The Red Umbrella by the Bay

Tonight, once again, I shall tell you a strange tale from Japan.
Relax… but do not turn around too quickly.
I am watching just behind you.
Heh, heh, heh…

It happened to a man who came to Japan seeking the traces of his grandfather— but what he found was not the past.

There was a man.
An American, in his mid-thirties.
He had heard that his grandfather had once been stationed in Japan after the war,
and he came to Yokohama to trace the traces of that past.

It wasn’t sightseeing.
It was a quiet journey to search for the memories of his family.
He believed that if he walked through the same streets where his grandfather had once lived,
he might feel something—some hint of the past.
And so, he stayed at an old hotel near the harbor.

That night, the rain began to fall.
The air was thick with the scent of salt and asphalt.
Streetlights shimmered in the mist, and the sound of the waves echoed faintly from afar.

He walked without an umbrella, wandering into a small seaside park beside his hotel.
He simply wanted to see the sea at night.

At the edge of the pier stood a girl.
She held a red umbrella and gazed out toward the dark water.
She looked about fifteen or sixteen—
Japanese, perhaps, but her features carried a faint trace of something foreign.

Slowly, she turned and smiled faintly.
For some reason, at that very moment, he felt the urge to take her picture.

Only the sound of the rain could be heard as he raised his smartphone and pressed the shutter.
But when he looked at the screen, no one was there.
He lifted his head— and the girl was gone.

On his way back to the hotel,
he could hear the faint drip, drip of footsteps behind him—
as if someone were following in the rain.

When he reached his room,
a small red child’s umbrella was hanging on his doorknob.

It must be someone’s forgotten item, he thought.
Too tired to walk back to the front desk,
he decided, “I’ll return it when I check out.”

He brought it inside and leaned it against the wall.
From it drifted a faint scent—
a strange mixture of sea salt and old perfume.
Outside, the drizzle continued through the night.

Sometime past midnight, he awoke,
unable to move.
A cold weight pressed upon his chest.
From near his ear came the sound of someone quietly sobbing.

Bokoboko… bokoboko…
It was a thick, muffled sound—
as though he were hearing it from underwater.
He struggled to move, gasping for air.
When at last he broke free from the paralysis,
he noticed the corner of the room was faintly lit,
though no light had been turned on.

There—
the red umbrella he had leaned against the wall was now open,
standing in the middle of the room.

A small puddle had formed on the floor,
and a trail of wet marks led toward the window.

The next day, he visited an old house in a quiet suburb of Yokohama—
the home of his grandfather’s old friend.
It was the other purpose of his trip.

That friend, he had heard,
had returned to Japan in his later years and had lived out the rest of his life here.
His family had long exchanged letters with the man’s grandfather,
and so the traveler came to visit them.

An elderly woman appeared at the door—
the granddaughter of his grandfather’s friend.
She bowed and said softly,
“My grandfather told me to give this to you, should you ever come here.”

She handed him a small wooden box, worn with age.
Inside was a faded photograph—
a young American soldier, his grandfather,
and beside him, a Japanese woman smiling faintly.

There was also a sealed letter.
It had never been sent.
The handwriting belonged to the old friend.

“Your child is living here.
The woman will not last long.
People are cruel, and the child is suffering.
Come back to Japan, if only once.”

As he read the words,
he began to realize—
the girl with the red umbrella he saw last night…
Could she be the child born between his grandfather and that woman?

In the years right after the war,
there were many children born between foreign soldiers and Japanese women.
But society then could not accept them.

Such children were called Ame-ko—
“the American’s kids.”
Their mothers were shunned,
denied work, denied homes.
Many lived in poverty and despair.
Some left the city behind—
and some, it is said, threw themselves into the sea.

That night, back in his hotel room,
he opened the photo he had taken the previous evening.
The one that had shown nothing.

Now, in the center of the image,
stood the girl—
seen from behind, holding her red umbrella.

A chill ran through him.
He was sure the place had been empty.

Startled, he closed his phone,
but moments later it vibrated again.
The same image appeared on the screen.
Only this time,
the girl’s shoulders were slightly turned.

Each time he opened it,
she turned a little more—
closer, closer—
until at last, over her shoulder,
her eyes—his own eyes—looked straight back at him.

Terrified, he deleted the photo.
At that exact moment, a sharp snap echoed from the corner of the room.
He turned.

The red umbrella had opened—wide.

Though it had never left the room,
it was wet,
as if it had just been used in the rain.

He left Japan soon after.
But even after returning home,
on certain rainy nights,
he swore he could still smell the sea.

Today, Yokohama’s harbor is bright and lively.
The old foreign district is filled with cafés and tourists.
Laughter echoes where silence once lay.

Yet perhaps,
to the girl who once gazed upon the dark sea,
those lights might seem like a lid—
closing over the memories of the dead.

And when all memory fades,
and no one remains to pray—
the wind by the bay will grow heavy once more,
and from the dark water,
a single red umbrella will rise.

And someone will pick it up.

Ah, yes… such dreadful things truly do happen in this world.
And so, until our next tale, we must part ways.
May you remain safe… until then. Heh, heh, heh…