On ○○/○○, Singapore Airlines Flight ○○ touched down at Changi Airport at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon.

The moment they stepped into the arrivals hall, the humid tropical air brushed their cheeks—soft as breath. English and Mandarin announcements echoed against the high ceiling, wrapping the space in a foreign hush and bustle at once. Yet the noise wasn’t harsh. It carried the gentle rhythm of beginnings, like the first page of a new chapter.

Sugihara Taizo moved forward with calm, unhurried steps. The gray suit on his back still carried the same authority he wore in boardrooms and construction sites, but today there was a faint softness to his expression—something that belonged to travelers.

Beside him walked his daughter, Mirei.

Her pale beige dress swayed lightly, her heels tapping an airy rhythm across the floor.

A step behind them was Mishima Yosuke, a white shirt under a gray jacket, listening quietly to their conversation with a cool, composed look that hid more than it revealed.

Sugihara had come on official business—a site inspection for Kashu Construction’s Singapore branch. Mirei, using her school break, had offered to accompany him.

But for Mishima, this trip meant something else entirely.

It was a journey back to a man he had wanted to see.

A former mentor. A friend who had survived a violent storm of events at his side.

Asakura Soichi had been working as an internist in Singapore for the past six months. Mishima had planned this trip because he needed to meet him again—needed to see, with his own eyes, what remained after everything they had endured.

And in a strange chain of connections, Sugihara himself had come to feel the same pull. In the end, the three of them traveled together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

At the exit of the arrivals hall, a staff member from Kashu Construction’s Singapore office waited with a placard bearing Sugihara’s name. They exchanged polite bows. Suitcases were loaded into a waiting car, and a black sedan eased forward into the afternoon heat.

Their destination—

Raffles Hotel.

A legendary name: a grand old hotel once loved by British poets and writers, a place history had folded into its walls. Its white colonial architecture still stood proud beneath the Singapore sky.

Through the window, sunlit streets glittered. Modern towers rose beside older blocks, past and future crossing in the same frame.

A changing world.
Unchanging feelings.
The past intersecting with whatever came next.

Mirei glanced toward the back seat, where Mishima sat in silence, looking out the window.

“Doctor,” she asked softly, “when you meet Dr. Asakura… what will you talk about?”

Mishima let out a small smile.

“I don’t know. But probably—about where we each go from here.”

Mirei smiled too.

Outside, the tropical sun leaned toward the horizon, pouring gold over the city.

And somewhere beyond that light, a new story was already beginning—quietly, without announcement.

Beyond the White Doors — Arrival at Raffles

The car carried them smoothly. After passing through a road lined with green trees, the building appeared—white and luminous, cutting through the view like a painting pulled from another era.

A brilliant façade. Delicate arches. Wooden balconies catching the sun.

It stood under the blue sky with unshaken dignity, as if time itself had chosen to bow around it.

The sedan slid beneath the front porch. A tall doorman—Indian in appearance, immaculate in uniform—opened the door at once and welcomed them with effortless grace.

The instant they stepped inside, the heat vanished. Cool air touched their skin, and with it came a subtle shift—as if the speed of time had changed.

Chandelier light fell softly across marble floors. Somewhere deeper in the lobby, a harp played—clear and delicate. The musician was a young woman. White-gloved staff moved with perfect, practiced elegance, lending the space a sense of enduring courtesy.

Check-in was brief, smooth, almost ceremonial.

“Mr. Sugihara,” the staff member said in English, “your suite—the Somerset Maugham—has been prepared. For Mr. Mishima and Ms. Mirei, we have arranged individual Victorian-style rooms.”

Mishima returned the greeting with a hint of hesitation, still adjusting to the English. Mirei smiled quietly and followed her father toward the elevator.

The wooden elevator—old, polished, beautiful—rose without a sound. The lobby drifted away beneath them. Down the corridor, a classic brass plaque caught the light.

“This is your room,” the staff member said.

When the door opened, it felt as if time had been sealed inside.

A ceiling fan turned slowly above antique furniture. Lace curtains breathed faintly. A four-poster bed stood in quiet grandeur. Beyond the window lay a courtyard of greenery and the restrained sound of a fountain.

Mirei’s room felt like a small French chamber—calm and refined. A heavy mirror, a writing desk, a delicate lamp. She stepped inside and exhaled softly, as if she had been holding her breath without realizing.

Mishima’s room was nearby, placed where morning light would find it. An old map hung on the wall. A thick British sofa invited a sense of nostalgia. He set down his bag and approached the window.

Palm leaves swayed in the courtyard. White arches gleamed like something medieval, something dreamlike.

Sugihara, alone in his suite, stood in a heavier stillness. A portrait of Somerset Maugham watched over the room. The desk—said to have been used by the writer himself—remained in its place, unchanged.