Chapter 4

Mr Matsumoto was asked to accompany the officer the following afternoon.

They told him it would be better if someone from the school was present, someone who could speak to Kensuke’s life as a student, someone who could provide context where necessary. It was framed as a courtesy, a way of softening what could not truly be softened. Mr Matsumoto agreed without hesitation. It felt, in a way he could not fully articulate, like a responsibility he was expected to carry.

The drive was quiet. The officer, whose name Mr Matsumoto had already forgotten despite being told twice, focused on the road with a kind of practised composure. Mr Matsumoto sat beside him, hands resting on his knees, watching the city pass in measured intervals. Residential streets replaced the main roads, the buildings lowering, the spaces between them widening. It was not an unfamiliar area, but it was not one he visited often.

“We’ll keep it straightforward,” the officer said at one point, his tone even. “I’ll lead the conversation. If there’s anything you’d like to add about school, you can.”

Mr Matsumoto nodded. There was nothing else to say.

Kensuke's address led them to an apartment building set on a residential street, the kind that existed in most parts of the city without distinguishing itself from its neighbours. The exterior was functional rather than maintained—common areas clean enough to pass inspection but carrying the particular anonymity of a building no one felt personally responsible for. Nothing was overtly out of place, yet the overall impression was one of quiet disrepair, as though care had been distributed too thinly to settle anywhere in particular.

They approached the door. The officer knocked.

There was a delay before it opened.

The man who stood before them took a moment to focus, his gaze shifting between them with a slowness that suggested either fatigue or something more habitual. He was older than Mr Matsumoto expected, though it was difficult to determine whether that came from age or the accumulation of it. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his posture slightly uneven, as if balance required more effort than it should.

“Yes?” he said.

The officer introduced himself, explained the purpose of their visit with careful precision. Mr Matsumoto watched as the words were delivered, measured and deliberate, each one placed where it needed to be. There was a pause when he finished, a space in which a reaction might have formed.

The man blinked once, then stepped aside.

“Come in,” he said.

The interior of the apartment matched its exterior. It was not untidy in the way of active neglect, but it lacked the presence of care. Objects existed where they had been left, surfaces were clean but not maintained, the air carrying a faint scent that lingered without being immediately identifiable. They were led into a small living room, where they sat opposite him across a low table that held nothing but a single glass.

The officer repeated the information, this time with greater detail. He spoke of the incident at school, of the ongoing investigation, of the determination that had been made regarding its nature. His voice remained steady throughout, unaffected by the content it carried.

Mr Matsumoto kept his gaze on the man across from them.

He listened without interruption, his expression unchanged. When the officer finished, there was another pause, longer this time, as though the expectation of response had been misplaced.

“I see,” he said eventually.

There was no visible shift in his posture, no tightening of the jaw, no hesitation in his breathing. The words settled into the room without resistance.

“I understand this is difficult news,” the officer continued, maintaining the same tone he had used from the beginning. “If you have any questions, we can—”

“No,” the man said, not sharply, but with a finality that closed the suggestion before it could develop. “I don’t think so.”

The conversation continued, though it felt less like an exchange and more like a process being completed. Formalities were addressed, information was provided, acknowledgements were made. The man responded, when necessary, his answers brief, sufficient to move things forward but not beyond that.

At one point, the officer asked about Kensuke’s recent behaviour, whether there had been anything unusual, any indication of distress or concern.

The man considered the question for a moment.

“He was out most of the time,” he said. “School, I assume. Or with friends.”

“You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?” the officer prompted.

A small pause.

“No.”

The word was delivered without uncertainty, without the need for elaboration.

There was something in the way he spoke, not in the content of his answers, but in the absence of anything beyond them. It was not indifference in the sense of active disregard, nor was it denial. It was, simply, a lack of engagement with what had been said.

When the officer explained that further contact might be necessary, that arrangements would need to be discussed in the coming days, the man nodded once, as though acknowledging a minor inconvenience rather than a significant event.

“If that’s all,” he said, “I have work.”

The statement was not dismissive, but it carried the implication of conclusion.

They stood. The officer offered his condolences, a phrase that felt structured, appropriate, and yet strangely disconnected in this context. The man inclined his head slightly in response.

“Thank you for informing me,” he said.

There was no tremor in his voice, no hesitation in his words. The sentence was complete, contained, requiring nothing further.

Outside, the air felt clearer.

They walked back to the car in silence. Only then did Mr Matsumoto become aware of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders, the way it released gradually as distance formed between them and the house.

The officer opened the car door, then paused.

“They don’t always react the way you expect,” he said, not looking at him.

Mr Matsumoto did not respond.

As they drove away, his thoughts returned not to the conversation itself, but to the absence within it. He had met parents before, had navigated difficult discussions, had witnessed a range of responses shaped by shock, grief, disbelief. There was a pattern to those reactions, an underlying structure that, while varied, remained recognisable.

This had not followed that pattern.

Kensuke, in the classroom, had been consistent. Reliable. Engaged in the way that made him easy to teach, easy to place within the broader rhythm of the class. He contributed when needed, participated without prompting, maintained a presence that required little adjustment.

He had seemed, in every observable way, fine.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat as the streets passed by in reverse, Mr Matsumoto found himself reconsidering that assessment.

The jokes, the timing of them, the ease with which Kensuke moved through interactions. The absence of disruption, the lack of attention drawn to himself. It was possible, he realised, that these were not simply aspects of the boy’s personality, but functions of it. Mechanisms that allowed him to occupy space without inviting scrutiny.

At school, teachers saw what students presented.

They evaluated based on performance, on behaviour within a controlled environment that offered structure and expectation. They assumed, perhaps too readily, that what they observed was representative of something consistent.

The apartment they had just left suggested otherwise.

Mr Matsumoto thought again of the classroom, of the way Kensuke had blended into it, neither standing out nor falling behind. At the time, it had seemed like balance.

Now, it felt more like concealment.

He had always believed predictability was something to be maintained, something achievable through attention and effort. That if he observed closely enough, if he managed effectively, he would understand the students under his care.

As the car turned back toward the main road, that belief shifted slightly within him, not entirely, but enough to leave space for something else.

Something less certain.

And far more difficult to account for.