The Morning Ferry – Part 1: The 6:40

The 6:40 ferry across Hakodate Bay was the quietest part of Yuki's day, and she guarded it fiercely.

She took the same seat every morning, by the left window, where the sun climbed over the mountain and turned the water pink. That Tuesday, a stranger was sitting in it.

He was thirty-two, tall, foreign, with sleep-rumpled hair and a laptop bag, and he was reading a Japanese novel upside down.

"Excuse me," said Yuki.

He looked up. "Sorry?"

"That is my seat."

"Oh." He glanced around at the empty rows. "There are twenty others."

"This one has the sun."

He considered this, and then, to her complete surprise, began to laugh. "Fair," he said, in good but accented Japanese. "I'm Daniel. I translate. I'm terrible at mornings. Please, sit. I'll share."

She sat. Out of politeness, she told herself. He unscrewed a flask and poured something into the lid, holding it out. "Genmaicha. Badly made. Please be honest."

She took a sip. It was strong and a little bitter.

"It's terrible," she said.

"Thank you!"

"You steep it too long."

"Show me."

So the next morning, she brought her own flask, and showed him how to steep it for a minute and no longer. The day after, he brought a rice cracker. By Friday, she realised she was early to the pier.

"Can I ask you something?" said Daniel, as the ferry slid into the harbour in the pink dawn.

"Yes."

"Do you always talk this little?"

"Only to people I like," said Yuki, and went pink herself.

"Green?" he said, using the English word, tentatively.

"Green," said Yuki, smiling at the water. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Crossing.