I have been existing lately.

That’s the first thought that came to Riko’s mind when an old high school friend called unexpectedly. It was one in the morning. Weirdly enough, he was on the other side of the world, which meant he just woke up to the rising sun of Chicago.

—I work as a software engineer, it’s cool, he muttered with a laugh.

She was laying on the sofa, her body upside down.

Why did he call. We weren’t even that close.

The TV screen was overpoweringly bright. People from a late night soap were gesturing and shouting, their mouths not making any heard sounds.

The fruit bowl in front of her was untouched and work clothes, papers and random sticky notes were scattered on the floor. The lights were off and she felt her head buzzing from all the blood gathered in it.

She took a deep breath and stood up.

—How about you, Riko ? You barely said a word.

Hearing her name for the first time in years made her heart stutter. Teammates only called her by her last name, Konoyashi. Never Riko.

—How are you doing ?

—Never been better.

From the dry, matter-of-factly tone with which she pronounced the verdict, she surprised herself with how cold her accent had become. She was germanized.

—Where are you at ?

Why is he still speaking English.

—Germany, research team at the nano tech lab of a uni. Life is good.

Those fragments of speech were bitter to pronounce. Riko coughed :

—You ever went back to home ?

The man sighed :

—I am actually planning to make this my home, Riko. I no longer feel welcomed at Hokkaido, you know.

Riko instinctively hang off. The phone slipped from her grip and made a little sound while hitting the floor. Her hand reached to open the large window. The small apartment had the worst aeration, most apartments in Munich did. Riko felt strangely uncomfortable all of a sudden. She felt like she was a stranger, in the living room of her apartment.

She was struck by the memory of her migration, and once the tape played in her head, she always found herself overwhelmed by a sudden wave of grief and melancholy.

Nostalgia, the despicable feeling that you belong to the past and that the present is just an illusion. She could hear the voices again whispering in her ear.

—I don’t have any milk, she said, her voice loud enough to be heard. I should go get some.

Riko took her wallet and left the house. Her long heels pierced the air with their sounds, and the staircase felt like a never-ending loop. Elevators weren’t safe at night, she thought to herself.

Once she stepped outside Riko felt rain droplets shatter on her head.

It’s raining in mid June.

She didn’t rush her steps nor did she choose to get a taxi. She just walked and walked under the rain, hoping that the rain will wash out the thing she felt.

She called it a thing because she couldn’t get herself to name it.

Riko had become everything she ever wanted. She got the prestigious job she dreamed of, the salary no one could get those days, a good apartment in the richest part of Munich.

And mostly, she paved her way in Germany, her dream country.

But she still feels empty. Work, work had eaten all her days and nights. Work and good grades for her master degree and teammates problems and keeping up with the latest fashions her friends wear and trying to impress her male colleges and paying taxes and struggling to fit in a culturally absurd environment and …

—Watch out, coward !

She startled and fell off before a motorcycle could hit her. She stayed on the wet ground, in the middle of the street. Riko couldn’t get herself to stand up. She faced the sky and felt the salty droplets fiercely hit her face and eyes. She was drowning and there was no one to help.

—You’ll catch a cold. someone yelled from a nearby shop.

She stood up and trembled in her red dress. It was a very ugly dress, something Old Riko would never wear. But she didn’t have anything for her first date night. A night that ended in an argument like all the others.

Riko looked for a telephone cabinet. She found one in a dark corner.

She pushed herself in and closed the door.

Her hands were blue from the cold and her heart was beating out of control.

She hadn’t called home since she graduated. Six years ago.

But she still could remember the number. … 23. 43. 56 and …

—Hello ?

She waited a few seconds before a strange male voice could answer her.

—Moshi Moshi ?

She almost gasped and then she tried to remember the fragments of Japanese :

—Excuse me, she said in the most broken accent. Is this Sanata Konoyashi’s home ?

The man sighed. Riko felt like she was wasting his time and wanted to apologize.

—No but actually this is the home she used to live in.

Used to.

—Well sorry to bother you but I am her grand-daughter. Can I get her new address…

The man sighed again.

—Sorry ma’am. Your grand-mother passed away.