In the Visiting Room — Inaho and Slaine

“Why are you here?”

Across the table in the visiting room, Slaine asked the question with a long, weary sigh.

“Do you know what day it is today?”

“Precisely because I know,” he replied. “That’s why.”

Resting his cheek on his hand, he pointed with his index finger—toward Kaizuka Inaho’s head.

A red felt triangular hat, topped with a small white bobble.

There were no calendars in either the cell or the visiting room, yet the hat loudly insisted on today’s date all the same.

What expression had this man worn when he bought it, one wondered.

“What exactly are you thinking, showing up on Christmas?”

Yes. Christmas.

Or perhaps Christmas Eve.

Slaine had already suspected that Inaho was the type to take seasonal events more seriously than he let on—but still, what are you doing here today? His gaze said it all, annoyance level at a full hundred percent.

In contrast, Inaho calmly adjusted the angle of his Santa hat with both hands.

“It’s a weekday,” he said. “A workday.”

“Does this visit fall under your regular duties…?”

“Not exactly.”

There was no chessboard today. No boxed meal either.

Which meant that today, he would have to thoroughly entertain this man—cool-faced, dressed in a double-lined military uniform, topped with a Santa hat.

“What I’m trying to say is, Kaizuka Inaho—”

“What?”

With an exaggerated shrug, Slaine flicked his right hand toward him.

“At least on Christmas, shouldn’t you be spending time quietly with someone important to you?”

Originally a Christian mass, Christmas in Japan had become a seasonal event—family dinners, time with lovers or friends, gifts, outings.

That’s what he had explained before.

Inaho casually turned his own right hand over in response.

“And you?”

“Huh?”

What?

The question lingered strangely in the air, like sugar sinking slowly without fully dissolving. At last, Inaho covered his mouth and cleared his throat.

“…Well, no need to worry about that. I’m planning to stop by Amifumi Diner on my way home—roast chicken set meal and a slice of shortcake.”

Slaine wasn’t sure what exactly a set meal was, but realizing that Inaho would be spending Christmas dining with his childhood friend, his expression softened.

“I see. Did you prepare a present properly?”

“More or less.”

“Just to ask—what did you get?”

“Gloves.”

“…I see.”

“What was that pause just now?”

“Nothing.”

“Sounds like there’s something behind it.”

“A good kind of something. Don’t worry.”

“…Alright then.”

Inaho slipped a hand into the chest pocket of his uniform.

Instinctively, Slaine tensed—then consciously relaxed.

What emerged was not a handgun.

“The reason I came today is because of this.”

“A Christmas card?”

Inaho placed a thin, pale-blue card on the table, decorated with a red ribbon and the words Merry Christmas.

“I was asked to deliver it to you.”

Slaine picked it up.

The paper was smooth to the touch, almost like silk. No name was written on either side.

“There’s no signature. Who is it from—”

He opened it as he spoke. Read the lines. Went back again.

By the time he had read the three lines—once quickly, once carefully, and once slowly—he realized he had been holding his breath.

“…From Earth?”

“Yeah.”

Inaho answered immediately, as if he had expected the question.

Slaine looked into his one visible eye.

“Where are they now? If you can answer, would you tell me?”

With an expression that didn’t suit the Santa hat at all, Inaho replied without hesitation.

“Somewhere I can go and see them. Not so different from here.”

Once more, Slaine lowered his gaze to the card, tracing the indented letters with his fingertip.

“I see.”

Under a distant sky, blue-black ink carried breath within it—unblurred, unwavering—bringing its small light into this room. Like a carol.

“Here.”

Inaho took something else from his pocket.

On the table: a postcard and a ballpoint pen.

“Why don’t you write a New Year’s card? I’ll take it with me.”

Slaine gently closed the Christmas card and drew the blank one closer.

“So Santa Claus is the postman now?”

He clicked the pen. A plastic, office-use ballpoint.

Turning the card sideways, he pressed the pen to the upper-left corner.

The first letter trembled slightly, distorted.

Next to it came o, m, e, day…

“For now, I’m just the mailman.”

we’ll… share… the…

“I could be your taxi driver too, if you like.”

Startled, Inaho looked up and blinked twice in surprise.

Slaine found it amusing—you’re the one who said it, he thought, rolling his eye lazily along the edge of his vision.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do that.”

He finished the last three letters.

Inaho accepted the card, said Merry Christmas, and left the room.