The Rumoi Main Line's fogged windows and a child's change, remembered on the morning I saw the news of the line's closure

On the morning of April 1st, I stopped the headline that flowed onto my PC screen with my mouse.
It was news regarding the closure of the Rumoi Main Line.
Even though I already knew the content, when it was thrust upon me as a date, the outlines of reality became a little clearer.

After closing the screen, I remembered the time I rode it last winter.
Even though I must have been on the same line back then, I feel like time was flowing in a slightly different way than it is now.

In this article, I look back on the time I traveled round-trip from Asahikawa to Ishikari-Numata in December 2025, from my current perspective.

🚉 The pause when I said, 'This might be the last time'

The day after returning from Cape Soya, the morning in Asahikawa was just as cold as ever.
I went straight to Fukagawa, intending to ride the Rumoi Main Line.

My child wasn't very enthusiastic.
'I guess I'm fine,' they said without even turning their gaze toward me.

After a short pause, I just said,
'I think this will probably be the first and last time.'
It felt more like I was leaving them behind than trying to persuade them.

Deep down, I knew that the choice not to go would leave more of a mark later.
However, I wasn't entirely sure until the end whether it was right to leave that decision to my child just like that.

🚉 The outside temperature that returns every time I wipe the window

The train I transferred to from Fukagawa had more people than I expected.
Maybe about 20 people.
Even though there was a sense that they had come for similar reasons, no one made any move to confirm it.

It was cloudy outside, and small snowflakes were drifting by.
The inside of the train was warm, and sitting there, I almost forgot the cold.

However, the windows would quickly fog up white.
When I wiped it with my palm, the scenery regained its outline for just a moment.
After that, it would slowly fog up again.

In that repetition, the coldness of the outside remained only on my fingertips.
While I was inside the train, I felt as though I wasn't completely cut off from it.

🚉 The stillness of people looking in the same direction

People holding cameras, people looking around the train car—everyone was using this time in their own way.

There was little conversation, but it wasn't heavy or oppressive.
Rather than sharing something with someone, it was a sense of distance where everyone just happened to overlap in the same place.

It wasn't noisy, but it wasn't silent either.
I felt that this intermediate temperature suited this line.

🚉 Before I knew it, they were standing

My child, who had hardly looked outside at first, was, before I knew it, leaning forward slightly and gazing at the scenery from the window.

They were silently following the snow-covered fields and the houses that appeared here and there.
It seemed they were spending their time on scenery that wasn't particularly special.

When we arrived at Ishikari-Numata Station,
my child walked straight toward the shop.
Before I could say anything, they were already picking up commemorative goods.

They were moving differently than before we arrived.
I don't know where the change happened.
But it seemed like they had found something,
apart from the reasons I had prepared.

🚉 Riding a little early

I had thought that as the closure approached,
the number of people would increase.
That was one reason I chose this time of year, around the end of the year.

As a result, even though there were others on the train with the same purpose,
it didn't feel crowded.
Sitting down, wiping the window, and looking outside again.
That sense of space remained.

If we had gone at a different time,
this quietness might not have been there.
It feels like the timing of the trip was part of the experience itself.

🚉 What remains after seeing the news

Returning to the news from March 31st,
there were only dates and facts listed there.

The cloudy windows and the coldness of our fingertips were not included in that.

I don't know how I would have felt
if I hadn't ridden it back then.
But what remains in my mind now is not the information,
but the sensation of what I touched.

After closing the screen, there was a brief moment of silence.
Even though I wasn't trying to think about anything,
there was a pause before I moved on to the next thing.

Just like back then,
I can no longer touch the outside air,
but I can still remember the movement of my hands as I wiped the window.

＜Click here for the article from that time▼＞