Evening Maintenance

The drive to the school was the same, but I was not.

Everything seemed distant, muffled.

The exhaustion from the night was a physical weight, pressing me down.

Of course, Yamamoto was leaning by the closet, ready with a smirk.

"— Well? What's the verdict, Kashiwabara-san? Did you sign the papers? You a rich man now?"

I held his gaze for a long moment, confirming that the face I was seeing was solid, that it wasn't made of shadows.

It was just Yamamoto.

I said nothing.

I simply retrieved my mop and bucket and began walking.

The sound of my footsteps echoing in the empty hall was the only answer he was going to get.

I heard his smirk dissolve.

"— Right, then." — spoken to the empty air.

For the rest of the day, Yamamoto was a different man.

He didn't just work; he anticipated it.

I walked into the gymnasium to clean, and he was already there, sweeping his half in silence.

I went for the trash bins near the gate, only to find them already emptied.

He offered no gossip, and I offered no explanation.

We simply worked.

The silence wasn't awkward; it was functional, an unspoken accord.

We moved in parallel, two solitary moons circling the same lonely planet, each aware of the other's rhythm, but never crossing paths.

The final bell echoed through the halls.

The river of departing students dwindled to a stream, then trickled into silence.

On the supply closet door, a teacher had left a note: the gymnasium's floor polisher was broken and needed fixing for the morning.

"— I'll get my tools." — Yamamoto said immediately.

"— No." — My voice sounded foreign after a day of silence.

"— That's enough for today. Go on home. I'll take care of the rest."

He paused, a flicker of genuine concern on his face.

"— But that's a two-man job, Kashiwabara-san. It will take all night."

"— I left early yesterday for my appointment. You stepped in. Consider us even now."

He looked from me to the note, processing the logic. It was a fair transaction; the debt was settled. He hesitated for a moment, then slid his toolbox back onto its shelf.

"— Right." — he said with a nod. 

"— Even. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

And then he was gone.

I was alone.

The sun was getting low, and the long shadows made the hallways feel different.

My footsteps were loud in the quiet.

In the middle of the vast wooden floor sat the problem: the floor polisher.

I could see the issue already.

A heavy electric motor, a set of rotating buffer pads, a simple control handle—but none of it was responding. It was just a heavy, silent lump of metal. Time to get to work.

I plugged her in and hit the power switch.

Nothing.

Not a hum, not a twitch.

Dead as a stone. Right.

I tipped the machine onto its side, the metal cool against the wood floor.

I opened my toolbox and the familiar smell of oil and steel filled the air.

These old tools have seen more work than most of the young men I know.

The screws on the motor housing groaned a little as I turned them, like old bones waking up. You just have to know where to look.

I traced the main power line with my finger, right to the motor connection, and there you have it. A loose red wire, its copper end gone dull.

Simple break.

But the little plastic clip it plugged into had gone brittle, crumbled to dust as soon as I touched it. Needed a solder, and I didn't have an iron.

I looked at what I did have: my pliers, a good set of drivers, a fresh roll of electrical tape.

An electrician would probably have a fit. But an electrician wasn't here. I was. And the floor needed polishing by morning.

Using the pliers, I peeled the red casing back to expose fresh copper.

I coiled it carefully around the terminal post until it was snug, then bound it all with three tight wraps of electrical tape.

A temporary patch, to be sure, but a solid one.

I sealed the housing, set the machine upright on its wheels, and plugged the cord into the socket.

I held my breath for a second.

Pushed the button.

There was a shudder, and then the motor hummed to life, smooth and steady.

The big discs started their slow, heavy rotation, picking up speed, filling the gym with their drone.

A good sound.

A working sound.

I let it run for a moment before switching it off. The silence that rushed back in felt earned.

My work here was finished.

I cleaned my hands on a rag, methodically placing each tool back in its proper place inside my toolbox.

The work, both scheduled and extra, was finished.

Time to go.

Moonlight cut through the darkness of the long hallway.

That's when I heard the sound.

A soft shuffle, indistinct but undeniably there.

I stopped breathing, listening. I knew I was alone in the building. 

A hot flush of fear pricked at me—a memory of the night before.

But I pushed it down.

It was a rat.

It was the building groaning.

It was nothing.

I would not let it be something.

I had somewhere to be. I started walking again, my footsteps louder than before.

I turned the corner and saw it. A thin line of yellow light from under the main office door, slicing through the dark.

That was wrong.

I had locked that door myself not an hour ago.

I had turned off that light.

My heart didn't pound. The fear didn't rise.

Instead, a strange, cold calm washed over me. I turned without a sound and walked back to my toolbox.

I lifted the lid, my hand bypassing the familiar shapes of screwdrivers and pliers.

I reached for the big steel wrench. A heavy, solid tool for turning heavy, stubborn bolts.

The weight of it in my palm was a comfort.

It was real.

Unlike the things I'd seen the night before, this was a solid thing for a solid problem.

The shuffling sound hadn't been a rat.

The light wasn't a mistake. Someone was in my school.

I moved down the hall I knew so well, my work shoes making no sound. I used the darkness as a tool, moving from one deep shadow to the next.

Beside the door, I flattened myself against the wall and listened.

I heard the hum of the overhead light, the rustle of paper, and a faint, busy ticking, like a nest of tiny, mechanical insects.

It was coming from the computer.

Slowly, I raised my head to the level of the wired-glass window.

The administrator's chair was occupied.

A small figure sat in it, their shoulders slumped forward, focused on the glowing screen.

The dark blue of a school uniform was unmistakable.

A student, alone in the office after dark, tampering with school records.

Masanori's worried question from yesterday echoed in my head

"— Students in places they should not be?" — So this was it.

My hand tightened on the wrench until the steel bit into my palm.

The choice was simple.

Walk away, and pretend I saw nothing.

Or open the door.

The logical choice was to walk away.

This was not my concern.

But logic was the system that called me a liability.

Logic was the calculation that said my life's work was worth almost nothing.

Logic had failed me.

My hand left the wrench and reached for the doorknob.