## Chapter 478 — North for the Weekend Thomas had prepared one sheet of paper. This was restraint. It sat on the dining table beside two overnight bags and contained, in order, their train reservation, the hotel address, the hotel's luggage policy, three places in Morioka which looked interesting, four possible meals and a weather forecast printed in smaller type at the bottom. Isha came out of the bedroom with her hair tied back, looked at the page and then at him. “One sheet.” “Yes.” “You are proud of this.” “I could have made a folder.” She picked it up. Thomas had not made a timetable. There were no fifteen-minute blocks, arrows between attractions or numbered restaurants. He wanted that recognised. Isha read the entire thing anyway. “You have written *optional* beside two of the three places.” “I wanted to make the lack of obligation clear.” “To yourself?” Thomas considered answering dishonestly. “Mostly.” She folded the sheet in half and put it into the outside pocket of his bag. Their train left late enough that breakfast at home remained sensible. They had deliberately refused the very early option after discovering that beginning a holiday by waking before either normally needed to for work felt suspiciously like punishment. The flat was already warm with June. Balcony doors stood open while they ate, letting in distant traffic and the smaller neighbourhood sounds beneath it. Mugi had not appeared that morning. The flexible room remained exactly as they had left it. Thomas checked the balcony door, the cooker and the air conditioner before putting his shoes on. Isha waited in the genkan with her own small case. “You checked the stove twice.” “I checked the stove once and then checked whether I remembered checking it.” “That is checking it twice.” “Different procedure.” Her expression suggested the university had damaged him permanently. He locked the door. The holiday began with the ordinary click of flat 202 remaining behind them. Sendai Station was busy without being difficult. They knew the useful entrance, the platform signs and which convenience store supplied coffee without a detour. The concourse no longer felt like departure in itself. Isha bought two rice balls despite having eaten breakfast. Thomas watched her put them into her bag. “For later?” “For when I am hungry.” “That was not the question.” “It was the answer.” He bought coffee. The Shinkansen platform gave them enough time to establish that neither had forgotten anything important. Thomas had the hotel reservation; Isha had both tickets on her phone and the confirmation he had printed because redundant systems did not count as anxiety when rail travel was involved. The train arrived. They found their seats, stowed the bags and sat beside one another with the mild satisfaction of people who had successfully accomplished a process millions of other people completed every week. Thomas took the window first because Isha had taken it on their last longer journey. She noticed. “You can stop being fair about windows.” “I like the window.” “Oh.” She settled into her own seat. “Good.” The train left Sendai. Urban buildings gave way quickly to lower roofs, fields and wooded slopes. The day was bright enough that distance remained clear, though clouds had already begun gathering farther north. Thomas drank his coffee. Isha watched the changing land for perhaps ten minutes before taking one of the rice balls from her bag. “That was not later.” “It is later than when I bought it.” He accepted this definition. Their conversation wandered with the view. The journey was short enough that Thomas had only just become properly settled when the announcement for Morioka began. He looked at the time. “That feels unreasonable.” Isha folded the rice-ball wrapper into a smaller square. “You wanted a normal holiday.” “I expected normal travel to take longer.” “You chose the fast train.” “That is a damaging amount of logic for a holiday.” She smiled and reached for her bag. Morioka arrived before he had an answer. --- The first thing Thomas noticed outside the station was the space. Not emptiness. Morioka Station had people, taxis, buses, signs and the usual accumulation of structures around a regional centre. But Sendai's density had fallen away. The skyline opened faster. The streets seemed to give the distance more room. Beyond the station, the Kitakami River widened that effect. They left their bags at the hotel rather than dragging them across the city. Thomas had written down that the room would not be ready for two hours; once their luggage had acquired two small tags, it did not matter. They stepped outside carrying almost nothing. Thomas reached automatically towards the pocket containing his folded page. Isha saw the movement. “No.” “I was going to check the map.” “You know where the river is.” “That does not mean I know where everything else is.” “We are not going to everything else.” She turned left. Thomas looked at the phone in his hand, then at his wife already walking away. “Is there a reason?” “The street looks better.” He put the phone away. That was apparently sufficient. The route took them towards the water before it took them towards anything on Thomas's list. On the bridge, Isha slowed. The river below was broader than the narrow engineered waterway near flat 202, moving in long green-brown bands between reinforced banks and patches of vegetation. The city sat around it rather than hiding it completely. Farther away, beyond roofs and wires, the mountains remained part of the view. The largest of them was partly obscured by cloud. Thomas stopped beside Isha at the rail. “That should be Mount Iwate.” “Should be?” “I checked the direction.” “So yes.” “I am allowing for the possibility that I have confidently identified the wrong mountain on our first hour here.” Isha studied the broad, cloud-cut profile. “If it is the wrong mountain, it is still a good one.” That seemed difficult to improve upon. They stayed on the bridge longer than Thomas's uncreated itinerary would have permitted. Cyclists passed. A delivery van stopped farther along the road. Two students went by arguing intensely about a club event. Isha leaned against the railing. She looked entirely at home. That still had the capacity to surprise him occasionally, though not for the reasons it once had. There was no longer anything novel in seeing her beside traffic or reading a sign or choosing where to go in a Japanese city. What caught him was simply the accumulation: the woman who had once treated automatic doors as something worth studying now had opinions about which station bakeries were overpriced. She turned her head. “You are staring.” “Yes.” “Why?” “You look nice.” Isha looked down at herself. She wore loose dark trousers, comfortable walking shoes and a pale short-sleeved top beneath a light overshirt she had tied around her waist after leaving the station. Her wedding band and sapphire ring remained on her hand. Thomas was still staring. “That is not a very detailed explanation,” she said. “I am on holiday.” “Ah. Reduced administrative standards.” “Exactly.” She kissed his cheek and pushed away from the rail. They continued. Thomas's first planned stop failed because they approached it from the wrong side. This became apparent only after ten minutes spent following a street which looked increasingly unlikely to lead where either expected. Thomas stopped at a junction. “I think we should have crossed earlier.” Isha looked around. The street was narrow and quiet, with small buildings close to the pavement and bicycles tucked against walls. A woman was watering pots outside one entrance. Somewhere nearby, machinery worked behind a closed garage door. “Probably.” “You knew?” “I knew we were not going towards the park.” “And you said nothing.” “You said you were not making an itinerary.” “That does not abolish geography.” Isha laughed. Thomas took out his phone. They were not badly lost. They were barely lost at all. The correct route lay two streets away and would take them back towards the centre. They did not use it immediately. A small shop halfway down the street had caught Isha's attention. Its front window held cloth goods, simple pottery and several wooden objects arranged without much effort to look expensive. Nothing in Thomas's single sheet mentioned it. Isha went inside. He followed. The shop was narrow and cool after the street. A quiet radio played behind the counter. Most of the goods looked locally made or at least locally selected. Isha picked up a small glazed cup. Thomas inspected a stack of folded hand towels. They separated without discussion. For nearly fifteen minutes the holiday became the question of whether either of them wanted to own something they had not known existed when they woke that morning. Thomas found nothing. Isha bought something small, which was wrapped before he saw exactly what it was. “What did you get?” “Something.” “That is suspicious.” “It is a shop.” “That does not reduce the suspicion.” She put the paper bag into the tote she was carrying. “You can survive until later.” Thomas looked at the bag. He could, but he disliked the principle. They left and found the correct street. The mistake had cost them perhaps twenty minutes and gained them one unidentified purchase. Thomas decided this was an acceptable exchange rate. --- Morioka Castle Ruins Park rose through stone rather than walls. Thomas knew there was no standing castle before they arrived. Knowing it had not prepared him for how much of the place remained shaped by the absence. Great stone faces climbed beside paths and terraces. Trees filled spaces where buildings had once controlled the skyline. Roads and modern city structures appeared through gaps, close enough to prevent the park from becoming a preserved illusion. Isha slowed almost immediately. Here, her attention became practical. She looked at gradients. Corners. Sight lines. The relationship between one level and the next. Thomas had watched her do the same thing on walks, climbing approaches and unfamiliar public buildings. She read space with habits older than Earth and used them without needing to announce the origin. At one junction, Thomas began up a set of steps. Isha took the path beside them. He stopped. “Where are you going?” “Up.” “The steps also go up.” “Yes.” “Why is your way better?” “I didn't say it was. I like it.” Thomas looked at the longer curving path. “You chose it with enormous confidence.” He followed. The path curved below one of the massive stone walls before rising beneath trees. It was less direct and considerably better. Thomas chose not to tell her this immediately. They passed an older couple descending slowly, then a family whose youngest child had become fascinated by an insect on the edge of the path. The adults waited without trying to hurry him. Somewhere higher in the park, voices carried through leaves and vanished. The temperature had climbed, but the trees gave shade. Isha touched one of the stone faces where the path allowed it. Thomas stopped beside her. The blocks were weathered, fitted in broad irregular courses, their surfaces rough beneath years of rain and cold. She did not say that they reminded her of anything. Thomas did not ask. After a moment she moved on. At the higher terrace, they found a view across the city through the trees. Roofs spread below. The mountains remained partly hidden. Clouds had thickened while they walked. Thomas checked the sky. Isha noticed. “You printed the weather.” “Possible shower after three.” “What time is it?” “Two twelve.” A drop of rain landed on Thomas's arm. A second struck the stone between them, and Isha began laughing. Rain came properly a minute later. Not a storm. A clean June shower, sudden enough to send people towards trees and covered edges while the stone darkened beneath it. Thomas had an umbrella. Of course he had an umbrella. He took it from the small day bag. Isha looked at him with open accusation. “What?” “You planned this.” “Yes. I arranged rain over Iwate Prefecture so that my preparation would be vindicated.” The umbrella was large enough for both if they walked close. They did. The rain changed the park more than it inconvenienced them. Darkened stone sharpened against the green. Water began running along shallow channels beside the paths. The air cooled. Thomas's first instinct was to head for the nearest building or café. Isha kept walking. He stayed beneath the shared umbrella beside her. By the time they left the park, the shower was already weakening. Lunch became late lunch because neither had noticed the time properly. Thomas had three noodle possibilities on his sheet. They chose none of them. The deciding factor was a handwritten menu outside a small restaurant near a covered shopping street and Isha saying, “That smells good.” Inside, the room held fewer than twenty seats. They were shown to a small table, given water and enough time with the menu that Thomas's research became redundant. Thomas had assumed they would eventually eat one of Morioka's famous noodle dishes. They chose jajamen because neither wanted a larger meal after breakfast, rice balls and several hours of walking. The noodles arrived broad and pale beneath a dark meat-miso mixture, cucumber and ginger. Thomas mixed his too cautiously. Isha watched him. “You researched this.” “Yes.” “And yet.” “I am preserving the option to add more.” She added chilli oil to hers. “That is what people say immediately before eating a disappointing first bite.” Thomas looked at her bowl. “You have no basis for your quantities.” “I watched the man at the counter.” He glanced over. The man at the counter was mixing with the confidence of someone who had eaten the dish often enough not to think about it. Thomas looked back at Isha. “That is cheating.” “That is observation.” Their first bites decided the matter. Isha's was better. Thomas added more vinegar and miso, corrected the balance and recovered enough dignity to continue eating. The noodles were chewy, savoury and satisfying after the wet walk. Thomas liked the way the condiments made the meal adjustable without requiring the kitchen to predict each diner perfectly. Isha finished first. She had been watching other tables. When only sauce remained in the bowls, Isha watched the man at the counter crack an egg into his bowl and stir it before a member of staff poured in hot noodle water. Thomas's memory supplied the name a moment later: chitantan. They asked for two. A member of staff brought the eggs; after they cracked and stirred them into the remaining sauce, she added hot noodle water and a little more meat miso. The soup was better than it had any right to be after the bowl had appeared finished. Thomas sat back. “That was good.” Isha nodded. “Your sheet survives. One restaurant has been validated.” “There are three more.” “We are here for two nights.” Thomas looked offended by the mathematical constraint. The bill was ordinary. That pleased him too. --- They checked into the hotel in the middle of the afternoon. At the desk, they added breakfast for the following morning. Sunday remained open. Their room was on an upper floor and looked reassuringly like the photographs. Thomas opened the door, stepped inside and stopped. Isha looked past him. The double bed left a usable path on both sides. A small desk stood against one wall; beyond it, a chair and low table occupied the space beside the window. Pale curtains softened an unremarkable view across the central city. There was a narrow wardrobe, a compact bathroom and enough floor at the foot of the bed to open either bag without moving furniture. Isha entered and sat briefly in the window chair. “We can both stand up.” “Luxury.” She walked around the bed, opened the curtains and looked out over part of the central city. Thomas set the bags at the foot of the bed and opened his without obstructing anything. The room did not need to supply the whole holiday. It had somewhere to hang clothes, somewhere to sit and enough space for them to come back for an hour without regretting the decision. They did not leave again immediately. Thomas showered first while Isha inspected whether rain had done anything strange to her hair. It had not. When he came out, she took the bathroom and he changed his shirt. The chair beside the window was available. The bed looked more inviting. He lay down. The mattress was firmer than their bed at home. The ceiling contained nothing worth looking at. Thomas closed his eyes. He woke twenty-seven minutes later with Isha sitting beside him reading something on her phone. He blinked. “You let me sleep.” “You looked tired.” “I wasn't.” “You were asleep.” Thomas could not construct a useful rebuttal. Isha put the phone down. Her hair was loose now, still slightly damp at the ends. “We do not have to go anywhere.” Thomas looked towards the window. The rain had passed. The city outside was brighter again, wet roofs reflecting the late-afternoon light. “I want to go out.” “Then we go out.” He sat up. They walked towards the Nakatsu River without attempting to fit anything else around it. Thomas's original list included the red-brick former bank building because photographs had made it look distinctive. They found it almost accidentally. Its warm brick and pale stone stood out immediately from the surrounding streets, elaborate enough to make Thomas stop before he checked the map. Isha followed his gaze. “That one was on the paper.” “So we accidentally obeyed you.” “I am counting it.” “No. That was not your route.” Thomas took out his phone and photographed the building. Isha stepped aside rather than entering the frame. He lowered the phone. “Picture?” She looked at the building, then at him. “With me?” “Yes.” She moved back. Thomas took two. Then Isha held out her hand for the phone. He gave it to her. She made him stand in roughly the same place, waited while two pedestrians passed, then took one photograph. Thomas returned. “How bad?” She showed him. It was annoyingly good. He stood slightly off-centre with the brick building behind him, one hand still half-raised from where he had been telling her that she could press the shutter whenever she was ready. “You did that deliberately.” “Yes.” “My hand looks ridiculous.” “You were talking.” “I often talk.” “I know.” She kept the photograph. The river drew them next. They followed it without deciding how far. The banks were green in places, stone and concrete in others, with bridges giving repeated changes in viewpoint. Water moved quickly enough to carry sound above some of the traffic. Isha took Thomas's hand. They walked that way for several blocks. This was the part of travel Thomas had always tended to under-plan in theory and enjoy most in practice. The useful attractions of a city could be researched. The exact angle of late light between two buildings could not. Neither could the smell from a bakery they passed without entering or the sight of three schoolchildren trying to keep a ball from rolling down a slope. He had once thought travel needed a reason sufficiently strong to justify the cost of going. Daniel had done enough of that kind of arithmetic. Thomas no longer trusted it as much. He did not explain this to Isha. She was watching a heron stand in the shallows. The bird remained completely still while water moved around its legs. Isha stopped too. Thomas stopped because she had. For perhaps a minute, none of the three did anything. Then the heron struck into the water and came up with something small. Isha smiled. “Worth the train.” Thomas looked at her. “For the bird?” “For that bird.” “That is financially irresponsible.” “Yes.” They continued along the river. --- The unidentified purchase emerged before dinner. They had returned to the hotel to leave two small things Thomas had bought from a food shop and decide whether they were hungry enough to eat immediately. Isha opened her tote bag. The wrapped item came out. Thomas sat on the bed. “I knew you couldn't maintain the secrecy.” “I maintained it for six hours.” “An extraordinary achievement.” She gave him the package. It was soft. Thomas removed the paper. Inside was a dark-green cotton hand towel, narrow enough to carry easily, with a simple pale pattern woven near one edge. Not a souvenir with the city name across it. Just a well-made thing from the shop they had entered because they were going the wrong way. He ran his thumb across the fabric. “You bought me a towel.” “You need one for the gym.” “I have towels.” “That one is nicer.” Thomas looked at her. Isha's expression held no ceremony. The gift had apparently required less thought than the secret did. “I like it.” “I know.” “You cannot know before giving it to me.” “I thought you would.” “Dangerous.” She sat beside him. Their shoulders touched. Thomas folded the towel again and put it into the open top of his bag rather than burying it beneath clothes. Isha watched him do that. Then she leaned over and kissed him. No conversation followed. They stayed sitting for a little while until hunger became more persuasive than affection. Dinner was not one of Thomas's researched restaurants either. By then he had stopped objecting. They found a central restaurant serving grilled meat, vegetables and local dishes without demanding they experience everything regional at once. Thomas ordered beer. Isha chose a non-alcoholic drink because she wanted to walk more afterward. The table was larger than the one at lunch. Thomas appreciated this immediately. Isha noticed him moving his elbows. “You miss the flat.” “I miss furniture designed for my wingspan.” “You do not have a wingspan.” “Exactly. The lunch table disagreed.” Food arrived in stages. Grilled chicken. Vegetables. A small dish of pickles. Tofu with a sharp topping Thomas liked more than he expected. They shared most things without formally agreeing to do so. At one point Isha took the last piece of chicken. Thomas stared at the empty plate. “You did that deliberately.” “You were talking.” “That is becoming a pattern.” “You should speak more efficiently.” He took one of her vegetables. She looked at him. Thomas ate it. The restaurant filled gradually as evening advanced. A group of office workers took two tables behind them. A couple near the entrance were clearly on an early date, based on the care both were taking not to look at their phones. Thomas noticed because Isha noticed. She leaned closer. “First or second?” “Date? Second.” “Why?” “He chose the restaurant, but she chose the next place. He said *the place you mentioned*.” Isha looked towards them again. “You cannot know that. You are listening to strangers.” “They are speaking loudly.” She considered the evidence. “Second.” Thomas lifted his glass. “Thank you.” “I independently reached the same conclusion.” “Of course.” They left before the office group became significantly louder. Outside, the air had cooled. --- Morioka after dark did not transform into a different city. Thomas liked that. The streets became quieter away from the busier commercial blocks. Light collected on wet pavement where the afternoon rain had never completely dried. Cars crossed bridges in intermittent streams rather than continuous traffic. They wandered without much purpose. A convenience store supplied water for the room and two desserts they had no nutritional need for. Isha chose a custard pudding. Thomas bought something chocolate. They carried the bag between them. When they reached the river again, Thomas checked the time and discovered they had walked farther from the hotel than he thought. Isha looked at the map over his shoulder. “That is not far.” “No.” “You made the face.” “What face?” “The face where distance has offended your planning.” “I was calculating.” “You are on holiday.” Thomas put the phone away. “I am beginning to regret giving you that phrase.” “You gave it to me this morning.” “I know.” They crossed the next bridge rather than turning back immediately, adding perhaps fifteen minutes. At the centre of the bridge, Isha stopped and leaned against the rail. The river below had become mostly sound and broken reflections. Thomas stood beside her. She rested her head lightly against his shoulder despite being tall enough that the angle was slightly inconvenient. He put an arm around her waist. They remained there until another pedestrian approached, then shifted closer to the rail to let them pass. On the far bank, Isha pointed towards a darker line of trees. “Tomorrow. Walk that way.” “That is not a plan.” “It is exactly a plan.” “Destination?” “Not yet.” He considered tomorrow's section of the folded page still in his bag. There were museums. A temple district. A possible bus farther out. Several things he had read about and liked the sound of. The dark line of trees had not appeared anywhere on it. “Fine.” Isha looked at him. “That was easy.” “I am developing.” They turned towards the hotel. The room looked warmer beneath its lamps than it had in the afternoon. Isha hung her overshirt in the wardrobe while Thomas put the water on the desk and arranged both desserts on the low table. He was still standing in front of the only chair, reading the labels, when she put both hands on his shoulders and guided him backwards until he sat on the bed. He looked up at her. “Abuse of strength.” “Furniture management.” “Openly admitted.” “Yes.” Isha took the chair. Thomas smiled despite himself and accepted his dessert and spoon. Thomas's chocolate dessert was better. Isha denied this after taking a second spoonful from it. He protected the remainder by moving it to the other side of his body and finished under Isha's amused stare. Afterward, they prepared for bed without hurry. Thomas brushed his teeth while Isha changed. Isha used the bathroom while he found the charger she had already placed beside his side of the bed. The dark-green towel remained visible in his open bag. By the time the lights were mostly off, the city had reduced itself to a thin glow around the curtains. Thomas lay on his back. Isha settled beside him. For approximately twenty seconds. Then one of her legs crossed over his. A moment later, her arm followed. Thomas looked at the ceiling. “You have an entire side.” “I am using this side.” “This is my side.” “We are married.” “That is not how hotel beds work.” Isha moved closer. Her hair brushed his chin. He put an arm around her and felt her settle properly against him. For a while neither spoke. Tomorrow had one instruction: walk towards some trees. Thomas reached for his phone. “Alarm,” he said. “Eight fifteen.” “Half past.” Thomas considered arguing, then changed it. “You negotiated fifteen minutes from me for no reason.” “Yes.” Thomas put the phone down. A few seconds later Isha's foot found his beneath the sheet. Tomorrow's trees could wait until half past eight.