“Detective, will you at least attempt to explain what on earth’s going on?” Exasperated shouts exploded from behind the door of Head Doctor Iemura of Chiba Emergency and Psychiatric Medical Centre. The man—haughty, stout and balding—slammed both hands onto the desk, jowls flapping.

Nagora Ibuse gestured gently with both hands. “Please, remain calm.”

“How do you expect me to remain calm? First, I had a unmanned police vehicle show up—sirens blaring, lights flashing—which promptly spat out two critically injured teenage girls, one of whom half her body was unravelled into a mess of string! And then you show up, carrying a boy who’s had two holes punched through his torso!”

“I can assure you that, as an officer for the city police, the situation is completely under control.” And Ibuse lied. “There was a terrorist attack at Yorusada Mall, a gas grenade that incapacitated everyone on the ground floors. Rest assured: the perpetrator’s been apprehended and is now in police custody.”

“So I heard…” Iemura scratched his chin. “We coordinated with the central hospital to dispatch paramedics to the scene. There are far too many to bother sending ambulances, so we decided to treat onsite. What I’m more concerned about is what happened to these children!”

“They were caught in the blast. Shrapnel damage.”

“Then how do you explain the string girl?”

Ibuse thought it best to ignore the question. “Will you be able to treat them, doctor? I’ll pay for all necessary insurance costs upfront—”

“Insurance be damned!” Iemura slammed his fist on the table. “Of course we’ll treat them! I have a son only just younger than these four. Do you think I’d ask for insurance if he was in mortal peril?”

Tirade over, the man closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course we’ll treat them. I have my best personnel on the job as we speak.”

“Thank you.” Ibuse loosed a weighted exhale through his nose, then sat back down in the chair opposite the head doctor’s desk.

“We couldn’t find medical records for half of these people. Mr Harigane and Miss Karakusa are stable, only suffering from exhaustion. They’ve been rehydrated and should be fine within a couple of hours. We haven’t been able to make much of Miss Amibari’s state, however her vitals are stable, and so she’s been placed into intensive care. Miss Kanon is being stitched up in the operating theatre, Mr Kage also; how that boy’s still alive, let alone conscious after sustaining a punctured lung and abdomen—not to mention the loss of so much blood—is…” Iemura shook his head. “Won’t you really tell me what’s going on?”

Ibuse’s eyes widened.

“I’m no fool, detective. I recognised Harigane and Amibari’s likenesses from the television. Fugitives, from that bombing attack at Senketsu High School. Furthermore, all these children have an entire third eye slap bang in the middle of their forehead! Never mind the fact that the injuries they sustained would have easily killed a full adult man several times over. Now, I understand that you have a duty to minimise public distress, but in the interests of performing my job to the best of my ability I must—”

“No, I get it.” Ibuse raised a hand. “Sorry, I haven’t told you the truth. You’re right—my misleading you was just one of the unfortunate hypocrisies of policework. However, this is the kind of truth that is only possible to believe if you experience it for yourself, the kind of truth that gets you branded a madman.”

Iemura took a deep breath and settled further back in his chair. “I don’t need to believe in the truth, detective. That's the point of the truth: it’s there whether I like it or not.”

Ibuse smiled. “You’re a reasonable man.”

What followed was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“Good lord.”

Ibuse took a drink of water. “I did warn you.”

“Oh, these poor children.” Iemura’s jaw clenched. The man stood abruptly, chair flying out from underneath him. “It’s tantamount that they survive. This goes beyond any terror strike. They could be the very thing preventing the collapse of this country, nay—the world!”

Ibuse blinked. “You believe me?”

“I told you, detective—” Iemura grunted, waddling out from behind his desk and striding towards the door. Ibuse stood and followed— “It’s not a question of believing. I can’t deny what I’ve seen. You’ve evidently seen so much more. The truth of what has happened to these children is shocking beyond belief, but that’s all the more reason I must do my job. Even if it weren’t for their sake: when I go home tonight, if I can’t tell my Toshio that I’ve done the very best I could, I don’t think I could ever stand to call myself a doctor—let alone his father—ever again.”

Ibuse closed his eyes, smiling. “It’s rare to find such integrity.” He tapped the doctor on the shoulder and pressed a handheld tape recorder into the man’s palm. “In case you need a refresher, this is what I’ve just told you on tape. Play it back as many times as it takes.”

Iemura pocketed the device with a nod. “You recorded your recount just now?”

“Naturally.” Stopping outside the intensive care unit, Ibuse bowed. “I’ll leave them in your care.”

The doctor strapped a mask over his face, nodded and pushed his way through the double doors. Ibuse’s gaze stayed a moment longer, before making progress down the remainder of the corridor. It felt strange to admit to himself, but he wasn’t worried. He had faith—not just in Iemura—but in all those kids and their extraordinary resilience.

* * *

The ground floor of the hospital remained uncomfortably still. So much noise ringing through those halls so recently meant that its sudden absence now somehow rang even louder. Keyboards clacked, shocked receptionists doing their best to power through. The sterile waiting room, open-plan and functional, was empty save for an old woman dressed in black. Catching sight of the detective stepping out of the elevator, she rose with surprising grace, though not without aid of her walking cane.

“Detective.” Approaching, Shibaru Harigane bowed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Condition for several are still critical, Mrs Harigane, but I have faith they will pull through.” Ibuse inclined his head. “Nevertheless, that’s all that can be done for now.”

“Fools, the lot of them!” She barked, startling the man. “Do they have no sense of self-preservation at all? I should never have let any of them leave the house. The fault lies entirely with me and my errant goodwill.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, ma’am, but I can assure you none of them went looking for trouble. JPRO sprung a two-pronged assault the moment they must have detected their psychic signatures.”

“I will keep them at home until they learn to suppress their own presences properly, and that casually throwing their lives away at the first threat that rears its head will not be tolerated in this family!”

“With all respect, ma’am,” Ibuse put forward, “I’m not sure how much you can do to—” He faltered at the look in her eyes, a glare that could pierce a mountain. “Never mind.” It began to dawn on him just why Rin had initially been so reticent.

“My darling Katsuro—gormless as he was gifted—always did as he was told.” Shibaru paced around the foyer, stick clacking on the linoleum with every other step. “It’s such a shame that darling Rinkaku didn’t inherit his good manners. He would have learned, if it weren’t for that damned—”

“Should I be hearing this, Mrs. Harigane?”

“Oh—” Granny’s expression softened. “Please forgive me, detective. This whole ordeal has taken on a toll on an old woman’s heart. Has Rinkaku told you? JPRO, they have Katsuro. They have my son! Who knows what sort of—”

“He gave me the jist.” Nodding apologetically to the remaining staff, Ibuse gently ushered Granny out through the front doors. He declined to share exactly what Rin had said about the man verbatim, lest she die of shock. “Did you arrive here by car? Otherwise, I’d be happy to offer you a lift.”

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“How gentlemanly. Very kind of you to offer, but I’ll manage. I’m old, not frail,” Granny chuckled, striding towards a gigantic jet black SUV that stood in the parking lot. Five paces in, she turned back and called, “Thank you, detective.”

Ibuse nodded. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“No. I insist you accept my gratitude. Just doing your job? Please.” She shook her head vehemently. When she opened her eyes, they sparkled with tears. “You’re doing so much more than just that.”

A frog caught in Ibuse’s throat, constraining his vocal chords to a mumble. “Just… doing my best.”

By the time he made his way back to the Mazda, the corners of his eyes were damp. It was nice having a presumably sentient car. For once, his keys remained untouched in his coat pocket. The doors unlocked and sprung open automatically on approach. He made sure to stroke the dashboard in appreciation, as well as audible thanks. He wondered what she would consider a reward for all her hard work. He already planned to refuel on the way back. An oil change? One of those funny little novelty air-fresheners that you hung from the rearview that made the car smell like a dry cleaner’s?

“Hey, girl. Which would you prefer: a cartoon sunshine that smells of industrial-strength bleach, or a little pine-tree that’s about the farthest thing from?”

The alarm went off.

Ibuse roared with laughter and pet the wheel. “I’m only joking. I’ll give you an oil change when we get back home. How does that sound?”

The windscreen wipers starting wagging like a dog’s tail.

Turning the key in ignition, Ibuse smiled, feeling her engine happily purr underfoot. Turning back onto the main road, leaving the hospital behind, he held the kids in his mind once more. They’d be okay. Whatever the case, he’d done what he could. It wasn’t his job to save the day. It wasn’t his job to right the world’s wrongs. He was a detective who uncovered the truth. All he had to do was be there in right place at the right time, just as Toshina had advised.

Right place at the right time...

His promise to Sachiko.

Piano practice.

Ibuse’s head jolted back against the headrest. He hadn’t forgotten. Mentally slapping his own wrist, Ibuse changed gear and slammed his foot down. “Slight change of plans,” he announced. “Might have to wait a little bit for that oil change, or—maybe not? Will you end up waiting? God, all this time stuff is doing my head in. Anyway—”

> Open The Door

> 開門 Kaimon

The golden screen doors carved themselves open ahead of him. Powering on through into the Corridor, Ibuse’s gaze was steeled. It would be as though he’d never left.

* * *

“Hang on, why am I in such a rush?”

Ibuse’s foot eased off the pedal, and the hum of the Mazda’s engine dulled. He let the wheels roll, until the car slowed to a stop on the endless polished tile. He drummed his fingers against the wheel, scratched at his chin with the other hand. Ducking his head forward, he gazed out at the sheer grandiosity of the Evening Corridor through his windscreen. He’d been so overwhelmed with urgency, desperately trying to arrive at the scene of the incidents in time, he’d been completely oblivious to the luxury he now had in spades.

He now had something no-one else in history could ever lay claim to. Time. Granted, it wasn’t his—he doubted arguments of possession still applied to such an abstract concept—but nonetheless, the grains of golden sand from the great ethereal hourglass no longer slipped through his fingers. He could see it now; the rough granules peppered his palm. He could hold it now; the sand grit together in his closed fist.

The human mind had a remarkable aptitude for coming up with analogies. It only made sense that, in a cognitive space like this one, those analogies became all the more real. Shaking his hand free of the sand, Ibuse watched it drift off into the distance, fading away.

“Hold tight a minute, girl,” he murmured, turning the key. “Gotta think a ‘mo.”

Sliding himself from the having-been-cleaned-oh-so-meticulously beige leather seats, Ibuse stood and gently shut the door. As the latch clicked, he winced. Just how many times had he accidentally treated his poor darling a little too rough while in a hurry? He pet the wing mirror as a cheap apology. Hopefully it didn’t hold anything against him. Could a psychic entity read the intentions beyond his actions? How much did it know? A twinge in the back of his head reminded him how new all these questions were. He hadn’t known sheer curiosity like this since he first started out in the intelligence service, when the whole world stunk of that new car smell. Ibuse raised his left hand. The wrist still throbbed, now he was paying attention. He shouldn’t have exerted himself so much back there, but man, that Meguru Yoha had been asking for it. He only wished Sachiko had seen him. Look at your dad, supercop in action!

Ibuse looked back down the corridor, then back at his wrist. The pain made his heart swell with a strange, retrospective contentment. If he hadn’t broken his wrist in that fight, she might not have taken pity on him. Where would he be now, if not for her? That night in the locker room, he’d been sobbing like a baby. Breaking bones was painful, especially for your first one. Barely holding herself together amid peals of laughter at his pathetic state, Ayumi had nonetheless diligently put his hand in a splint, and wrapped it up tight with those scratchy cotton bandages. Her laughter at his misfortune resonated in his ears to this day. It had helped him laugh too. That laughter dulled the pain, until all that was left was that dull throb—a reminder, a memory.

He blinked, eyelashes clearing away the dust of reminiscence, and found himself chuckling even now, just at the thought. He needed to get back home; he promised to help Sachiko with her piano practice. Then again, if Toshina could be trusted—he had no reason to think otherwise thus far—he quite literally had all the time in the world. Better yet, he could travel back in time to just after he left; to their knowledge, he would have barely been away at all. Then again, he supposed he would have to take care and wait until after he had originally left. He didn’t want to run into himself from the past, and risk creation of any time paradoxes. Were time paradoxes a thing? He’d seen Back To The Future far too many times to chance that mistake. He didn’t fancy accidentally erasing his entire family after travelling back in time forty years then accidentally sneezing in his father’s general direction. Ibuse found himself eyeing his vehicle, a smirk tugging at his lips. Imagine if he’d bought a DeLorean instead; how funny would that have been?

A loud honk from the Mazda’s horn nearly made his heart stop.

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” Ibuse bleated. “You’re the only one for me, I swear!”

The car—she could read minds. Good to know.

Then again, maybe it was better it wasn’t a DeLorean. Lack of originality in the gimmick and lack of reliability in the beast itself aside, he didn’t fancy having to deal with Warner Brothers’ lawyers as well as JPRO. It didn’t matter DMC had gone bust all the way back in the 80s, it was the intellectual property owners that’d take an issue now if anyone. Why he suddenly recalled that odd slice of trivia he’d skimmed off the back of a car magazine as a teenager, he had no idea. The brain had a funny habit of doing that kind of thing. Perhaps this was yet another side effect to his ascension. Ever since that vision, he’d never felt more aware. Flashes of the past, strange tidings of the future; they all intermingled in his prefrontal cortex to the point where nothing really made sense anymore. But, it was slowly starting to dawn on him the fact that things didn’t need to make sense anymore. Ibuse felt his fingers find his own stubbled face, hands patting down the crease-ridden fabric of his coat, gliding along the brushed metal of his car door. He bent down, caressing the polished tile underneath his feet, then standing with a burst of effort through his core, craning his neck to look up and around. The blue pillars, patterned stone shiftin into a haze, stretched off into the dizzying horizon. And above, the late sun glowed meekly through beautiful clouds, purple tinged with gold.

He was here, in a place that didn’t make sense, with abilities that didn’t made sense, having lived through events that made no sense of their own; but none of that mattered. He was here, right now, whenever that was. He’d made it. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t instantly put the world to rights. He was in the right place at the right time. He had been able to help, through his own actions, through his own will. He had done that. The chilly air of dusk tickled the back of his windpipe as he took in a lungful, kneading weary eyes on the backs of his hands. Looking either side of him, he stretched both arms above his head.

A rare thought occurred.

He could take a nap if he wanted.

He hadn’t had the luxury of taking midday naps since he was in college.

Assuming no-one else was planning on using the corridor—he couldn’t exactly be blamed for not knowing of any—then he was at perfect liberty to.

He really could, couldn’t he? A giddy grin stretched over his face; it didn't stay long.

By Toshina’s blessing, he had been removed from the river, free to walk along the bank. Time evidently didn’t pass inside the corridor; representing the literal passage of time itself, how could it? Did that mean if he tried to get some shut eye, nothing would actually happen? That one question raised many more. If time didn’t pass for him anymore, if he was just an observer watching the river flow by, did that mean he wouldn’t age anymore? He didn’t feel himself growing any older at present, but that was a poor litmus test subject to plenty of confirmation bias. One only noticed age after the fact: loss of mobility, a little more back pain, another noticeable crease around the eyes. Would he only age when he was “experiencing” time outside the corridor? If he travelled a long way into the past or future, would he assume the age he would have been at that point? Hopefully not. That’d cause all kinds of complications.

What about his family? They’d be experiencing time just like normal. Did that mean they’d grow older without him? He couldn’t imagine his wife being too thrilled at him unintentionally skimping on his marriage vows. Then again, he’d taken both Rin and Ruri through the corridor in order to get to Yorusada. Presumably they still aged, right? Unless by accidental exposure to this mystical world, he had doomed both teenagers to an eternity of stagnation. To spare his own conscience, he decided to take a blade from Ockham’s Razor and dismiss it for now as unlikely. The less mental gymnastics from now on—he swore a solemn oath of convenience—so much the better.

Still, though, he could really do with a nap right about now.

Walking over to the front of his car, he pitched himself back over the bonnet. The bodywork creaked slightly under his weight—rude—but he was able to nestle himself fairly comfortably over the sheet steel. The engine radiated a comforting heat, permeating through his clothing. He could have always just got back into the car and been a little more comfortable, but he was here now, and didn’t quite fancy getting back up.

His eyes closed to the sight of the clouds drifting motionlessly above him. There were no other sounds in the Evening Corridor, but the silence was comforting. In a space where time didn’t pass, would the clouds be waiting for him in the sky when he woke back up?