Chapter 3: A Meteorologist Forgotten His Job, Suspected Due to Agoraphobia (2)
Otto was alone on the veranda once again, He let out a long breath that dissolved into the humid night air. Inside, the muffled audio of Dimensional Warrior Spielban hummed through the glass pane, providing a strange, nostalgic anchor.
An observatory, he mused, looking down at his sharp, ironed trousers and leather dress shoes. Do they think I am an astrophysicist?. The irony wasn’t lost on him; back home, his eyes rarely drifted above the horizontal frame of his dual-monitor desktop setup. Not to mention doing some astronomical work.
Otto sighed, completely unaware of a certain emblem sticking out on his attire.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Otto-san!"
The side door slid open, and Saki stepped out onto the veranda. She had changed her indoor slippers for a pair of sturdy, woven straw sandals and held a small, rustic bamboo lantern. The warm, amber flame danced inside its paper housing, casting long, fluid shadows across the gravel pathway.
"I told Mother I’d show you the shortcut past the rice paddies and over the river," she said with a bright, unaffected smile, her short hair bouncing as she stepped into the yard. "She insisted I remind you not to skip your meals. You work far too hard up on that hill, always staring at those papers and machines." “Right, let me help you carry some of those food boxes.”
"Right... of course. Thank you," Otto stammered, awkwardly adjusting the remaining food boxes. His tight formal shirt and stiff trousers felt entirely out of place in the rustic setting, but he forced a polite, corporate nod to mask his embarrassment.
"This way," Saki cheered, her lantern swinging in rhythm with her steps.
As they walked away from the cozy light of the farmhouse, the absolute dark of the 1986 countryside enveloped them. There were no neon signs, no distant hum of highway traffic, and no city smog to dull the world. The silence was thick and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, chorus-like chanting of frogs hidden deep within the swaying rice fields.
When they reached the edge of the path, the sound of rushing water grew louder. The river wasn't that wide, but in the dark, it looked like a ribbon of liquid mercury cutting through the earth. The water was so exceptionally clear that even under the night sky, Otto could see the smooth, pale river stones resting at the bottom, illuminated by the sheer brilliance of the Milky Way stretching overhead.
Saki stepped into the water without a moment's hesitation, the shallow flow splashing gently against her ankles. "Be careful here, Otto-san. The rocks can be a bit smooth, but if you step where the gravel thickens, your shoes won't slip!"
Otto paused at the bank, looking down at his polished leather dress shoes. Then, with a quiet sigh of resignation, he took it off along with his socks before taking his first step into the water. It was cool—crisp enough to shock his feverish skin and clear his foggy head, but surprisingly refreshing.
The middle of the riverbed offered a strange sort of equilibrium. The water reached up to Otto’s shins, threatening to soak the hem of his dark trousers, but he kept his footing by tracking the small, shifting pool of amber light thrown from Saki’s lantern.
"The village has been so quiet lately," Saki said, her voice carrying over the gentle rush of the water as she carefully balanced the wooden food box she had taken from him.
She adjusted her grip on the bamboo lantern, tilting her head back to look up at the dark silhouette of the mountain looming ahead of them. "But the older folks—Old Man Kazuo especially—are getting anxious. This summer heat is different. It feels... heavy. Not that I know what they meant by that though. Do you know Otto-san?"
Otto felt a cold spike of phantom muscle memory pull at his posture. In the corporate world, when your boss dropped a vague hint about an impending project deadline, you didn't panic. You nodded, you mirrored their language, and you bought yourself time.
"The atmosphere can be deceptive when the high-pressure zones lock in," Otto replied, his voice slipping automatically into his practiced, neutral PR tone. "We're monitoring the trends closely up at the station," Otto said glibfully, though he didn’t know anything about what an astrophysicist does, he just needs to offer a narrative based on other’s expectations.
Saki turned her head slightly, her eyes crinkling with genuine relief in the amber lantern light. "That’s what I told them. I said, 'Otto-san is up there with the big telescope and the radar. If a bad storm or a drought is coming, he’ll give us the early word.' We really do rely on you, Otto-san. Especially with the Tanabata Festival next week."
"I'll... do my best to ensure the village isn't caught off guard," Otto said, his throat tightening. The weight of her words felt far heavier than the wooden boxes remaining in his arms. He wasn't just an overworked salaryman lost in a strange dream anymore; to these people, he suddenly became a shield against the sky.
They reached the gravelly northern bank of the river. The air here felt cooler, tinged with the scent of pine needles and damp earth where the mountain path began its true ascent. Otto stepped onto a flat patch of dry grass, carefully placing the bento boxes on a big rock as he brushed the loose gravel from his soles, slipping his socks and polished leather dress shoes back onto his damp feet.
Saki stopped at the edge of the tree line, raising her lantern to illuminate the mouth of a narrow, dirt trail that snaked upward into the darkness. She carefully handed back the food box she had been carrying, placing it neatly on top of the stack in his arms. "The lanterns along the ridge path are lit, so you should be able to see the way up to the summit easily from here."
Before Otto could thank her and bid her goodnight, Saki reached into the deep, wide sleeve of her summer blouse and pulled out a small, additional bundle tied with rough twine.
"Here," she smiled, pressing it into the small gap beside the furoshiki cloth. "Mother slipped this in at the last second. It’s pickled plums—umeboshi—from the batch we put down two summers ago. She said if your fever returns while you're working the night shift, the sourness will help clear your head."
The small gesture hit Otto with the force of a physical blow. In Tokyo, a sick day meant an automated email thread and an extra burden on the rest of the team; here, his perceived exhaustion was met with hand-wrapped remedies and genuine, quiet empathy.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Please tell your mother I appreciate it."
"Have a peaceful night of observation, Otto-san!" Saki called out, already stepping back toward the shimmering riverbank. Her small form, silhouetted against the wide, glittering expanse of the Milky Way, began its slow journey back toward the warm, distant glow of the farmhouse.
“Now, are we supposed to go along the route?” Otto asked himself as he adjusted the heavy bento-boxes.
He then began to move.
The path was narrow, a steep ribbon of packed earth bordered by ancient, towering cedar trees that blocked out the brilliance of the sky. Every dozen meters, a rustic, low-wattage electric lantern mounted on a wooden post cast a pale, conical beam onto the dirt, barely keeping the thick shadows at bay.
As he climbed, the physical exertion began to take its toll. It seems the fever he experienced back in the 21st century apartment was also being carried to this place. Halfway up the ridge, the path leveled out near a small clearing. Otto paused to catch his breath, leaning his shoulder against a moss-covered stone marker that stood at the edge of the trail. The stone felt shockingly cold—unnaturally so—against his burning skin.
Having the time to take a look at himself properly after all this time, he finally began to notice some things. Just as he went to loosen his necktie, eager to let some air into his sweltering dress shirt, he froze.
The texture was entirely wrong. It wasn't the smooth, flimsy silk of his standard Tokyo corporate neckwear. It was stiff, heavily ribbed, and remarkably durable—like a heavy-duty military or government issue.
Frowning in the dim, conical beam of the trail lantern, Otto looked down at his torso.
The buttons running down the center of his dark jacket weren't the cheap, translucent plastic discs of his salaryman suit. They were heavy, metallic, and cast a cold, brassy flash in the night. He reached out with his hand, his thumb brushing over the face of the top button. Engraved deep into the cold metal was a sharp, stylized sunburst emblem.
Otto’s fingers drifted up toward his left lapel. There, pinning the structured, heavyweight fabric together, was a small, polished silver bar.
He leaned down toward the low-wattage electric lantern, angling his chest until the pale light caught the sharp, embossed kanji characters on the metal pin:
「気象庁 — 国分寺測候所」
(Japan Meteorological Agency — Kokubunji Weather Station)
The sudden rush of understanding hit him like a wave of ice water, completely shattering his lingering illusions. He wasn't wearing his corporate salaryman suit. He was wearing an official JMA Summer Formal Duty Uniform (Seifuku).
As he thought, he wasn’t in Tokyo. It also turned out that he wasn’t an astrophysicist as he supposed previously, he was in fact a meteorologist.
Just what kind of a dream is this? First waking up exactly at the date of his birth (1 July 1986), then finding himself in the shoes of a showa-era meteorologist who’s somehow fixing a local family’s television.
Otto began to think deeply about all kinds of interaction he had encountered in the past hour. It was then that the pieces of the puzzle began violently snapping into place.
Whoever he was in this dream, he hadn't been dressed for a casual evening walk or a simple neighborly visit. He had been dressed for an official, rigid bureaucratic briefing with the Kokubunji Village Headman and the Kagawa Prefecture committee to secure the regional safety protocols and deliver the critical weather forecast for the upcoming Tanabata Festival. In the unyielding world of 1986 Showa administration, wearing this heavy, formal uniform was legally required for such high-level briefs. This man had rushed straight from a high-stakes government meeting to help a local family with a blown fuse and a broken television, having no time to change into casual clothes.
It was no wonder that people seemed to really respect him.
But then he figured out a real problem…
First being, what was he doing here? Is it even a dream? Did he somehow be sent to another world, but what kind of crappy shit was this? Transmigrated as a meteorologist in the showa-era?
Second being, what was he supposed to do now? Return back home? Enjoying a retro lifestyle? Being married and having lots of kids to support the country? Could he even choose to go home to the 21st century?
Third and Last was, he actually knew nothing about meteorology.
(Oh god! just what kind of situation have you put me into~) (1)
