It was about 15 years ago. At the time, I was living in Kyodo on the Odakyu Line, and in the middle of the night, I rode my bicycle down Shiroyama Street to buy some midnight snacks at a convenience store.
As I passed by a motorcycle shop near the store, I smelled something burning and stopped. The shop's shutter was closed, and I thought someone might be working inside, but it bothered me enough to walk around to the side of the building.
The window on the second floor of the motorcycle shop was open, and a thin haze of smoke was drifting out of it. The second floor was pitch black with no lights on, so I looked up, wondering if it might be a fire.
Then, an old woman wearing white underwear—or maybe a dress like a nightgown—poked her head out of that window. Since I was standing right below, our eyes locked completely.
If it were a fire, wouldn't she say something at that point? Like asking for help. But the old woman just stared at my face without saying a word.
It was so ordinary that it made me feel a bit awkward, so I asked her in a soft voice, "Are you okay?" As if to say, "Mind your own business," she closed the window smoothly without saying anything.
I thought to myself, "Maybe she was just grilling a saury fish?" and was about to leave, but for some reason, I couldn't walk away. Luckily, a police officer on a bicycle rode past on the other side of the street.
I called out to the officer and said, "Something feels strange about this house," and the two of us went around to the back of the motorcycle shop.
When we got to the back, we saw that the second floor of the shop was a living space, and an obviously abnormal amount of smoke was leaking through the gaps in the door.
I panicked and told the officer, "There's an old woman inside!" and the officer slammed his body against the door, forcing it open.
The moment he did, a massive billow of smoke gushed out, and I had to back away. The officer somehow managed to go inside to try and rescue the old woman.
Since it was a densely populated apartment area, I started yelling at the top of my lungs and pounding on the doors of the back rooms. Then, along with the surrounding residents, we formed a bucket brigade—which seems laughable now that I think about it.
Naturally, the fire couldn't be put out with just that, and the flames spread rapidly. I had completely given up on the old woman by then and was telling everyone, "It's too dangerous, you guys need to evacuate."
True to form, though, the police officer was amazing; he finally carried her—well, him—out of the burning house with a pitch-black face.
We lent a hand and laid him down in a safe spot, but when I looked closely, it was an old man. The clothes he was wearing were completely different too.
I went, "Whoa," and looked up at the window, but rescuing the old woman was clearly impossible by then. By the time fire engines finally rushed over and started putting out the fire, the second floor was a sea of flames.
After that, it seemed the old man managed to survive. He had nothing to do with the motorcycle shop; he was just renting the second floor.
He had apparently fallen quite far behind on rent, and I heard rumors that it was most likely a suicide attempt. Afterward, because I was the first to report it, I even received a certificate of commendation from the fire department.
By the way, about that old woman—she doesn't exist. Apparently, the old man had been living alone the whole time.
Both the police and the fire department brushed it off casually, saying I must have mistaken the old man for a woman.
There is no way I could have mistaken them. The old man they pulled out was bald, but I even remember the old woman's hairstyle. And above all, she closed that window right in front of my eyes.
Comments (-)