Takada was awoken by the ringing of his intercom.

  Emiko had eventually fallen asleep but still woke up early, feeling hot and sweaty. She took a shower, then applied a cooling patch to the bruise on her upper chest, which had turned purple as she’d slept. It stung every time she moved her right arm. Only then, in the light of day did she open the balcony curtains. The sun was climbing, another hot day ahead. She tentatively stuck her head out of the door and there, in the corner of the balcony, she saw the object that had hit her, a baseball. She stepped into her balcony shoes, walked over and picked up the ball. Holding it, she turned and looked out towards the modern apartment block standing opposite hers. From somewhere over there, had someone hit her with the ball? Saved her life? Probably.

  After a light breakfast, she picked up the ball, rolling it around in the palm of her left hand. It was used. Well used. Probably been hit for a home run and bounced off the bleachers. Some type of adhesive was stuck on its base. The words To Takada were written on its side, between the stitches. Who was Takada? Was that the name of the person who’d thrown the ball? She could sit there all day pondering the question, or investigate now. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to find the thrower, but while the day was still cool, she thought she’d at least look into it. She checked herself in the mirror—jeans and a yellow blouse: respectable. She wouldn’t last long in the jeans but expected to be home soon and would change into something cooler.

  She left the apartment and crossed the road, ball in hand and a flu mask on her face. The apartment building on the opposite side of the road had a security door. She held back and waited until an elderly woman approached the door, and followed her in. She walked to the rear of the small foyer, where mailboxes were located, most, but not all, with a name tag attached. There, on apartment 803 was the name Takada. Bingo! Now what? She wouldn’t go up unannounced—that would be rude. Should she leave it be and return home? Normally she would, but last night wasn’t normal, and neither was today. She returned to the front steps, letting the security door close behind her, turned to the intercom and pressed 803.

  She waited patiently, eventually determining that walking away would be better than a second ring.

  Up on the 8th floor, Takada walked towards the intercom, rubbing his eyes.

  “Hello,” he rasped.

  “Hello, Mr Takada,” Emiko replied, pulling close to the speaker.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Emiko. I have your baseball ball to return to you.”

  Takada lifted his finger off the button and cursed. The ball had his name on it after all, and she must have checked it with the names on the post box. Why had he answered the intercom, and what to do now? His instinct responded for him.

  “Okay,” he replied, pressing the release button for the door.

  “Thank you,” she replied, opening the door and stepping inside.

  What had he done? Why let her up? He needed to get thinking, to activate his brain. But he had no time. He felt haggard and no doubt looked that way too. Should he run to the bathroom and splash water on his face? But she was probably already at the elevator. He wouldn’t let her in. No way. She’d probably accuse him of assault. By then why come here alone? The doorbell chimed before he’d time to think through his dilemma. He walked to the door.

  “Mr Takada? My name is Emiko,” she repeated, bowing before his door in the well-lit hallway.

  “Please, just leave the ball out there.”

  He checked through the peephole, seeing a masked, lone woman in front of his door. She looked to be in her twenties, but with the mask on it was hard to be sure.

  “Certainly, but please, Mr Takada, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  “What about?”

  “I need to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “For saving my life.”

  He opened the door a little. What was he doing? Why open the door? He didn’t need her thanks. And yet he did, and there she was.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She swung her head and checked the hallway. “Please, Mr Takada, may I come in?”

  He glanced behind himself at the darkened apartment. “Just a minute,” he replied.

  He closed the door, bustled into his apartment’s main room, flung open the curtains and opened the balcony door. He went to the bedroom, changed his shorts for jeans and threw on a new t-shirt, shutting the bedroom door after him as he returned to the front door.

  “Please, come in.”

  She entered, slipping off her shoes. The main room opened off the entranceway, with the balcony on its far side. A vinyl sofa ran along one wall, toward which he gestured for her to sit. Opposite her was a TV fixed to the wall, beneath which stood a cabinet, laden with trophies. Furnishings were sparse, but she guessed the rent would be at least double her apartment’s. At a glance, she concluded that a woman didn’t live there permanently and there had been no female shoes in the entrance area, so whatever he’d shut behind the bedroom door, it probably wasn’t a woman. Not that he looked like the sort who would have trouble getting attention. Far from it.

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  He pulled over a chair from the dining table and placed it opposite her.

  “Would you like me to wear a mask?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No,” she replied, with a shake of her head.

  “You may take your mask off if you’d like to,” he replied. She slipped it off, revealing her nicely rounded face. She looped the discarded mask around her left wrist.

  She must have recently emerged from the shower, as her hair was wet and her olive skin still retained a peach hue. He could see that her right arm wasn’t moving freely and noted the edge of the cooling patch emerging from the top of her blouse. He wouldn’t ask to see the bruise. Not at all. He needed to stay calm.

  “Here, your ball,” she said, leaning forward and handing it to him.

  “Thanks,” he replied, standing and taking it to the trophy it had sat on. He tried to reattach it, but without new adhesive, it wasn’t going to stay. He placed it on the cabinet.

  “You play baseball?”

  “I used to?”

  “Catcher, pitcher?” she asked.

  “No, outfield.”

  “Oh, but your throw is so good. Pitcher and catcher seem to do the most throwing, so I just thought…” she replied, her voice trailing off. If he no longer played baseball, that retirement must have been recent. Why? He was still young and looked in great shape, although somewhat dishevelled, judging by his facial hair. She’d noticed beer cans lying on the balcony. Had he been drinking last night?

  “I used to throw well, but no longer can,” he said.

  It felt like an age since she’d talked to anybody, due to covid restrictions. Nevertheless, though her ability to read social cues was blunted, she still recognized a closed door when she saw one and resisted the urge to ask more about baseball.

  “Then, I thank you, for being able to make one good throw last night to save me.”

  “Not a problem. It was the least I could do. I hope the pain isn’t too bad. Will you go to a doctor?” And what a throw! He still had no pain in the elbow, even though he’d thrown without a warm-up—never a good idea. What could that mean for the future? Might he be able to throw again? But what to say now? What to do with this woman on the sofa?

  “May I inquire, Emiko, what you were doing out there?”

  “I was hoping you would ask. I am sorry, Mr Takada, for imposing on you like this. It’s just, these covid restrictions, I think they are driving me crazy, and if I tell you why I was out on my balcony, you will definitely think I’m crazy. But recently, there have been few people to talk to about anything.”

  She wasn’t from Tokyo or the Kanto area. As he heard more of her speech, he realised she must be from somewhere south, but it wasn’t the Kansai dialect either. Her complexion was the shade that women call a healthy tan. Maybe she was from Okinawa? A surfer? Few modern city girls want that look for themselves, but as an outdoors person himself, Takada was naturally enticed by it.

  “I know what you mean. You’re not the only one feeling it. Many people feel isolated,” he replied. He could have just said, I feel isolated, but he wasn’t about to show that side of his emotions. “Please, tell me. Maybe I can help, that is, in a way that doesn’t involve throwing things at you.”

  “Trust me, this truly is crazy, but here goes.” Why was she about to unload on this guy? This young buck. Possibly the same age as her, and undoubtedly with no need to listen to her problems. “So, the thing is, for the last few nights, my dreams have been crazy. I’ve been seeing a visitor in my apartment, inviting me to leave with him.”

  “What kind of visitor?”

  “You promise not to laugh.”

  “Promise.”

  “It will be the craziest thing you’ve ever heard.”

  “Unlikely. Try me.”

  “The visitor is the man in the moon.”

  “The man in the moon?” He’d heard the term before. Wasn’t it the Western myth explaining the patterns on the moon’s surface? Similar to the Japanese folklore about the rabbit on the moon pounding rice cakes.

  “The man in the moon, in my room. Let me add, I’ve always been a bit of a stargazer, back home in Yakushima. That is sort of the reason why I chose that flat.”

  “Because the moon shines in at night. Yesterday it was the full moon,” he added.

  “Yes. Anyway, while I’m sleeping a vision appears before me, four times I think, of this incredible being, this moon in the form of a man, shining silver, asking me to accompany him, and my sleeping mind has accepted the invitation.”

  “Sleepwalking?”

  “Yes. I’ve never done that before, as far as I know.”

  “Last night, I noticed that the moon came out from clouds just before you appeared on your balcony,” he stated, not wanting to let on that he’d observed her the previous two nights.

  “Yes. There is something to that. When I go to sleep, the moon has been obscured. I leave the balcony door open to keep the room cool and just have the lace curtains open. And I think these visions appear when the moon comes out, although it’s never happened before. He asks me to follow, which I do, sleepwalking onto my balcony.”

  “When I threw the ball at you, you appeared to be trying to climb over the railing. Your leg was coming up, trying to hook your knee over. That was when I tried to wake you up.”

  “I figured as much. I had a sensation when I woke, like a memory, that I’d been trying to do that. So, craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Not quite. The craziest thing this month perhaps but these are crazy times we’re living in, so you’ve got stiff competition.” He looked down at her from his chair. She didn’t look crazy—far from it. But looks can be deceiving. It was certainly unusual to have her in his apartment—a stranger—in such bizarre circumstances, but perhaps that was a cultural difference. In Yakushima she’d probably known everyone, so entering someone’s home and trusting them might be second nature to her. “Do you think sleeping with the door closed and the AC on could help?”

  “Maybe, but in the heat of summer, these last few days, it’s hard to handle, and as you know, AC dries out the skin. It wouldn’t do to have cracked skin hidden under my covid mask. I’d lose all my confidence,” she replied, her lips breaking into a meek grin, which sent a stabbing pain through Takada’s chest.

  “What about a fan?”

  Why hadn’t she thought about a fan? That could do the trick. “I should have thought about that. I don’t have one. I suppose I’ll buy one.”

  “I’ve one you could have,” he replied, leaping from his chair. “Just a minute,” he said, disappearing into his bedroom, momentarily emerging with a fan. It had a long shaft, down to its stand. “It’s yours now.”

  “I really couldn’t.”

  “Please, it’s been in the cupboard. I honestly never use it.”

  “But still.”

  “Please, you’ll be doing me a favour.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I can carry it home. My arm kind of hurts,” she said, standing.

  Two minutes later he stepped up the entranceway of her apartment building. He glanced up at some of the AC condensers on the balconies of apartments on the 2nd floor, quickly able to see how those old units would struggle to cut through the summer heat.

  He stopped outside her apartment, pushing back against the urge to kick off his shoes and go in. “Can you take it from here?”

  “Sure, you’ve been the biggest help. I think you saved my life, and I won’t forget it.”

  “It’s my pleasure. To be honest, I am glad you came across to return the ball. Without you doing that I would have been left wondering what had gone on.”

  “Yes, and please don’t take this wrong, but coming to your place this morning was very out of character for me. I would never normally invade someone’s privacy like that. But I’m glad I did.”

  “May I have your number? Tomorrow morning, I will send you a message to see how you go with the fan.”

  They swapped numbers and bowed to each other. He turned to leave and then she shut the door. He walked to the elevator, sensing an acute ache that ran from his chest to his groin. Behind the door, Emiko, stared through the peephole, seeing nothing but the door on the opposite side of the hallway, but feeling like within her something had snapped into place, like a bone that had been—unbeknownst to her—out of joint, slotting back into its socket.