Magic Spray
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"Trying to save your withering flowers? Want to increase your cows' and sheep’s milk production? Want to be YOUNG again? Now, your dreams are within reach. This magic spray, developed by Shiseido, Japan's largest beauty conglomerate, and the M-483 government magic department, can bring back to life all the people and things you long for and miss."
A deep, almost neurotic voice emanates from the sports channel, accompanied by a beautiful symphony, filling the dimly lit room.
The 68-year-old Tsubasa dozes in a rickety old chair, his thinning hair in disarray, a brown wool blanket draped over his lap. "Back from the dead?" His drooping eyes snap open. He adjusts his weak glasses before fumbling for the remote. He turns up the volume.
"Yes, this technology was tested last winter, and now, on behalf of Shiseido and the M-483 government, we are inviting one lucky citizen to be our first customer." Tsubasa's once-lifeless eyes flicker with something new, a glint of anticipation. "As our first customer, you won’t be charged a single yen. All we ask is that you participate in one full session, which we will document with a film crew. Don’t hesitate—pick up your phone and call our hotline immediately! The first caller will receive this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"
A bold row of phone numbers flashes at the bottom of the screen.
Tsubasa lunges for the red phone on his side table, dialing with the speed of a trained typist.
His breath catches as he listens to the ringing.
A small, silver-framed photograph rests nearby. In it, a woman with curly black hair and a white kimono smiles warmly, nestled against a tall Asian man in a football uniform. "Oh, my darling," he whispers, clutching the frame to his chest, "it's almost time."
A voice crackles on the line. "Hello! Dear customer, who am I speaking with?"
"Ah... this... my name is Tsubasa. I’m calling from the North Sea Lighthouse."
"Hello, Mr. Tsubasa! It’s a pleasure speaking with you. We’re currently counting the order of incoming calls. Please hold on. We’ll be right back!"
Tsubasa hugs the photo closer, whispering a prayer under his breath. The television screen shows the host and crew conversing in hushed tones, the background music repeatedly interrupting his thoughts. He mutes the TV, waiting.
"Thank you for waiting, Mr. Tsubasa. Congratulations! You’re the first caller! We’ll be connecting you to the studio live, and a documentary film crew is on their way to you right now!"
Before he can react, his name flashes across the screen. The host dons a pair of headphones, ready to introduce him to the world.
"Congratulations, Mr. Tsubasa from North Sea Lighthouse! This is Studio Live, connecting with you."
A slight delay causes an awkward pause before Tsubasa responds. He removes his glasses and clears his throat. "This is Tsubasa. I'm a lighthouse keeper, 68 years old. I used to live in the city with my wife. I was a football player. She was always on the sidelines, cheering me on. She witnessed every one of my victories. I miss those days so much. But ten years ago, my wife—"
The host interjects, "Of course! The people who stand by us in life are so precious... Oh! And great news! The film crew has arrived at your lighthouse! Let’s cut to them now!"
The phone line goes dead.
Tsubasa blinks, disoriented, as his worn, greenish metal door suddenly appears on the television. A sharp knock breaks the silence.
"The door’s unlocked."
The door swings open, and reporters flood inside. "Hello, sir!" A female reporter beams at him, motioning for a cameraman to move into position. An officer in a blue uniform steps forward, offering a sleek white aluminum canister. "We will not interfere. We are merely here to witness this miraculous moment."
Tsubasa’s hands tremble as he takes the spray. He inhales deeply. "My dear," he murmurs, "for ten years, I have lived alone. Every twilight, I think of you—when you were beautiful, when I was strong. I hope this spray will bring back that time."
The reporter discreetly dabs at her damp eyes.
Tsubasa kisses the photograph, setting it gently aside. He pulls off the blanket, strains to remove his pants, and activates the spray.
The room falls silent.
He shakes the canister and sprays the fine mist onto his atrophied, lifeless legs. A hush sweeps over the crew as the transformation begins—his muscles strengthen, his skin darkens from sickly gray to a rich, youthful brown.
Overcome with excitement, he sprays his arms, his chest, his face. His hair darkens, his body stretches taller, his frame filling out with the athleticism of his prime.
"Wait... wait, aren’t you going to use it on your wife?" the reporter asks hesitantly.
Tsubasa, now focused on dousing his crotch, barely glances up. "Oh, that old lady? She's dead. Cremated. She probably wouldn't want to come back. I’ll feel it FOR her."
His booming voice is thick with uncontainable glee. He stands up, flexes his muscles, takes a few jogging steps around the cramped hut. Then, with a maniacal laugh, he bolts for the lighthouse door.
No one stops him.
With his restored physique, he moves too fast. He sprints to the football field near the lighthouse, joining a group of young men mid-game. The cameras lose him in the blur of movement.
The studio cuts back to the hosts, their expressions caught between shock and forced professionalism.
"Well... at least it worked."
"Yeah..." the co-host replies stiffly. "Anyway, that was a magical moment! We hope everyone at home gets to experience this extraordinary product! Tune in next Saturday, same time, same place!"
The screen fades to black.
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by Lamu Xiangqiu 11.17.2020