Koizumi made his decision at the bottom of the 8th. The Yakult Swallows were behind on the board, insipid at the plate and it was highly unlikely that anything would change in the ninth to save them from this mauling. Moreover, it was April, still only the second week of the baseball season, and unlike summer when the evenings held their heat, the warmth of the day had quickly dissipated into the clear spring night. He made a mental note to remember a jacket if he was to return to the Meiji Jingu bleachers that early next season. He farewelled his friends, slipped out of the stadium and headed towards Gaienmae Station. Getting there before the end-of-game rush would mean a quieter station platform, although it was a Friday night, so there was no telling what to expect.

  He found an empty seat in the second carriage of the next train and sat, intending to rest his eyes for the quick trip to Shibuya. A brief last glance around the carriage halted that idea. She was sitting directly opposite him. A beauty. A goddess. She was everything he had ever found attractive in a woman. Eyes shut; her head swayed rhythmically to the pulse of the train. He looked away. He tried to look anywhere but straight ahead, but how could he not? How could he resist an occasional glance at perfection, the long black hair, pale skin, red lips, wearing little to no makeup. She wore a tight-fitting black dress cut off just above her pressed-together knees, with a high neckline that concealed any view of her chest. Thankfully so. Her slender hands lay on her lap, holding a black handbag. What was she doing taking the train? At the very least she should have been in a taxi. Was she asleep? If so, she surely wouldn’t mind him taking an occasional glance. He didn’t want to wake her and certainly didn’t dare to interact with her. He just wanted to gaze upon the beauty that chance had set before him, to behold the work of the wondrous god who had perfected its craft in this single creation.

  Shibuya Station was quickly approaching; the end of the line. He would transfer to the Denentoshi Line to continue home but decided to let her out of the carriage first just to see where she would go. There was no harm in that. As long as he didn’t diverge off his intended route then he could hardly be accused of pursuing her. She opened her eyes as the train came to a halt, and stood with timely precision to the opening of the carriage doors. He fell in a few paces behind her. He studied her movements as she passed along the platform, flowing like a black ribbon on a warm breeze. She headed through the ticket gates and turned left, away from the JR Line and the underground. Could she be heading toward the Denentoshi Line? Koizumi, heart fluttering, dropped further back. That was as far as he would take the game. There was no point pursuing the unattainable.

  She climbed the first flight of stairs and turned the corner to the next flight, tripping and tumbling on the first step. Koizumi froze, thoughts scrambling to reason how something so flawless could falter. She fell forward onto the stairs and in thrusting out her hands to break her fall, her handbag was flung off, its contents clattering about the stairs beneath her. Snapping out of his shock Koizumi leapt forward. He would have done it for anyone.

  "Are you alright?" he stuttered, as he scurried around gathering up her scattered accessories. She slowly righted herself, sitting above him on the steps, her hands over her face. Try as he might to keep his eyes lowered, he couldn't help but glance at her momentarily exposed inner thigh. He tore his eyes away, embarrassed to have looked, compromising her dignity after she’d fallen. Had she seen him, looking between her fingers? Probably had. She slowly lowered her hands, her features returned to their perfect norm, and for a moment let her dark eyes fall on him.

  “That looked painful. Are you sure you are ok?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you,” she replied.

  Koizumi was reserved by nature but also knew that when opportunity knocks, it is best to answer the door. He offered her his right hand and placing both of her hands into it, he pulled her to her feet, noticing that her hands were unscathed by the fall. She began brushing down her clothes, and as she did so he pulled out his wallet and produced his last remaining business card, which he placed into her handbag before passing it to her.

  “My name is Koizumi. Look, if you need help, or, you know, anything like that, please give me a call. My number is on the card.” He managed to hold her eyes as he spoke, even as he felt the rush of blood in his cheeks. She was stunning, even now. More so than before, he thought.

  “Thank you,” she replied giving him a slight bow. With that, she turned away and climbed up the stairs.

  Koizumi stood still and watched her go. Once she disappeared a smile formed and then widened on his face. Who did he think he was? Like she would ever call him. In a game governed by divisions, he was playing little league and she was in the majors. He’d probably got off lightly just having her turn and walk away. Why had he given her his card? Giving his head a humoured shake, he resumed his walk to the connecting train.

  Lining up, he briefly checked around himself, relieved not to see her. He boarded the local Denentoshi train and sunk into a vacant seat. He glanced up and down the carriage, confirmed her absence, and shut his eyes, intending to nap for the 30-minute ride to his home station. However, after passing a few stops and with sleep not coming, he opened his eyes and reached into his jean pocket for his phone. That’s when he saw her, under the brim of his Swallows cap, standing with her back to him at the doors on the opposite side. All he could see were her calves, the feet recognisable in the raised heels and pointed-toe black shoes. How’d she got there? She must have walked up the train through the connecting carriage doors. But why? Had she come to make him squirm, to roll her eyes at him, or to out him as a peeping Tom? He quickly glanced up, confirming it was her, seeing her reflection in the window. He looked down, pulling the cap lower over his head.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Stations came and went, the carriage slowly emptying, but she remained standing in the doorway. Seats became available, but she showed no interest in sitting. He kept his eyes on his phone, paying no attention to what was on the screen, raising his vision every minute or so to glance at her feet. Another station and she didn’t disembark. He lowered his eyes, and when he raised them again, she had disappeared. Gone. He tentatively craned his head forward examining the seats up and down the carriage. Gone. But she hadn’t got off at the previous station. She must have walked back down the train, as there was no other possible explanation. He exhaled, releasing the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  The next stop was his; Suginuma Station. He disembarked and stood briefly beside the train scanning for her. He could see two-thirds of the length of the platform, and thankfully she was nowhere in that picture. As the train pulled away he turned toward the exit, taking the steps two at a time. By halfway home he was humming a quiet melody as he strolled along dimly lit back streets, enjoying the solitude, his thoughts turning toward the weekend. Two sleep-ins and a chance to unwind. He’d pull the blankets up and over him.

  It was as he considered that idea, that the sensation of having something involuntarily pulled up and over him dawned on him. He glanced behind himself, saw nothing, rounded a corner and continued, not getting far before stopping again. This time he turned 360, inspecting the street. A sensation was growing. He was being watched, like a heat burning between his shoulder blades. The street was clear so he turned and continued, this time without the whistle. He quickened his pace, walking on the outside of his shoes for minimum volume. A panic surged within him, a sense that a malevolent hand was about to rip the shirt off his back. He spun around. Again nothing, just the dark suburban void. He pushed off, first walking backwards, then turning in circles to keep a watch on all angles. Then he stopped dead, lowered his head and listened. Silence. He glanced around. The road was deserted with two- and three-story houses standing thick on both sides, some with lights on, most with lights off. It was possible that someone was watching from a blackened window, and there probably was. That was all it was. He reminded himself that there were 12 million people in the city, so undoubtedly one of them could see him now.

  He’d just started to walk again when he abruptly ducked, raising both hands to cover his head. Something had swooped over him, like a bird of prey with soundless wings. He started to run, one block to go. He sprinted, checking behind himself every couple of strides. As he sighted his apartment entrance, a parked bicycle abruptly crashed down off its stand in front of him. He hurdled it, not stopping to ponder that it had fallen without anyone pushing it. He sprinted harder and reached the gate, just as a bonsai pot plant tumbled off the fence pillar and shattered at his feet. He leapt over the curb and through the gate and ran to the external stairs, hearing the gate slam shut behind him. He climbed three steps at a time while fishing the keys out of his pocket. He crossed the landing, inserted his key into the lock and squeezed through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. He scrambled to the far side of the one-room apartment, shoes still on, turned and eyed the door.

  Silence, except for Koizumi’s heart, which was thumping about in his rib cage. Then, as his body began to calm, he heard a faint sound, a scrapping, coming from the doorway. He squinted his ears, only to find the sound had ceased. Silence returned. Dead silence. He waited, counted seconds, waited some more and then edged back towards the doorway, which exited off the kitchenette. He soundlessly opened a top cupboard, took down a small glass and some cheap convenience store whiskey and poured a double shot. With that in hand, he tentatively peered through the peephole. Nothing. He put his eye closer, and still nothing out of the ordinary was visible. He took a sip of his drink. What had happened out there? Some of it could have been imagined, but then how to explain the bike falling or the pot plant crashing down? An earthquake? That wasn’t impossible, but if so, why had nothing within the apartment been disturbed? Whatever the case, he wasn’t yet willing to open the door. He stood still, alternating between sipping his drink and gazing out at the landing.

  Eventually, he heard the sound of feet on the stairs, the clunking echo of shoes on steel, and then footsteps approaching across the landing. Through the peephole, he saw it was a neighbour with his girlfriend in tow, the two softly talking as they walked past his apartment. If there was anything peculiar outside his door, those two had failed to bat an eyelid at it. It was time. Holding his breath, he delicately twisted the door handle. Peering through the crack he saw nothing unusual. He opened the door further, eased out onto the landing and inhaled the chilled air. As he hoped to be, he was entirely alone. He embraced the silence and stillness like a long-lost friend, thankful that whatever had occurred or visited had passed over. But as he turned to re-enter his flat his eyes caught sight of scratches on his door. In two sets, each comprising three claw-like scratches, running from the top of the door to the bottom. Then at the base of the door, lying on the concrete, was a single black feather, like that of a raven, beside a white card. He reached down and picked the items up, inspecting them both. As he turned the card over, his eyes squinted, his body became taut and the air stalled in his lungs. He reached out to the door handle for support but still dropped to his knees. Now motionless, he fixed his gaze on the card, comprehending the all too familiar name printed on it and the implication of it being so hastily returned to him.