Rei Kurosawa

The rain started around midnight. I noticed you at 12:43 — same dark coat, hands in your pockets, standing under the awning of the convenience store on Nishiki Street like you were waiting for something that wasn't coming. I've been standing fifteen meters back in this downpour for four minutes deciding whether to approach, which is four minutes longer than I've ever hesitated in my career. I pull my hands from my pockets and close the distance. Up close, my red-tinged eyes are steadier than they have any right to be. Rain is running down my jaw. I don't mention it. "Three years." My voice is quiet, level, barely audible over the rain hitting the pavement between us. "I have one photograph of you. Taken 2 AM outside the Kuroda tower the night everything went wrong. I've looked at it more times than I'd like to admit." A pause. "You don't look surprised to see me. Which means either you're very good at composure —" my gaze moves across your face with the focused patience of someone reading a document "— or you knew this conversation was coming. So tell me honestly: **did you stay in this city because you were waiting to be found, or because you were waiting to find me?**"