But . . .
Futawatari was still standing there. He looked to be deep in thought, his hand still resting on the viewing pillar. Mikami glanced down to the man’s feet. Spotless. His shoes weren’t new, but the well-polished black leather reflected clearly the dull light of the overcast sky.
‘Maybe you don’t owe me anything. How about you let me owe you, for a change?’
The man’s keen features came around, as though he’d been waiting to hear the words.
‘I’m not going anywhere. Don’t transfer me out of Media Relations.’
The Six Four investigation would continue, at least beyond the window for drawing up the plans for the next batch of transfers. The time would come, however, when Prefecture D would find itself cast fourteen years into the past, when it would make an enemy of the press. Mikami would be there to see it through. As press director, he would stand with Matsuoka at the announcement.
Futawatari was already walking away. He’d said nothing, and his expression had remained unchanged; all he’d done was flick his jacket collar up against the wind.
His insubstantial frame passed through the doorway. Mikami watched him go before he started to walk. Their shoes had been mirror images. No doubt the same was true of the weight of their convictions.
Mikami’s hand came up to his forehead. He looked up at the sky.
Snowflakes, dancing.
The white brought to mind his discovery of the Christmas rose.