Tanukikoji Shopping Street stretched out beneath its long glass canopy like a corridor between seasons—neither fully indoors nor outdoors, warmed by shopfront lights yet brushed by the cool air that drifted in from the open ends. Evening had settled softly over Sapporo, the sky outside deepening into a shade of blue that held the promise of a quiet night.
Mr. Nakamura shuffled along the arcade with a small, deliberate pace. In one hand he held a paper shopping bag of everyday items: shaving soap, a new pair of wool socks, a packet of roasted barley tea. In the other—held with surprising steadiness—was a vanilla soft-serve ice cream cone.
He lifted the cone slightly, as though offering it to the empty space in front of him. “Here’s to you,” he murmured. To whom, even he wasn’t exactly sure anymore—perhaps to his late wife, who had loved sweets far more than he ever did. Or perhaps to the past in general, that strange companion who grew lighter and heavier at the same time.
He took a small, almost ceremonious lick.
The ice cream was cold enough to spark behind his teeth, sweet enough to make him close his eyes for a moment longer than necessary. When he opened them again, Tanukikoji shimmered with its ordinary magic: teenagers laughing over crepes, tourists craning their necks at shop signs, the soft clatter of gacha machines dispensing plastic capsules of joy.
A group of students rushed past him, their scarves trailing behind like streamers. One boy nearly collided with him before skidding aside at the last moment.
“Sorry, ojiisan!” he called.
Mr. Nakamura waved it off with a gentle flick of his wrist. He remembered when he moved that quickly—when he and his wife would visit this very arcade on cold winter afternoons, ducking into shops for warmth, buying things they didn’t need just because it was fun to do something together.
He held up the cone again, this time examining it with fond curiosity. The swirl leaned slightly to the left. His wife’s never did; she ate hers too fast, laughing every time she got a smear of cream on her lip. He had teased her about it for fifty-three years.
He took another lick. A drip slid down the side of the cone, and he caught it with surprising agility. “Still got it,” he chuckled quietly to himself.
He walked on, passing a souvenir store, then a shop piping out the smell of fresh corn butter ramen, then a stall selling fluffy tanuki keychains. The arcade lights glowed gold on his silver hair, giving him the look of someone gently illuminated from the inside.
As he approached the end of the street, he slowed to a stop. A soft winter breeze slipped under the canopy, lifting the corners of his coat. He looked at the ice cream, now half-gone.
“It’s good,” he said softly, as if confirming it to someone beside him.
Then, with a final, thoughtful bite, he finished the cone entirely. No fuss, no ceremony. Just a small, perfect pleasure in the middle of an ordinary evening.
Mr. Nakamura straightened his shoulders, adjusted his shopping bag, and continued down the street as the lights behind him flickered and hummed, embracing him like an old friend.