On a clear day you can see Mt Fuji

The next train is the Tokyo Shinkansen to Kyoto, announced the voice over the PA.

The platform heaved.

“Stay close, Merle, a gap,” Mike muttered between breaths, with his elbows out as two Frenchmen and an American Veterans group closed in. The air crackled with the jostling and niggling. Mike and Merle defended their position, if not their dignity.

The platform attendant gestured them all toward the queue, snaking into the distance. Not since D-Day had the Allies formed and held so firm, but to no avail. The spirit of Ganbaru—perseverance through tough times, which had gotten the Japanese far in the war—had been ignited.

Merle broke first and pulled Mike away, leaning on his arm as they trudged off.

Hiroto smiled with his eyes averted, as he tapped Mike on the shoulder. He motioned to the two thin yellow lines that were marked on the platform to queue behind, one for each of the next two arrivals.

So obvious, so civilised, he thought to himself.

Bowing, not once but thrice, deep from the hip, he offered his spot in the queue and shuffled to the end of the line.

He glanced again at his reserved seat number.

He closed his eyes.

The ancestors nodded.

Allies formed and reformed.

The breeze blew.

Golden ginkgo leaves tumbled.

The old sign said, ‘Welcome to Edo’.

On a clear day, you can see Mount Fuji.

Daisies will poke their heads up when the concrete cracks,

at the end of the line.