TITLE: EYES OF THE DRAGONFLY
Each morning, the deep plum shade of pre-dawn drowns the city of Hisoka Japan. Washing it in a sort of muted loneliness Satoru equates with long nights and quiet suffering, the ghosts of his grandfather’s last words rattling their literary chains. (Between darkness and light, shadow—eyes of the dragonfly.)
Satoru Nakahara has not slept. His mind will not allow it.
Drenched in five a.m. twilight, bare feet to the patio cement, he leans against the red brick wall of his upper-class condominium. The dark clouds are thick and oppressive, overwhelming the moon and stars. Streetlights illuminate the roads with an eerie artificial glow, a vision Satoru finds comforting especially during morning patrol. His gray bathrobe is moist with dew and open down to his chest, exposing a plain white undershirt. Hot coffee in hand, he covets the city’s silence staring hard into the bordering mountains.
Any minute now, he thinks, they will come. But for now, there is absolutely no sound. Not even from the leaves and buds of his large pink cheery tree trembling in the morning wind.
Raising the small black binoculars hung by a strap at his neck, Satoru grins as he peers through the lenses. “There you are,” he whispers, spotting the man-shaped black shadows watching him from the far hills.
Today, there are three: one large, one medium and one small. They are closer than they were yesterday, closer yesterday than the day before that. How long until they catch me, he wonders, raising his coffee cup to his lips.