Epilogue: Hisashi Mitsui

…

Ryota Miyagi's recent rise to fame makes the prospect of meeting him disheartening. More than that, the all too great possibility of broaching the subject of Hisashi Mitsui has grown far more dreaded than ever, right from the moment Miyagi's invitation graced my eyes. I can count all the reasons in my mind to turn down the meeting request, to be absolved of the past which hounds me like no other. But for these reasons will I exactly find myself finally knocking on the door of my old friend.

…

When Miyagi opens the gates for me, the whole expanse of his sprawling mansion comes to arrest me entirely.

"Sempai."

"Miyagi-kun."

The embrace we're exchanging runs longer than bearable. In truth, it's hard to stand the nearness, perhaps because that is enough to relive in my mind what I have been trying to quench all these years.

"Come. I've had dinner served upstairs, in my office."

I follow him en route to his quarters, all the while marveling at the wealth then and there prevailing in his bachelor pad. Inside his equally arresting office, he draws an armchair, and motions at me to take a seat. Installing himself across me, he makes a gesture toward the variety of courses laid out in front of us. Before long, dinner commences.

"How are you, old friend?"

"Same old me; same old duty that is quarterbacking." He forces a laugh, which reminds me of the smirk he used to always wear. No one really did that as frequently as he used to, during those times we hung around the grounds of Shohoku High.

"Congrats upon entering the semifinals."

"Congrats for hitting sales record with your latest issue."

I give a mild smile, which, I think, is by far the most fit reaction to any remark he may make henceforth. But that will not be the case, as we both will soon learn. Because the last thing I need at the moment is a marathon of digression and beating around the bush, I preside over the subject that's supposed to gratify our separate consciences. Hanging by the end of my tether, I begin to speak,

"Have you been hearing from any of the guys?"

I do not know which of the nine words I have just spoken is responsible for making this enormous difference in his bearing. All I can guess is, my query is something he initially anticipated but fails to receive with the necessary ease. His posture slackens in time, maybe to accommodate the small words he has to utter next,

"It's for that reason that I asked you to come. Sempai, I need to show you something."

For one blinking moment my mind courses through a cavernous avenue, whose odd corners seem to imply the presence of specific person. How profoundly unexpected of Ryota to be the one to take up action regarding our past is what's taking up most of my brain space now. In the next moment, I find relief in not being left long in suspense, for my companion has roused to his feet to fetch something from the drawer behind him. Suddenly my heart is pounding. Just why am I having this sinking feeling that he's going to show something that's bound to steal the breath out of me?

"What is it, Ryota?"

He shoots me a troubled glance. In that action am I made certain that whatever it is that's going to greet my eyes in the following minutes will eventually concern the very person who, after his irrevocable disappearance, has failed to vacate his residency in our minds, in our hearts. Unfortunately, knowing at least that much does not prevent my composure from buckling. Before long, Ryota is booting his laptop. And now I find myself staring at a screen, whose display is sporting a snapshot of an assembly of some sort. Looking closely, I make out it's one of the thousands of press-released photos of a specific public demonstration which took place in recent years. The demonstration, if I remember correctly, was instigated by a nonconformist figure who was on his way to political leadership—until he was shot dead. Nevertheless, the determined faces swarming in front of him reek of nothing but spirit, unity.

"Here."

"That's in Libya. Two years ago. The man who organized this event was assassinated."

"Sempai, look closely."

Ryota then indicates a spot in the sea of indistinct faces on the photo image. The tip of his pen taps on a head of a civilian onlooker amid the throng of people gathered right in front of the platform. The person in question had no one standing in front of him when the photo was taken, so that the whole expanse of his frame can be discerned. I lean closer, close enough to distinguish the expression on the face without having to adjust my glasses.

And then my mind does a double take.

The sight of his face atop his broad shoulders, though blurred in as many pixels as there are clear ones, goes through me like a knife. If there is one thing that's presently preserving my wits from tottering, it's my astonishment. Nevertheless, there he is, a face so distinctly serene ahead of the clamorous facial contortions surrounding him from every direction. With hardly the same effort I would exert to read a warning sign, I recognize the very same profundity of expression I was made to endure in that bygone era of this utter blandness I call my life. Who else so separate, so utterly firm and alert, as if listening with everything he has, holds his posture like this? If this shot was taken two years back, he would be twenty-six years old at that time. Despite that, his features hardly underwent change. He still had this icy, fearsome beauty. Even a thousand layers of photo filters cannot conceal the fact that this head, this slender figure, and this bearing all belong to Hisashi Mitsui, for whom I desperately and silently yearn.

"My god…Hisashi." I whisper, my voice hardly audible.

"Rukawa emailed this to me last week. Apparently, he came across this while researching. He and Hanamichi have been debating over sending this image to all of us. In the end, they both decided to send it to me, Mito and Kiyota, but not to you. They insist you don't need this kind of disturbance, what with you being a writer and all…"

Ryota is smiling weakly. Without having to rummage into the deepest recesses of my faculties, I'm coming to know that in Ryota Miyagi, a superstar quarterback, there lives still the very same boyish dreams we slowly fostered within that buried chapter of both our lives. These dreams, these little embers, perhaps will go on burning, will go on flickering as if to die with the slightest of breaths, only to reignite in another day. With my voice now nearly entirely gone, I choke back the lump in my throat.

"It's really him."

"Yes, he lives, and not only here." Ryota places a palm on his chest, where beneath his shirt the V-shaped scar refuses to fade.

The view of the horizon outside the window takes on a new light. Slowly, the last streaks of orange clouds are forcing me to remember everything I have until now pushed back at the back of my awareness, to finally come to terms with the truth that Hisashi Mitsui embodied my entire youth, to shape me into what I am now. For all I know, this is the very same sky which came to witness what the seven vengeful, and yet nevertheless ambitious, boys have come to be. In this same sense, it also came to witness everything these boys have failed to achieve. And yet existing inside the same dome that was the universe is perhaps the closest thing I can ever get to being with him again. Somehow none of that matters anymore. Here now in the end, I start to realize what the remaining six of us have always been. I realize we never really changed, nor will. Relentless, unyielding in our separate attempts to keep him alive-him who taught us what life is-we are what he intended us to be all along; uncorrupted, untouched, unalterable all because of him. No matter how hard time tries to annul this identity, we will remain the same. We will never, ever, forget.

We are the nameless dreamers of Kanagawa. We are Vault. We are Hisashi Mitsui.

Hisashi, I know you're alive. I know you are out there. If you are reading this, come back home. Come back to us. Come back to Vault.

END