No one is around, we haven't been followed. We're safe for now. The street is narrow, almost derelict and has an unnatural calm about it, as if something had marked off the area as hallowed ground. There are no moving cars as far as I could tell. Each car parked along the side of the road is deserted with a sense of finality. Like it knows its owner would never return. Colours don't seem to exist here, the ashen post-apocalyptic landscapes of The Road. When I had read it, deep despair settled in my heart. It grew until I had to take long breaks from it.

"When is the bus coming?"

She pauses. "Ten fifteen."

"I think I know where we're going."

"I did say you'd know."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Things are better left unsaid sometimes."

"Or un-thought of?"

She squints at something down the road. She brushes hair behind her ear as it gets loose. "Yes," she pauses, "I did keep it from you because you would be thinking about it – excessively - which means there will be a chance for Them to be one step ahead of us."

"Images or Sounds?"

"Both perhaps."

"What else do you keep from me?"

She remains silent.

"There's more isn't there."

She shakes her head and looks a little hurt. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you," I say.

We end our conversation and watch for signs of the bus. It is nine minutes past ten. Standing out in the open for a few minutes doesn't feel like a smart thing to do.

"It's okay to wait here."

I spin at the source of the voice behind us, as does Shizuka. We hadn't seen or heard him coming. His voice was soft, barely audible, a nice baritone of a professional radio DJ who might host a late night classical music program. He's wearing khaki pants and a burgundy sweater with a cream collar underneath. It is sort of disheveled looking, as if it had been machined washed one too many times, when it should have been washed by hand. There are little specks of lint and fraying threads all over it. At the same time, it fits him. He looks like a kind of lost dog: a little sad, lonely, and invokes compassion from his companions. His hair is a shag. It hangs just over his eyebrows, messy at the back of his head. He doesn't wear glasses but his eyes appear to narrow and widen every now and then, like trying to focus his quickly deteriorating vision. But the most peculiar part of him is his large black duffel bag with the cover open. From within sits two large white rabbits. They are large. Massive. Perhaps two of the largest domestic bunnies I've ever seen. Compared to the man who is of an average stature, they seem out of proportion, like they are the owners walking a human. One of them has both ears perked up, peering straight at us with round, black bean eyes. The other doesn't seem to care, ears flat against its cheeks and nose twitching.

We stare at him and his rabbits, and they stare back.

"You said it's okay to wait here?" I say.

"Yes, the bus is coming, but no one else will be looking for this stop."

"Why?"

"There are much better stops to wait at. There's no reason to come to this stop: it's completely out of the way, unless you have a particular reason to. Even the residents in the vicinity are either closer to the stop on that end of the street," he points to his left, "or that end of the street on the main road," he points to the right.

Shizuka remains silent. Maybe she is struggling to read his mind.

"We don't really have a particular reason to."

"No? I might be mistaken then." He has no expression but his voice is gentle.

"I understand you have a reason then?"

"Yes, well, several. But reasons are best kept secrets, right?"

To that, I say nothing.

He reaches one hand absentmindedly to scratch the head of one bunny. Then the other. The rabbits nestles against his hand and adjust their position. They look comfortable.

"They are wonderful creatures, aren't they?" the man says.

Shizuka smiles at the rabbits fondly. But it looks forced.

"Aren't you going to take pictures?" he says to her.

"Pictures?"

"Doesn't everyone want to take pictures of two white fluffy bunnies? Everyone who has seen them, immediately takes out their cell phones, saying how cute they think my rabbits are and asks to take pictures. Sometimes just the two of them alone; sometimes the three of us; sometimes they ask if they can take pictures with us. They might crouch next to the bunnies or just stand holding peace signs next to their heads. Quite amusing to see really. That's how everyone does things, so that's how they continue to. There's this girl who lives in the neighbourhood and calls me 'Usagi-san'. And the name stuck. I'm known as Mr. Bunny. I have almost forgotten my name!"

"They are cute, Usagi-san, but I think pictures ruin the moment. The natural existence of some things should be left untouched, uncontaminated. Recording a falsified version of reality will never truly do it justice, only perverting its meaning. The temporal construction of databytes to form some semblance of what we see can be collected and viewed on multiple, perhaps infinite platforms, each presenting a slightly different, warped interpretation. What is a moment in time is forced to become permanent, yet this permanence is only temporary like a moment in time. The truth will be lost." What she says sounds remarkably familiar, like my own words from a far-off source.

The man studies her for a little while and nods. "I'm glad to have met someone who is distinguished." He glances at me. "You too."

"Nice to meet you too," I say. I wonder the implications of what had said and what Shizuka had said. Why she said that to him, and why he said that to us. We don't trade business cards like regular people might. I don't have a business card, and neither does he, it seems.

We stand and wait for a little while longer. Like he said, there is no one else around. The tiny street here is empty, devoid of life, except for the three of us and two rabbits. I feel the lingering presence of Images or Sounds breathing down our necks, but these are surely only psychological effects.

"What are their names?" I try to start a conversation. But the man doesn't reply for a long time. We stand in an uncomfortable silence.

"They don't have names," he says. "They don't really need names. I can tell them apart, and that's all that really matters. You only truly need names within a society, a social community. These two rabbits I adopted when they were but babies and left at my doorstep. The three of us becomes the only social network they will be involved in for most of their lives. As such, we don't need names to refer to one another. But complications arise when there are more characters involved for a long period of time. We need names to refer to one another, when we are apart, like if I was talking about a mutual friend, or a political figure. We would have no clue who we were actually talking about if we didn't have names to refer to. But not so with the three of us. I am the human they happen to like and associate themselves with, and then they recognize each other, and I recognize the differences between them."

I nod.

"Besides, how can you truly tell if the names you hear are their actual names without checking for official documents? And even on official documents, some of which might be counterfeit, they are merely registrations with the government. Someone may choose to adopt an entirely different name, like an alias or pseudonym and introduce themselves as such, everywhere they go. Unless someone checks for their identification, no one would know."

He is a talker. An Etiquette-breaker. I watch the bunnies fumble around in the bag at his side.

"Tell me," he looks at me, "how would you answer, if I asked you this: who are you?"

I try to figure out what he's getting at but I can't be certain. Shizuka watches for the bus but I know she is watching me from the corner of her eye. She doesn't step in. It is disquieting to be having such a conversation with a stranger on Christmas morning, on an empty street. Usually conversations begin and end with things like "hello, good morning" and "have a good day".

I am silent for a long time. My mind is blank. Of all times, there are no thoughts in torrential downpour. It is only with much effort that I had been able to learn ebb the flow. But now, there isn't much I had to respond with.

The sky is darkening, like the clouds are threatening to rain on us. But it might be too cold for rain. The rabbits perk their ears up. They are waiting for something.

So I open my mouth and something like this comes out:

"I can tell you my name and that I'm a college student; I can tell you I don't like black suits or talking much, that I like reading books and I don't have a favourite novel, drink different coffees each time, hate numbers, appreciate good music with meticulous thought in its composition, and that I prefer summer, over winter. Afternoons over morning or night. With no real preference between the sea, the forest or the mountains. City over countryside. I like birds and noodles. Peaches and blueberries. I think the world is heading for ruin; there's too much saturated noise and information, and people don't read or think enough. I can tell you I generally keep my thoughts to myself but it seems I can't keep the jar shut, so to speak. I keep my emotions in check, not that I have much to begin with. I like to be alone, I don't really like people, but it seems like I can't manage without. I think I might like freedom but I don't know what it is. I like and don't like many things, I have many things to tell you or nothing at all. Which ones matter, depends. I can take a personality test with thousands of questions, check my blood type and horoscope, be labeled one or the other and share on a social media platform. Does what I like or not like, make up who I am? Does what I do matter? Does my personality and instincts in relating to people or world around me give me an identity? They are all just parts of being like each piece that is assembled to make a bicycle. The whole thing together may be called a bicycle but a wheel cannot stand alone as one. We only recognize the idea that it is a bicycle in finished form, in function, in our relation to it, but the bicycle itself doesn't know what it is. I don't really know who I am myself, nor do I think anyone truly does. I had no clue a few months ago, and even if I might now, there is no guarantee I will a year later. I think it's a journey and the journey for most people may never begin. There is no answer that will do."

When I've finished my outburst, he is taciturn, as are the rabbits. Shizuka is looking at me with an unreadable expression, like I had said something unexpected. Maybe I should have just said, "I am Maeda Naoki, twenty two years old, and an Anomaly."

There is silence so total it bewilders me. Like time had stopped again. Then the wind comes in howling around us, nipping dogs at our skin. I have no clue whether I had said something out of the ordinary or not. Or whether there is now divine judgment looming ahead. I had simply opened my mouth and some sort of incantation poured from my tongue. Usually I would mull thoughts over before I say anything, if anything at all. I don't prefer to talk, but this time, someone had reached in and grasped something within me and wrenched it out through my throat. I had felt it being pulled forth, even before the words themselves were audible.

The bus came into view just as I finished what I was saying. Now it draws closer, hissing and rumbling like a child's secondhand toy. It squeaks to a halt on frail suspension coils.

The doors of the bus open. The man suddenly smiles. The rabbits flatten their ears. "Well, I guess nothing really matters in the long run. Not our names, not our personalities, not our likes or dislikes. Maybe you'll see someday. Maybe soon, maybe not so soon. No one really matters. There are many billions of people in the world, and who are we really? Even if you think you might have something special. We might as well introduce ourselves as a speck of dust, no different from another. Easily wiped away, or sucked into a vacuum."

I shudder.

"Let's go." Shizuka pulls on my arm.

The man doesn't follow us as we step aboard. I wonder why he had come to the stop in the first place. "But what matters," he continues, "is how we die." The door shuts before he could say anymore.