The kissaten had four counter seats and I took the one nearest the window, which faced a wall.
The master set down a cloth, folded it once, and put a glass of water on it. Then he started the hand-drip without asking what I wanted. I don't know if that means I look like a person who drinks coffee or a person who doesn't cause problems. Either way.
Outside, Ironai at half seven belonged entirely to a reversing truck and a Shiba Inu who had clearly developed opinions about the correct pace of a walk. His owner followed without argument. The bank facades on this street are the serious kind — stone that meant something once, import-export money, the era when this was where Hokkaido conducted itself commercially. Now the ground floors are selling things to people who will not remember buying them. I didn't go in anywhere.
The coffee arrived. The cup was plain, the pour was not.
I drank it slowly enough that the master refilled without asking. That happened once. I left before it needed to happen again.
By ten I was on Sakaimachi, which I'd already decided I didn't need, but I walked it anyway. The facades are better if you're not trying to photograph them. I noticed the space between buildings more than the buildings. A gutter was running from last night's drizzle and the sound it made on the drain grate was the only moving thing on the street.
I thought briefly about Ghent — not because Otaru reminded me of it but because it didn't. Different kind of city that got quieter. Different kind of peace with its own diminishment.
I wasn't sure I'd found the texture I came for until I was already in it.
By evening I was back near the canal. The light had gone flat and grey, everything wet from a drizzle that never committed to being rain. I stood on the bank for a while. Not the Chuo Bridge — a smaller crossing, no tourists, a painted railing where the paint had decided to leave in long vertical strips.
The water was doing exactly what water does when no one is watching it.