Under the Midnight Sun

by Keigo Higashino

It had been raining most of the evening, the kind of thin, autumnal drizzle that wasn’t enough to warrant an umbrella, but quietly dampened hair and clothes until you were drenched.

She made him think of a weed that had suddenly bloomed and now stood swaying in the breeze by the roadside, a tiny flower without a proper name—at least none anyone knew.

The only thing she forgot to throw out was the ashtray, the dust accumulating on it like the scar tissue forming over the wound he had left in her heart.

“No, there never was a sun in the sky over me. It’s always night. But not dark. I had something in place of the sun. Maybe not as bright, but enough for me. Enough so I was able to live in the night like it was day. You understand? You can’t be afraid of losing something you never had.”