The rain had come down in soft, insistent sheets, blurring the distant hills until they were nothing but grey smudges on the horizon. It was the kind of afternoon that seemed to stretch endlessly, each minute dissolving into the next without much consequence or change.

Mr. Hayashi sat by the window of his modest home, his tea cooling beside him, untouched. The rain didn’t bother him, not exactly. It was simply there, a quiet backdrop to his thoughts, which had been growing heavier in recent months. The letter from the Ministry still lay on the table, a stark contrast to the otherwise well-ordered life he had lived.

He hadn’t opened it yet. There had been no need to.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he thought, but the thought had lingered for weeks now. What could the Ministry want with a man like him? He had done nothing of note in his long years of service. He had been meticulous, yes. Dependable. But not remarkable. He had left the making of history to others.

A soft knock came at the door, startling him from his reverie. For a moment, he considered ignoring it—after all, no one ever visited without calling ahead, and there was little he had to offer a guest today.

"Mr. Hayashi?"

The voice was familiar, though distant. It was the kind of voice that carried both authority and reluctance, as though it didn’t want to intrude but had no choice.

"Yes?" he answered, his voice quieter than he had intended.

The door creaked open, and there stood Mr. Nakamura, a former colleague from his days at the Records Office. Nakamura was a small man, thin and wiry, with a perpetually apologetic look on his face. He had always been the one to tidy up loose ends, to make things neat when they became too complicated.

"I hope I’m not disturbing you," Nakamura began, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He glanced at the letter on the table, then at Mr. Hayashi. "I see you’ve received it."

"I have," Hayashi replied simply, though his eyes lingered on the envelope. "I hadn’t planned on opening it just yet."

Nakamura nodded, as if this was entirely expected. He moved towards the table, running his finger along the edge of the letter, but he didn’t pick it up.

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"It’s strange, isn’t it?" Nakamura said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "How they send these things, even after all this time. As though the years haven’t passed, as though we’re still sitting behind those old desks, shuffling papers, pretending the world outside doesn’t matter."

Hayashi didn’t respond. He hadn’t thought much about the old days in quite some time. It had all seemed so distant, so irrelevant. They had done their jobs, hadn’t they? They had followed orders. What more could anyone expect?

"You know what it says, don’t you?" Nakamura continued, finally meeting Hayashi’s gaze.

"I can imagine," Hayashi said, though the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to imagine it at all.

"It’s about the records," Nakamura said, his voice barely a whisper now. "The ones we lost. The ones we were told to misplace."

Ah, yes. The records. Hayashi remembered now, though the memories felt oddly detached from him, like they belonged to another man. They had been given very specific instructions, all those years ago. Certain files were to be ‘overlooked,’ certain details were to be ‘corrected.’ At the time, it hadn’t seemed significant. It had been, after all, just another task. Just another day at the office.

"Someone’s been asking questions," Nakamura went on. "And they think… they think it’s time to put things right."

"Put things right?" Hayashi let out a soft chuckle, though there was no humour in it. "After all these years?"

"Yes," Nakamura said, his expression tightening. "It seems there are some things the past won’t let us forget."

The room fell into silence, the steady patter of rain against the window the only sound. Hayashi turned back toward the envelope, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. What good would it do, now, to dredge up all those old secrets? To admit to things they had barely understood themselves at the time?

"Do you think it matters?" Hayashi asked, his voice tired, resigned. "Does anyone really care anymore?"

Nakamura looked away, his eyes fixed on the rain-soaked hills in the distance. For a long time, he didn’t answer. Finally, he said, "Perhaps not. But we cared once, didn’t we? Or at least, we should have."

Hayashi nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. Maybe they had cared, once. Maybe there had been a time when they thought they were doing the right thing, or at least the necessary thing. But that time felt long gone, swallowed up by the years, by the quiet, orderly life he had built for himself since then.

With a deep sigh, he reached for the envelope. His fingers trembled slightly as he broke the seal, unfolding the letter with care. The words swam before his eyes, but he understood them well enough. They wanted an account. They wanted the truth.

But what truth could he give them now, after all these years?

"It’s not much," Nakamura said softly, as though reading his thoughts. "But it’s all we have left, isn’t it?"

Hayashi nodded, his eyes still fixed on the letter. The rain continued to fall, unrelenting, as if it, too, was waiting for something—for an answer, for a reckoning.

But the reckoning, Hayashi realized, was already here. It had been here all along, quietly waiting at his door.