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「煙の行方」

鎌原薙（なぎ）は、カズ爺ちゃんの作業場で出された熱いお茶をすすりながら、世間話に興じていた。木の香りに包まれた小さな工房。カズ爺ちゃんが語る話はどこか懐かしく、時間がゆるやかに流れているようだった。

「そういや、隣町の霊媒師、相変わらず繁盛してるらしいな」

カズ爺ちゃんがふと口にしたその言葉に、薙の脳裏にある話がよぎった。

「宝篋印塔（ほうきょういんとう）が神社の境内に埋まってるって話、聞いたことあります？」

「あぁ、あるな。でも、どこにあるかなんて誰も知らねえだろ」

「……霊媒師に頼んだら見つかると思います？」

カズ爺ちゃんは一瞬黙り込んだあと、にやりと笑った。

「面白ぇ。よし、行ってみるか」

行列の霊媒師
霊媒師のもとへ着くと、長蛇の列ができていた。人々の顔には不安と期待が入り混じり、まるで神頼みをする巡礼者のようだった。

カズ爺ちゃんは勝手知ったる様子で最前列へ進み、付き人に話しかける。

「おう、久しぶりだな。こいつが相談したいらしいんだが、ちょっと特別に――」

「順番ですので、後ろにお並びください」

けんもほろろな対応。カズ爺ちゃんの表情が険しくなる。

「なんだ、昔はもう少し愛想よかっただろ」

付き人は無表情のまま「決まりですので」と繰り返した。カズ爺ちゃんは舌打ちしながら薙のもとに戻った。

「ったく、これだから商売繁盛ってやつはよ」

薙は無言で列の最後尾に並んだ。

燃ゆる紙幣
ようやく順番が近づいたころ、拡声器の音が響いた。

「これからお昼休憩に入ります。ご相談は休憩後にお願いいたします」

ため息があちこちから漏れる。カズ爺ちゃんは拳を握りしめた。

「俺の紹介でこの扱いとはな。まあいい、飯でも食いに行くか」

その瞬間、薙の中で何かが弾けた。何も言わず、彼はポケットから1万円札を取り出し、くるくると細長く巻き、小さな社の線香立てに突き刺した。

そして、カズ爺ちゃんから借りたライターで先端に火を灯す。

紙幣はすぐに燃え上がり、メラメラと炎が踊った。

「おい……馬鹿なことを……」

カズ爺ちゃんは呆れたように笑い、たばこをくわえた。

薙は静かに微笑んだ。

「カズ爺ちゃんも疲れたでしょうし、このまま飯でも食って帰りましょう」

何かを清算するように、薙は車へと歩き出した。

カズ爺ちゃんはその背中を見つめ、ゆっくりと煙を吐き出した。

煙の行方
車を走らせながら、薙は考えていた。

――なぜ、俺は金を燃やしたのか？

怒り？ 失望？ それとも、この滑稽な茶番に対する皮肉？

しかし、その答えは風のように消え去る。

助手席のカズ爺ちゃんがぼそりとつぶやいた。

「昼飯、何にするか」

「あー……カツ丼とかどうです？」

「いいねぇ、がっつりいこう」

薙は笑い、アクセルを踏んだ。

窓の外、遠くへと流れていく煙のように、彼の思考もやがて溶けていった。

💕

“Burning Bills and the Trail of Smoke”

Jack Reeves sipped the hot coffee that old Hank had brewed in his woodworking shop. The rich aroma of sawdust and freshly cut pine filled the air as they chatted about everything and nothing.

“Say, did you hear?” Hank leaned back in his chair, adjusting his old trucker cap. “That psychic over in the next town? Business is booming. Folks swear she can find lost things, fix problems, you name it.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “A psychic, huh? You ever see her yourself?”

Hank scoffed. “Nah. ‘Mind over matter,’ I always say. But I’ve known her forever. Just never needed her hocus-pocus.”

Jack smirked but didn’t press the issue. Instead, something popped into his mind.

“Hey, at the county fair last week, I heard this old story—about some buried Civil War cannon in the churchyard. You think that psychic could help find it?”

Hank chuckled. “Now that’s a hell of a question. Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

The Long Line to Nowhere
When they pulled up to the psychic’s place, the line stretched around the block. Folks stood in hushed anticipation, clutching trinkets, photos, or just their worries.

Hank, ever the straight-shooter, walked right up to the front and called over the assistant.

“Hey, tell your lady I sent this kid here. Just a quick favor.”

The assistant, a young woman with thick glasses and a clipboard, didn’t even blink.

“Everyone waits their turn, sir,” she said flatly.

Hank frowned. “Come on now, I’ve known her since—”

“Rules are rules.”

Jack, watching from the back, could see the irritation brewing on Hank’s face. The old man muttered a few choice words under his breath before stomping back.

“Used to be, a little respect went a long way,” Hank grumbled. “Now it’s just business.”

Jack simply shrugged and took his place in line.

Burning Money
After what felt like an eternity, they were just a few people away from the front when a voice crackled over a loudspeaker.

“We’ll be taking a lunch break now. Please wait until after the break for further consultations.”

A collective groan rippled through the crowd. Hank’s scowl deepened.

“My name oughta count for somethin’,” he muttered. “But hell, I guess not.”

Jack didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached into his wallet, pulled out a crisp $100 bill, and rolled it tightly. Then, walking over to the candle-lit shrine by the entrance, he stuck the bill into a metal incense holder and flicked open Hank’s Zippo.

The flame caught instantly, curling the edges of the bill as it turned to ash.

Hank watched, his lips curling into an amused grin. “Boy, you got a real stupid streak in ya.”

Jack smiled back. “Hank, I think we’ve waited long enough. Let’s grab lunch.”

Without another glance at the psychic’s place, they headed back to the truck.

The Trail of Smoke
As they drove down the highway, Jack stared at the road ahead, a thought gnawing at him.

Why did I burn that money?

Was it frustration? Spite? Or just his way of proving a point—something about the absurdity of waiting in line for miracles?

But before the thought could settle, Hank broke the silence.

“So, what’re we eatin’?”

Jack smirked. “How about a damn good burger?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Hank said, patting his stomach.

Jack chuckled, pressed down on the gas, and watched as the last wisps of smoke disappeared into the sky behind them.

“Ashes and Echoes”
A week had passed since Jack and old Hank had walked away from the psychic’s place, leaving nothing behind but the trail of smoke from a burning hundred-dollar bill.

Jack hadn’t thought much about it since. Life moved on. Work, beers with friends, the usual routine. But then, one evening at a roadside diner, he heard the news.

The psychic had doused herself in kerosene and struck a match.

The Weight of Knowing
Jack sat in his truck, staring at the glowing dashboard. He wasn’t sure why the news unsettled him. He hadn’t known the woman personally, hadn’t even spoken to her. And yet, there was something about it that gnawed at him, like a puzzle missing its final piece.

Was it guilt? No. He hadn’t done anything to her.

But maybe that was the problem.

The Old Man’s Verdict
He found Hank at his workshop, where the scent of cut wood and tobacco always lingered. The old man sat on his usual stool, whittling a piece of oak into something that only made sense to him.

Jack told him the news.

Hank exhaled a long, slow stream of smoke and gave a dry chuckle.

“Ah, now that’s something,” he said, shaking his head. “She went and lost her damn mind.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he took another drag of his cigarette and went back to his carving.

Jack waited for more, but that was it. No questions, no theories, no deeper reflection. Just a verdict, plain and simple.

She lost her mind.

And maybe that was all there was to say.

The Last Spark
Driving home, Jack thought about that day again. About the psychic’s long line of hopeful believers. About the way Hank had grumbled when they were turned away. About the flickering flame that had devoured his hundred-dollar bill.

He had burned that money without knowing why. A moment of defiance? A joke? Or had he sensed—on some level too deep to name—that there was nothing worth paying for?

The night sky stretched out before him, vast and silent. Somewhere in the darkness, smoke had risen, just like it had that day.

Jack turned up the radio, rolled down the window, and let the cool wind take the thought away.