Foreign and Falling

Chapter 9: Shared Air

Adam

It was hopeless.

Dark. Raining. My limbs heavy, my mind slipping somewhere between panic and exhaustion. I was in the middle of a rural stretch of Japan I couldn't name, on a road I couldn't pronounce, surrounded by silence and shadow and a language I couldn't speak. I didn't have a map. My phone had signal, but no service. I had no way to call anyone, no hotel in sight, and my transportation—my bike—was as good as dead.

It wasn't just the weather. It was the overwhelming sense of foreignness. The isolation. The quiet that wasn't peaceful, but blank. Empty.

I couldn't read the sign, but I followed it anyway.

The characters were elegant, hand-painted in long brushstrokes on a warped wooden board, hanging crooked at the edge of a fork in the road. I had no idea what it said. It could've been a warning. It could've said "Dead End" or "No Trespassing" or "Bears Ahead." But it was pointing somewhere—and right now, somewhere was better than nowhere.

I dragged my bike behind me like a wounded animal. The frame was bent. One tire had given up entirely, spinning uselessly, wobbling on the rim. My backpack was soaked. My shoulders ached. My knees were scraped raw beneath my jeans. The rain had slowed but not stopped. It came in waves now, falling sideways with the wind, cold and sharp against my skin.

Every part of me was wet. My clothes clung to me like guilt.

By the time I stumbled into the town—or what looked like one—I could barely see. A few scattered homes, most with their lights off. A faint plume of smoke rose from a distant chimney. Trees loomed at the edge of the fields, and everything smelled like cedar and damp earth.

It wasn't what I imagined when I thought of a picturesque Japanese village.

It was smaller. Wetter. More quiet than charming.

Still, it was something. There were lights in the windows. That meant people. And dear God, maybe a hotel.

I stood in the middle of a narrow road, shivering, mud crusted on my sleeves, and for a moment, I considered yelling. Not words—just something loud. Something to say I existed.

Instead, I leaned against my bike, trying not to cry. That's when I heard the shuffle of sandals.

She appeared from the side path like a ghost—short, hunched, with graying hair tucked into a scarf and an umbrella held like a shield.

She said something in Japanese. Her voice was kind but firm. Urgent.

I blinked, unsure if she was real.

"I—I don't speak Japanese," I said, breathless. "No Nihongo... Ie Nihongo... Eigo?" I added, gesturing uselessly, hoping something might land. "I'm sorry. I... I fell. My bike's..." I gestured, then immediately felt stupid. "I'm American. English."

She squinted at me, taking a cautious step forward. I didn't know what she saw—a drenched idiot in broken gear, maybe—but she didn't retreat.

She spoke again. Slower this time. I recognized none of it. Except maybe the word for house. Ie, I thought.

I just nodded. "Okay," I said. "Yes. Sure. I trust you."

She frowned—maybe at my tone, maybe at the water pooling under my shoes—but reached forward and took my elbow. Not roughly. Just enough to guide.

And like that, I followed her.

Inside.

Before I stepped inside, I leaned my bike gently against the side of the house, trying not to scrape the siding or make a mess of the walkway. It slumped there like it had given up completely, just like I almost had.