Dead Hours — The Third Apron, Page 5
By Suha · Published
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Transcript
A silent full-page panel. Low angle from the floor of the middle aisle. Kaito stands alone between the shelf runs, small in the frame, holding one folded striped apron flat against his chest with both hands and looking down at it. The lit cooler wall glows at the back of the store and the fluorescent tubes run overhead. No dialogue.
Image description
A silent full-page panel: Kaito stands alone in the middle aisle holding a folded apron against his chest, small in the frame, the lit coolers glowing behind him.
About this chapter
3 A.M., rain on the dead-hours store. The monthly supply crate lands on the counter and Kaito unpacks it to find three fresh folded aprons where there have only ever been two people. Unable to let a count stand that does not match the room, he declares quiet war on a single number and spends the whole dead shift trying to establish how many people actually work at this store, spiralling over what it means that a supply system which has never once been sentimental has decided there are three of them. All night he holds the third folded apron up at eye level, dead-eyed, and mutters the same '...three.' The count refuses to resolve: head office puts him on hold, and a ladder of night regulars deliver flatly contradictory verdicts nobody can verify. The tracksuit regular says a shop has as many people as it needs and it has never once needed three. A drunk salaryman swears the replacement always arrives before the announcement does, because that is exactly how he found out about his own. A cheerful jogger insists everything comes in threes now, it is a packaging thing, and it means nothing at all. Kaito counts the two stools, the two time cards, the float, everything countable, and none of it settles the number. Rin films the whole vigil as 'How Many People Work Here', dropping the answer in the first minute — Toma asked her what size she wears, last week — which Kaito does not hear, and she has one flicker of near-sincerity late on, asking flatly whether he would still count her if she were not on the roster, and refusing to explain when he cannot answer. Near dawn, hollow, Kaito finally gives up, slides all three aprons onto the shelf and holds one up a last time with a small settled almost-smile: '...two.' A spare. That is exactly when the delivery doors slide open onto grey daylight and Toma walks in, cheerful as ever, in his own jacket, to collect the apron head office told him would be in tonight's crate — his trial ended a week ago, the roster has said three since then, and nobody thought to mention it because nobody had to. Kaito gets the correct number six hours late and from the wrong person; Rin, beside him, says nothing at all and raises the phone. Dawn light fills the store from exactly the angle the night began: three aprons, two stools.