Tengo lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and let his mind wander through various possibilities. The last time he saw Aomame was when he was ten. Now they were both thirty. They had both gone through a lot of experiences in the interim. Good things, things that weren’t so good (probably slightly more of the latter). Our looks, our personalities, the environment where we live have all gone through changes, he thought. We’re no longer a young boy and a young girl. Is the Aomame over there really the Aomame he had been searching for? And was he the Tengo Kawana she had been looking for? Tengo pictured them on the slide tonight looking at each other, disappointed at what they saw. Maybe they wouldn’t find anything to talk about. That was a real possibility. Actually, it would be kind of strange if it didn’t turn out that way.

Maybe we shouldn’t meet again. Tengo stared up at the ceiling. Wasn’t it better if they kept this desire to see each other hidden within them, and never actually got together? That way, there would always be hope in their hearts. That hope would be a small, yet vital flame that warmed them to their core—a tiny flame to cup one’s hands around and protect from the wind, a flame that the violent winds of reality might easily extinguish.

Tengo stared at the ceiling for a good hour, two conflicting emotions surging through him. More than anything, he wanted to meet Aomame. At the same time, he was afraid to see her. The cold disappointment and uncomfortable silence that might ensue made him shudder. His body felt like it was going to be torn in half. But he had to see her. This is what he had been wanting, what he had been hoping for with all his might, for the last twenty years. No matter what disappointment might come of it, he knew he couldn’t just turn his back on it and run away.

Tired of staring at the ceiling, he fell asleep on the bed, still lying faceup. A quiet, dreamless sleep of some forty or forty-five minutes—the deep, satisfying sleep you get after concentrating hard, after mental exhaustion. He realized that for the last few days he had only slept in fits and starts and hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep. Before it got dark, he needed to rid himself of the fatigue that had built up. He had to be rested and relaxed when he left here and headed for the playground. He knew this instinctively.

As he was falling asleep, he heard Kumi Adachi’s voice—or he felt like he heard it. When morning comes you’ll be leaving here, Tengo. Before the exit is blocked.

This was Kumi’s voice, and at the same time it was the voice of the owl at night. In his memory the voices were mixed, and hard to distinguish from each other. What Tengo needed then more than anything was wisdom—the wisdom of the night that had put down roots into the soil. A wisdom that might only be found in the depths of sleep.

At six thirty Tengo slung his bag diagonally across his shoulders and left his apartment. He had on the same clothes as the last time he went to the slide: gray windbreaker and old leather jacket, jeans, and brown work boots. All of them were worn but they fit well, like an extension of his body. I probably won’t ever be back here again, he thought. As a precaution he took the typed cards with his name on them out of the door slot and the mailbox. What would happen to everything else? He decided not to worry about it for now.

As he stood at the entrance to the apartment building, he peered around cautiously. If he believed Fuka-Eri, he was being watched. But just as before, there was no sign of surveillance. Everything was the same as always. Now that the sun had set, the road in front of him was deserted. He set off for the station, at a slow pace. He glanced back from time to time to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He turned down several narrow streets he didn’t need to take, then came to a stop and checked again to see if anyone was tailing him. You have to be careful, the man on the phone had cautioned. For yourself, and for Aomame, who’s in a tense situation.

But does the man on the phone really know Aomame? Tengo suddenly wondered. Couldn’t this be some kind of clever trap? Once this thought took hold, he couldn’t shake off a sense of unease. If this really was a trap, then Sakigake had to be behind it. As the ghostwriter of Air Chrysalis he was probably—no, make that definitely—on their blacklist. Which is why that weird guy, Ushikawa, came to him with that suspicious story about a grant. On top of that, Tengo had let Fuka-Eri hide out in his apartment for three months. There were more than enough reasons for the cult to be upset with him.

Be that as it may, Tengo thought, inclining his head, why would they go to the trouble of using Aomame as bait to lure me into a trap? They already know where I am. It’s not like I’m running away and hiding. If they have some business with me, they should approach me directly. There’s no need to lure me out to that slide in the playground. Things would be different if the opposite were true—if they were using me as bait to get Aomame.

But why lure her out?

He couldn’t understand it. Was there, by chance, some connection between Aomame and Sakigake? Tengo’s deductive reasoning hit a dead end. The only thing he could do was to ask Aomame herself—assuming he could meet her.

At any rate, as the man on the phone said, he would have to be cautious. Tengo scrupulously took a roundabout route and made sure no one was following him. Once certain of that, he hurried off in the direction of the playground.

.    .    .

He arrived at the playground at seven minutes to seven. It was dark out already, and the mercury-vapor lamp shone its even, artificial illumination into every nook and cranny of the tiny park. The afternoon had been lovely and warm, but now that the sun had set the temperature had dropped sharply, and a cold wind was blowing. The pleasant Indian summer weather they had had for a few days had vanished, and real winter, cold and severe, had settled in for the duration. The tips of the zelkova tree’s branches trembled, like the fingers of some ancient person shaking out a warning, with a desiccated, raspy sound.

Lights were on in several of the windows in the buildings nearby, but the playground was deserted. Tengo’s heart under the leather jacket beat out a slow but heavy rhythm. He rubbed his hands together repeatedly, to see if they had normal sensation. Everything’s fine, he told himself. I’m all set. Nothing to be afraid of. He made up his mind and started climbing up the ladder of the slide.

Once on top, he sat down as he had before. The bottom of the slide was cold and slightly damp. With his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the railing and looked up at the sky. There were clouds of all sizes—several large ones, several small ones. Tengo squinted and looked for the moons, but at the moment they weren’t visible, hidden behind the clouds. These weren’t dense, heavy clouds, but rather smooth white ones. Still, they were thick and substantial enough to hide the moons from his gaze. The clouds were gliding slowly from north to south. The wind didn’t seem too strong. Or maybe the clouds were actually higher up than they looked? At any rate, they weren’t in much of a hurry.

Tengo glanced at his watch. The hands showed three past seven, ticking away the time ever more accurately. Still no Aomame. Tengo spent several minutes gazing at the hands of his watch as if they were something extraordinary. Then he shut his eyes. Like the clouds on the wind, he was in no hurry. If things took time, he didn’t mind. He stopped thinking and gave himself over to the flow of time. At this moment, time’s natural, even flow was the most important thing.