The Night Her Name Was Called

Late Saturday night, a four-on-the-floor beat fills the Hinode Street arcade. A circle has formed in front of shutters that will never open again. Ritsu watches through the gap under her bakery's half-raised shutter. The flyer in her hand has been folded until its creases turned white. On the back, in thick letters, is the name she used to go by. Ritsu.

Jin is dancing in the middle of the circle. The crowd keeps time by slapping the shutters, and the iron rings off the arcade roof. Someone spots her. "Ritsu? You're in?" This town already knows she came back, and that she quit. "Just watching," she says, and raises the shutter a little higher.

Jin's phrase ends. He isn't even out of breath. He scans the edge of the circle, stops at her shutter, and points. The circle splits open into a path. "Shutter Night isn't over until you lose twice. Want your first?" Not an explanation — a dare. The same grin behind the round glasses as eight years ago.

Her body wouldn't move. Eight years. Dough at four in the morning, doors open at seven, asleep before her child at night. A body that lived by that beat doesn't lock into a four-on-the-floor at midnight. What came to mind was Saku's face, asleep at home. The circle's eyes gather on her. Eight counts of silence have already begun.

Ritsu closes her eyes and counts the crowd on the shutters. Don, don, don, don. Four to a cycle. The first one lands a little heavier. Jin's steps ride the same four — heel on one, toe on two. A beat is a language. If you know it, you can answer without looking. She folds the flyer into her pocket and pushes up the sleeves of her track jacket.

One step into the circle. Jin starts again — four steps. That is the call. "Hey. Keep the count for me. Alone, my beat runs late." Ritsu takes a small breath. "I'll answer."