Waiting for Spring

The club was warm with noise.
Low bass, laughter, the sound of glasses touching.
For a night in Kyoto, the Filipino club on the edge of Kouzuki-cho felt unusually lively.

Among the long-established ryotei lining this hanamachi,
there was only one Filipino club—Bango ng Buwan.
Twenty years after opening, it had secured a quiet but undeniable presence in the town.

The club hosts live performances twice a day.
The band changes each time.
This week, the slot had been given to Gabi.

He would be staying in Kyoto for a while.
The office in Tokyo had connected him with the work.

When he stepped onto the stage,
low bass and laughter were already mixed together.

Back home, Gabi had sung hip-hop.
Here, he sang pop songs and old familiar melodies everyone knew.

When the performance ended,
Gabi lowered his guitar and bowed lightly.

Applause and whistles followed.
The lights grew slightly brighter.

The hall returned once again
to overlapping laughter and shouted orders.

From among them,
one man raised his hand.

He was broad-shouldered,
surrounded by three or four Filipina hostesses,
seated at a large square table.
Glasses and laughter blended comfortably around him.

“Come here.”

Gabi was called over.
One of the hostesses poured him a whiskey and water with practiced ease.

“He just came to Japan last week,”
she said, gesturing toward Gabi.

The man—Domoto—raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Oh, is that so.”

Then he smiled at Gabi.

“So, Japan’s cold, huh?”

Gabi searched briefly for words, but
“…Yes,”
was all he managed to say.

Domoto nodded, satisfied.

“Me, I look like this, but I really hate winter.
I can’t wait for spring.”

The word spring stopped inside Gabi.

In the Philippines, seasons didn’t turn.
There was heat, and there was rain.
There was no sense of waiting for a season.

“The Philippines must be nice,”
Domoto said.
“Always warm.”

He laughed loudly.
The hostesses laughed with him.

Gabi couldn’t find a reply.

“Spring…”

That was all that came out.

Domoto didn’t seem to mind.
He emptied his glass and placed a tip on the table.

I stay, and time moves on.
So nothing about me changes—
that’s what he had believed.

But while he stayed,
the scenery around him changed.
The temperature changed.
The light changed.
People’s hearts changed too.

Because things change,
time can be taken.
Waiting becomes possible.

“Domoto here,”
one of the hostesses whispered,
“he’s kind of the boss of the real estate around here.
He knows everything.”

“Oh no, not like that,”
Domoto said lightly.
“I’ve just been around a long time.”

Then he looked at Gabi,
his expression unexpectedly gentle.

“But hey, Gabi.
If you ever need something, just say the word.
I might be able to help.”

Gabi listened vaguely to the conversation that followed.
After a while, he gave a small bow and stood up.

That was when Domoto’s gaze fell on Gabi’s pocket.

“Hey… that bottle of yours.”

He stopped mid-sentence,
eyes narrowing as if something had surfaced in his memory.

“A long time ago,
I think I saw something like that.”

Gabi lowered his head slightly.

“My mom gave it to me…
when she was dying.”

The words came out smaller than he expected.

Gabi always carried the little bottle with him.
There was no clear reason.
It just felt like he should.

Domoto fell silent for a moment.
Then he let out a quiet laugh.

“Huh…
maybe that’s it.”

He shook his head.

“No—never mind.”

And then, casually:

“But hey,
if you feel like it,
go visit the old temple at Atago.”

Gabi heard it without really hearing it.

After packing away his instrument and exchanging brief words with the staff,
Gabi left Bango ng Buwan.

Outside,
the winter night air cut sharply into his skin.
He pulled his hood back up.

Walking with his head down against the cold,
he noticed a soft glow wavering on the black stone pavement.
He stopped and looked up.

Between drifting clouds,
a thin moon hung in the sky.

Waiting for spring.

He had never felt that way before—
and he was beginning to realize that he did now.