[3-B] Tadashi Murakami (Former Firefighter) Act 3 #ThoseWhoCannotReturn

While drying his wet gloves, Murakami looks around.
The boy he rescued from under the rubble is sleeping, wrapped in a blanket.
"...Thank goodness."
He doesn't know if his raspy voice was directed at himself or someone else.
His smartphone is silent now.
No records or messages remain. Only the warmth of a human body felt certain.

When he takes off his gloves, his fingertips are swollen, red and black, and dust is packed under his nails. The tips of his fingers sting. The outside air is still cold, and the wind whistling against his fingertips passes through with a sharp sound.
The evacuation center set up in the gymnasium is submerged in the dim light before dawn. People's breathing mingles, and occasionally, the sound of coughing echoes. The old wooden floorboards creak—creak—every time someone walks, as if they are hesitating to wake anyone up.

Murakami smells the scent of fire.
In a distant town, a small fire is still smoldering. He should have smelled the scent of burnt wood many times back when he was on active duty, but this night, it lingers in his chest with particular intensity.

Morning comes, and word spreads through the gymnasium that relief supplies have arrived.
"There's water!"
"They say they're handing out extra blankets!"
People stir and form a line.
Watching the scene, Murakami lets out a long breath. A cough brings up phlegm from deep in his lungs, and his chest aches heavily.

Someone taps him lightly on the back.
"The child from yesterday... thank you for saving him."
When he turns around,a nurseis bowing deeply. Her eyes are red and swollen, and her voice is raspy.
"I... I just dug him out."
Murakami mumbles vaguely. But she shakes her head.
"Even so, if it weren't for you..."
Her hands are trembling. That trembling pierces his chest.

Past noon. When he goes outside, the sky is still overcast, but a little light falls through a break in the clouds.
In front of a pile of rubble, Murakami kneels again.
"Here, still..."
In the spot a neighbor points to, collapsed concrete blocks and wood are piled up.

Using an iron pipe as a lever, he lifts a board. The metal groans—creak, creak. Sweat runs down his forehead, and dust enters his nostrils. Even while choking, he does not stop his hands.
—They might still be alive.
It has been years since he quit being a firefighter, but that thought alone drives his body.

However, what he finds is a hand that has turned cold.
Murakami bites his lip and slowly covers the hand with a cloth.
"...I was too late."
His raspy voice is carried away by the wind and disappears. The sound of people around him sobbing softly spreads.

In the evening, when he returns to the shelter, the boy has woken up.
"Mister..."
A weak voice calls out to him.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for saving me."
The boy says in a small voice. His face peeking out from the blanket is still pale, but his eyes are looking straight at him.

Murakami suddenly feels a warmth in his chest. His throat tightens, and no words come out.
Instead, he gently strokes the boy's head with his dry hand. His hair is still covered in dust and feels rough.
"...You did well."
At those words, the boy smiles faintly.

Night.
Murakami sits down in a corner of the gymnasium and places his flashlight at his feet.
"Click."
When he turns the switch on, a small light illuminates his feet.
He tries taking out his smartphone, but it is completely silent now. All that is reflected on the black screen is his own haggard face.
—I can no longer leave records.
—I can no longer send messages.

Even so, a certain warmth remains in his chest. The body temperature of the boy he rescued, the warmth of the woman's trembling hands, and the words of gratitude exchanged by the people in the shelter.

Murakami suddenly remembers his old colleagues.
The colleagues he ran with at fire scenes. The days he rushed out to the roar of sirens and the wailing sounds.
—Back then, too, no records were left.
Yet, he certainly connected someone's life.

Outside, the wind howls—whoosh. The walls of the shelter shake—creak.
Murakami sinks his body into the blanket and exhales deeply.
There is still pain deep in his chest. The regret that there were lives he could have saved more often surfaces.

However, every time he hears the breathing of the boy sleeping next to him, that regret eases little by little.
—Even if there is no record left, there are things that do not disappear.
—In voices, in warmth, and in someone's memories.

Murakami closes his eyes.
"...Good night."
He doesn't even know who that small voice was directed at.
But that night, for the first time in a long while, he fell into a deep sleep.

👉 Epilogue (Ending) to