Spring in Hokkaido.

Flowers crown the trees on the edges of the farms he pedals past. As the wheels on his bike whir they kick up dust, obscuring like the sun in his eyes; a hand doubles its duty to wipe off sweat before resting on his forehead. The farmers were up earlier than he— there they were, men rolling on in fancy American tractors spilling the seeds of the summer harvest. 

He takes his attention off the bare fields, the shimmering lakes and the mountains in the distance and turns it to the new teacher. That’s right, there’s  a new teacher that’ll be starting at the beginning of this term, fresh out of college and straight from Tokyo. What kind of person could that be, to go to a place considered career suicide before his career even started? Well. He will be finding out soon enough, he supposes. It’s best not to feel pre-emptive pity for people; it’s just another negative assumption. 

And like that he rolls onto the main street with all the businesses, all the pavement. Today will be the first day he comes in for work. 

He slows the bike in front of the small building. It is two unnecessary stories tall and much newer than the other buildings, and even then its white walls have been grayed by the soot and weathering of life. A dirty sneaker takes its place on the concrete; the bike’s wheels slow and then come to a stop. He walks it up the stairs like a reluctant mastiff and it is stored in the bike room.