there was no malice.
"Enty-chan, it's nice to see you, darling."
"Atago. Glad to see you, too."
The three filed in, filling the rest of the counter seats, and Kanzaki-san paused at seeing two KANSENs up close. The pause said enough. The airman was quietly eating, but Jerry was regarding them with familiarity.
"Evenin', ladies," he greeted, tipping an imaginary hat.
"Ohoho, such manners, and from a handsome man no less," Atago, ever the charmer, giggled into her hand. Takao merely nodded and returned her attention to her menu.
"Good evening," replied Zuikaku, a little too cheerily.
"Where is your sister?" she asked. Odd for Zuikaku to come without Shoukaku.
"Oh, she doesn't feel like coming. Says she's tired," Zuikaku shrugged. "She sends her regards."
"Ah," she nodded, then glanced at the television, which was now showing coverage of the Japanese athletes training hard for the upcoming Olympics. "Ready to order?"
"Oh, oh, how about 'joining us in the next outing,' darling? That would be splendid!"
"Uh...I'm...afraid that's not on the menu."
"Boo."
"Atago, don't force her if she doesn't want to."
Always reasonable, that Takao.
"Alright, alright," Atago huffed, though she was still smiling. "But you're missing out on all the fun, Enty-chan."
"Didn't I join you guys on that trip to Korakuen?" She set the plates she received from Saejima-san. Zuikaku immediately grabbed her chopsticks, while Takao, as reserved as she was, did the same.
"Once," Atago said, pouting, but not seriously. "You can't possibly be working the entire time."
"I don't, don't worry about that," she slipped another glass for the airman, who had finished his drink. He was red-faced, probably from the alcohol.
"It's not about that," Atago continued, "it's about...being with people. Friends. It's what makes life more fulfilling, you know. Being with others. Having fun. Living a little."
"Hmm..."
"You know, darling, maybe you need to stretch out more."
Some practical advice from Atago. That was new.
"I stretch plenty. I do radio taisō every morning."
Atago's smile was now a grin.
"No, no. Not your legs, silly. Your heart."
A beat. A blink.
"...That's not how anatomy works."
Atago waved a hand, totally unbothered. "That's why it works, sweetheart. If you don't stretch your heart once in a while, it gets stiff. Brittle. Then one day you try to laugh or fall in love and—" she made an exaggerated snapping motion with her chopsticks "—crack."
Another bizarre analogy to wrap her head around. While she was doing just that, Atago turned toward where the airman was sitting, giving him pause.
"Don't you think so, kiddo?"
The airman straightened like he had been called to the bridge by God.
"Uh...yes, ma'am. Stretching's real important."
Atago smirked. "See? He gets it. You should listen to your regulars more."
She gave Atago a long, hard look, then glanced at the airman, who had gone back to eating and avoiding her gaze.
"And hey, you enjoyed that Ferris wheel trip, right? The lights of the city were beautiful, you said so yourself."
She sighed, but it was more of a good-natured one as she reminisced about that outing. From above, she saw a city rebuilt from ashes and rubble, a city that was growing and getting bigger and stronger, even after a war that had almost destroyed it. For a moment, the past was distant, and the future was a bright glow that had filled her heart. She slept better that night, remembering the shining skyline.
"So?" Atago pressed, a mischievous grin on her face.
"Don't tell me you are scared, Grey Ghost," Zuikaku piped in, cheeks stuffed with meat, before pushing Grim away as he lunged to snatch a piece of chicken from her plate.
"Not in the slightest. And it's rude to talk with your mouth full, Zui," she replied, though there was no heat behind the words.
Zuikaku's response was an audible gulp and an embarrassed expression.
"Then, how about it, darling? You, me, my sister, Zui, and maybe even Shoukaku-chan? We can invite some others too, and have a grand ol' time."
Another sigh, then a shrug.
"Okay."
"Yay! I knew you'd say yes."
The beaming smile was a small consolation to the burning village on the TV screen. She reached for the set to turn it off, then tuned in to the AFN's Far East Network instead. There was a static that preceded the opening riff to a familiar tune, and Jerry hummed along, tapping his finger.
Ella Fitzgerald's voice filled the room, and she smiled. The others were listening, and the airman was bobbing his head and tapping his foot. Even Kanzaki-san stopped reading to take in the song, her posture relaxing.
More regulars were coming in, and the evening crowd was getting busy, as usual. She had to keep her hands and feet moving. Another student from Waseda who was less radical, an elderly woman who lost her son to the Pacific, and a salaryman who was probably a little too tired and a little too stressed to go back home.
New businessmen, curious reporters, a young woman bringing along bags from Seibu, and a veteran from Kure who knew who she was but never held her past against her. People come and go, faces fading in and out. Laughter, tired sighs. Names remembered in one go, or after a few visits. All warmth the same.
She didn't question it. She needed it to be true.
The AFN was now broadcasting sports highlights, and Jerry cheered when he learned that the Yankees had taken out the Tigers. It reminded her of her crew huddled together around the radio, listening to a bit of home.
Some things never changed, but a lot did.
The drinks kept flowing. The banter and exchange of pleasantries and understanding were frequent. The food was hot, and the place was warm.
The news would come again. It always did. But it was in the past.
They were the future. At least, she wanted to believe. Hard enough to make it a reality.
"Okami-san," Kanzaki-san began, already prepared to go.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for the meal."
"Anytime."
A pause, then a small smile. "Have a good evening, Okami-san."
"You too, Kanzaki-san."
The door opened and closed. Jerry got up, stretched his legs, and thanked her for the food and drink. He left a 1,000 yen tip—a considerable sum—and told her to have a good night.
Takao was discussing something with the veteran, while Atago and Zuikaku were talking about something, their voices drowned by the chatter, the music, and the sound of cooking and dishes clanking. It didn't matter, anyway. She was focused on pouring drinks, serving, and making sure Grim didn't make a mess.
The night wore on. The regulars were leaving. Some would come back, and some would probably not. Some would stay and be friendly, and some would stay and be awkward.
The airman looked at his watch and frowned. He shuffled in his seat before standing up and paying his bill. He had a faraway look clouding his eyes.
"See you later, Skipper," he said, and left.
"Be safe."
He was already gone when she said that.
Atago, Takao, and Zuikaku—who had just finished her third serving of food—were getting ready to leave, too.
"It was a pleasure seeing you, darling. Don't forget about our plans."
Takao, already by the door, looked outside at the sky.
"You might want to come out and see this, Enterprise."
"What's going on?"
"Come out and see for yourself," Takao gestured.
Curious, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked outside, Zuikaku and Atago following behind.
An exceptionally clear night sky hung above, a sea of stars and constellations spread out above her, glittering. The moon was almost full, shining brightly, and the Milky Way was visible.
"Oh wow. Takao-chan, who would have thought you were into stargazing," Atago remarked, looking up as well.
Takao shrugged, not bothering to refute her sister's remark.
"And look, there's a comet. Can you see it?" Zuikaku pointed up, tracing a line across the sky. "Up there, near the Big Dipper."
She followed the line, and there it was, passing like a tracer round against the dark.
"Ah, I see it."
"A good sign, darling," Atago commented.
Atago's hands on her shoulders gently nudged her forward. "Don't keep finding bad things to worry about, okay?"
"Thanks, Atago. I won't."
Atago squeezed her shoulder and let go.
"It's been a wonderful night. We'll see you soon, okay? Nighty night, Enty-chan."
"Next time I'll get you for real, Grey Ghost," Zuikaku added, a daring, competitive gleam in her eyes. Takao nodded and offered a small, rare smile.
"Good night, Enterprise. Take care."
"Good night, Takao-san. You too."
The three left, and she went inside, back to empty seats and empty tables.
Yamatani had finished cleaning and changing, and Saejima-san was smoking and enjoying a cup of tea.
"Thank you for today, you two."
"Of course, okami-san," Yamatani beamed, before yawning. "I'll see you next time."
She waved goodbye and was off. Luckily, her house was nearby, and she needed no escorts even this late.
Saejima-san finished his tea, then stubbed his cigarette against the ashtray.
"Left ya a plate of karaage in the kitchen," he said. "Ya haven't had dinner yet."
"Oh?"
"Eat up, boss," he chuckled, patting her on the shoulder. "Least I can do for someone who helped a fellow soldier. Makes me feel useful again, and that's enough. See ya tomorrow."
He left, too, leaving her alone with the dishes and the empty izakaya.
Grim was almost dozing off, belly full of the handouts her regulars left him.
Where the airman once sat, there was a note and a charm. She picked up the paper, folded with meticulous creases and precision, and gave it a look. The handwriting was neat and precise, not very soldier-like.
She glanced at the charm, then back at the note, then shook her head and chuckled.
"This...isn't shōbai-hanjō."
Looking at it more closely, her cheeks warmed and she scratched her cheek and shook her head again.
She had lived here long enough to recognize a kanai anzen when she saw one. Of course. He must've mixed them up. No need to look too hard beyond that.
And though it was strange, a small part of her was glad.
"Maybe I need to stretch out a little, huh," she mumbled, putting the note and the charm inside her drawers, joining medals and old photographs, things that warmed her heart.
It was a wish from a hopeful heart.
She would honor it.
Like the comet tracing a gentle arc across the heavens, she would continue to move forward, into the light.
The light that remained even when she closed her eyes.
Back then, she'd watched this same sky, still unsure if she belonged here.
Tonight? Not anymore.