Pathway to Japanese Literature

After walking through the mixed forest for about twenty minutes after leaving the station, the hospital’s hedge would already begin to come into view, but even so, along the way there were valleys that dipped low and gentle slopes of small hills, and not a single house-like structure could be seen.
Though located just over twenty miles from Tokyo, it held the quiet of deep mountains and an air of complete isolation from human settlements.

It was just before the rainy season, and Oda, walking with a trunk in hand, found his skin growing damp with sweat within mere minutes.
Thinking how utterly remote this place was, he took advantage of the lack of people around to push up the hat that had been pulled low over his eyes and gaze into the distance through the trees.
In the Musashino plain, covered in fresh green leaves as far as the eye could see, the straw-thatched roofs crouching here and there within it somehow evoked a primitive desolation.
In the stillness where not even cicada cries could yet be heard, Oda trudged onward, unable to suppress his anxiety about what would become of him from here on out.
Was I not unwittingly plunging into a pitch-black whirlpool? Was trudging silently toward the hospital like this truly the most appropriate course for me? Was there truly no other path to survival? Such thoughts welled up one after another, and he paused briefly to gaze at the treetops.
Perhaps it really would be better if I died now.
The slanting sunlight streamed over the young leaves on the treetops.
It was a bright afternoon.

It had been over half a year since he received his diagnosis, and in that time, whether walking through a park or down a street, he had developed a habit of scrutinizing the way tree branches grew.
Estimating the height and thickness of branches—judging this one too slender to bear his weight, that one too high to climb easily—he would sometimes become so absorbed in these thoughts that he lost himself.
It wasn’t just tree branches—whenever he passed a pharmacy, he would recall the names of various sleeping pills and envision himself passing peacefully as if in sleep; whenever he saw trains, he would picture himself meeting a tragic end beneath them.
Yet the more he dwelled on death day and night, and the more intensely these thoughts grew, the more he found himself unable to die.
Even now, Oda looked up at the treetops and examined the condition of the branches, but immediately furrowed his brow and began walking in silence.
He asked himself: Do I truly want to die? Do I want to live? Do I genuinely possess the resolve to end my life? Or do I not? Yet as he interrogated himself this way, the only clear truth remained that he kept quickening his pace—this alone emerged undeniable amidst the unresolved questions.
When the image of himself trying to die entered his mind once more, he found he simply couldn’t go through with it—was this the fate humans were destined to bear?

Two days ago, when his admission to the hospital was finalized, he suddenly felt compelled to try once more and went all the way to Enoshima.
If he couldn’t die this time, he would go anywhere—having resolved this, it seemed death might finally be within reach, and he set out eagerly, but when he saw schoolchildren clustered on rocks and sunlight pouring over a vast hazy sea through his eyes open wide again after closing them tight before jumping off into waves below where rescue seemed inevitable despite knowing its futility; then leaning forward towards crashing waves only for doubt about timing ("Why must I die now? Why is this my moment?") followed by realization that maybe immediate death wasn't necessary after all—these visions made his death-contemplating self appear utterly absurd.
Thinking this wouldn't do—he closed both eyes deciding blind leaping would work best—yet upon standing at cliff edge became convinced rescuers would intervene.
Being saved meant nothing yet plunging itself held value; reaffirming this while bending toward surf brought sudden doubt—Will I really die now?
Why must I perish at this exact moment? Why does now demand my death? Then came creeping sense that perhaps dying immediately wasn't required.
He devoured a whole whiskey bottle bought there yet remained sober; laughing dryly at self-perceived absurdity before violently crushing red crab underfoot brought scalding tears.
Though immersed in grave seriousness earnestness floated detached like oil on water.
As Tokyo-bound train departed despair and self-mockery resurged enveloping him in gloom—yet by then momentum proved irreversible.
Before undeniable fact of survival failure he could only bow head defeated.

There was no other path but to reach his destination as quickly as possible and settle his fate. Oda walked along the high holly hedge, thinking this. To reach the main gate, he had to circle all the way around this hedge. He would occasionally stop, press his forehead against the hedge, and peer into the hospital grounds. Likely cultivated by the patients’ hands, lush green leaves of vegetable crops stretched beyond sight. He searched carefully for any houses where the patients might live, but found none. At the far end of the vegetable garden stretching into the distance stood a grove as dense as a forest, within which a single thick chimney belched black smoke toward the vast sky. The patients' daily lives must be situated there as well. The chimney was an imposing structure that could belong to a first-rate factory, and Oda wondered why such a massive chimney was necessary at a hospital. When he thought it might be a crematorium chimney, the place he was heading began to seem like hell. Given that this was such a large hospital, there must be a great number of deaths every day. Thinking that such a chimney must indeed be necessary for that reason, his legs suddenly began losing their strength. But as he walked on, the scenery of the hospital grounds unfolding before him gradually brightened his mood. Alongside the vegetable garden appeared a strawberry field neatly divided into squares, next to which grape trellises—as precisely assembled as architectural models—stood facing pear trellises in splendid three-dimensional harmony. Could the patients have made this too? Having lived until now in what felt like a muddied Tokyo, he inadvertently murmured how splendid it was, thinking this hospital might unexpectedly harbor peace after all.

The path was about six feet wide along the hedge, and on the opposite side of the hedge, the young leaves of the mixed forest hung so densely that they cast deep shade. As he peered into the grounds while approaching the pear orchard, two young men who appeared to be local farmers came into view walking toward him. They peered into the grounds just like Oda while conversing each time they looked. Thinking he had encountered people in an unwelcome place, Oda readjusted his hat low over his eyes and began walking with his head down. Oda had lost nearly all hair in one eyebrow due to his illness, replaced by carefully applied eyebrow ink. When they drew near, they abruptly stopped talking and passed by, staring at trunk-carrying Oda with curious eyes. Oda kept his head lowered in silence but felt their gazes acutely, and when he reasoned that locals must have witnessed countless patients entering this way before, something resembling humiliation pressed relentlessly against his heart.

When their figures disappeared from view, Oda set down his trunk there and sat down.
At the misery of being unable to fulfill his life without entering this hospital, his mood darkened once more.
When he raised his eyes, numerous suitable branches for hanging came into view.
"If I don’t do it now, I’ll never be able to do it," he thought while looking around once more—there was no sign of anyone.
He sharpened his gaze into a glare, grinned thinly, and muttered: "Now’s the time."
His heart suddenly grew buoyant; he found it darkly amusing that this desolate place could make him feel capable of acting at last.
A belt would suffice for the rope.
Aware of his heartbeat quickening against his ribs, he stood up and reached for his belt.
At that moment, raucous laughter suddenly burst from within the hospital grounds. Startled, he turned toward the sound to see two young women on the hedge’s far side chatting animatedly as they walked toward grape trellises.
Had they seen him? But these were the first women he’d glimpsed inside—a sudden curiosity overtook him; he hurriedly grabbed his trunk and began walking with feigned nonchalance.
Peeking through peripheral vision, he saw both wore identical vertically striped straight-sleeved kimonos, their white aprons fluttering into view even from behind.
Their faces remained hidden—a slight disappointment—but their figures showed vitality: thick jet-black hair casually bundled at their napes.
Undoubtedly patients—yet nowhere could he see leprosy’s characteristic disfigurements—Oda felt an inexplicable relief tighten his chest.
As he kept watching intently, they moved briskly forward—reaching toward trellises with gestures mimicking grape-picking from better days—then met each other’s eyes and burst into laughter again.
After passing through vineyards they entered lush vegetable plots—suddenly one dashed ahead!
The other doubled over laughing before clattering after her companion in pursuit.
Like children playing tag they shrank into the distance—stealing sideways glances toward Oda—until vanishing into deepened woods beneath that towering chimney.
Oda exhaled relief long held tight; averting his gaze from where they’d disappeared—he finally resolved to enter this hospital after all.

Everything about it differed from an ordinary hospital.
When Oda requested guidance at the reception desk, a well-fed clerk in his forties came out.

“You must be Oda Takao, hmm.”

Having said this, he scrutinized Oda’s face from top to bottom.

“Well, you’ll receive rigorous treatment here.”

Casually uttering this, he pulled a notebook from his pocket and commenced a police-grade background investigation.
When even the book titles in his trunk were meticulously recorded one by one, Oda—still twenty-three—felt acute humiliation while growing anxious about what unexpected realities might await within this hospital now completely severed from ordinary society.
Then when they led him to a small building beside the office,

“Please wait here for a while.”

With that, he left.
It was only later, when Oda learned this small building served as the outpatient examination room, that he felt astonishment—though no medical instruments could be seen there, only a single soiled bench resembling those found in rural station waiting rooms.
Looking out the window revealed dense growths of pine, chestnut, cypress and zelkova trees through whose branches a distant hedge could be glimpsed.
Oda sat waiting awhile but found himself unable to remain still; he repeatedly half-rose from his seat thinking he might yet escape during this interval.
Then the doctor ambled over, compelled Oda to remove his hat, and peered at his face—

"Ah."

When he gave a single nod, that marked the end of the examination.
Of course, Oda himself had already believed beyond doubt that he had leprosy.

"How unfortunate for you."

When told this—with its implicit confirmation of leprosy—even he felt crushed, all strength draining from his body at once.
Just then came a man in a white jacket who appeared to be a nursing orderly.

"Please come this way."

Having said that, he took the lead and began walking.
Oda started after him, but as his vaguely nihilistic mood from outside the hospital grounds faded, terror and anxiety began rising like a descent into hell.
He couldn't shake the feeling of committing an act with irrevocable lifelong consequences.

“It’s quite a large hospital, isn’t it?”

As Oda found himself increasingly unable to remain silent, he asked.

“One hundred thousand tsubo.”

With a curt answer as abrupt as a snapping tree branch, the man quickened his pace even further.
Oda felt anchorless, but when he saw the hedge glimpsed between the leaves,
"Are there people who fully recover?"

Though it vexed him to realize his tone had unconsciously taken on an almost pleading quality, he still had no choice but to ask.

“Why don’t you try your best to get treated properly.”

The man only grinned slyly after saying that.
It might have been a well-meaning smile, but to Oda, it felt unsettling.

The place where the two arrived was a bathhouse located behind the large ward, where two young nurses were already waiting for Oda’s arrival.
They wore masks so large they reached down to their ears; the moment Oda saw this, he involuntarily confronted his own illness, and a surge of wretchedness welled up within him.

The bathhouse connected directly to the ward and corridor; hoarse voices reminiscent of beasts and thudding footsteps clashed chaotically as they reached his ears.
When Oda placed his trunk there, they glanced briefly at his face but quickly averted their gaze,
“We’ll disinfect you…”
they said from behind their masks.
One of them removed the bathtub lid and soaked a hand in the water while—
“The water’s just right.”
Probably telling him to get in, she said this and glanced briefly at Oda.
Oda looked around, but there was no clothes basket—only a single slightly soiled straw mat spread out in one corner.

“You want me to undress here? On this?”

He barely managed to suppress the words that nearly escaped his lips, though his chest heaved violently.
Oda now clearly pictured himself taking that first step into the abyss.
When he began imagining how many lice-ridden beggars and vagrant patients must have undressed on this filthy mat, he became certain that in the nurses' eyes too, he now appeared identical to those itinerant sufferers—and felt anger and sorrow surge through his head all at once.
He hesitated, but with no way out and half-resigned desperation, he stripped naked and removed the bathtub lid.

“Is there some sort of chemical in it?”

While dipping one hand into the hot water, he asked—the earlier mention of “disinfection” having lodged uneasily in his mind.

“No, it’s just ordinary hot water.”

Though their voices rang clear and bright, their eyes unmistakably regarded Oda with pity.
He crouched to fill a bucket first, but upon seeing the faintly milky, murky water—disgust threatening to erupt anew—he shut his eyes, held his breath, and plunged in with a splash.
It felt like falling into a bottomless cavern.
Then,

“We’ll prepare to send them to the disinfection room—”

As one nurse said this, the other had already begun opening the trunk and inspecting its contents.
Let them do as they please—Oda, now naked, could only think that.
In deep water reaching chest level, he closed his eyes and merely listened to their voices whispering while rummaging through the trunk.
The ceaseless noise flowing from the ward tangled with their voices until coalescing into a mass that swirled endlessly above his head.
At that moment he suddenly remembered his hometown’s mandarin orange tree.
There had been times when he often napped beneath its branches spreading thickly like a bamboo hat—perhaps some thread connected those memories to how he now felt with closed eyes listening to ambient sounds.
As he mused on this odd timing of recollection,

“When you get out, please put this on.”

The nurse said, showing a new kimono.
It was the same vertically striped kimono that the woman seen from outside the hedge had been wearing.

When Oda finished putting on the lightweight kimono—its sleeves like those made for an elementary school child—after emerging from the bath, he repeatedly craned his neck to look at himself, struck by how shabby and ridiculous his appearance had become.

“We’ll send your luggage to the disinfection room—”
“The cash totaled eleven yen and eighty-six sen.”
“We’ll exchange it for hospital vouchers within two or three days.”

“Vouchers”—this was the first time Oda had heard the term, but he immediately inferred it meant being forced to use special currency established solely within this hospital. Yet as he grasped for the first time a fragment of the hospital’s system laid bare before him, he simultaneously felt a shudder like that of a criminal headed to prison.
He grew increasingly anxious that he might soon lose all ability to move, and came to know his own wretchedness—like a crab that had its claws torn off, becoming less and less capable.
He found himself visualizing a crab that could only crawl about aimlessly on the ground.

At that moment, a sudden roar of shouting erupted from the far end of the corridor. As he instinctively hunched his shoulders, the clattering sound of running footsteps abruptly echoed through. The instant the glass door at the bathhouse entrance flew open, a face resembling a rotten pear thrust itself inside. Oda let out a small cry and stepped back, feeling the blood drain from his face. A monstrous visage. Lusterless as mud, swollen so severely it seemed pus might spurt from the slightest touch, with not a single eyebrow to mar its grotesquely blank and vacant expanse. Whether from running or excitement, the man panted heavily as his yellow-festered eyes fixed intently on Oda. Though Oda's brow furrowed deeper still, this being his first vivid encounter with a fellow sufferer, he found himself compelled by timid curiosity to steal repeated sidelong glances. Would placing a wig upon a dusky rotten gourd create such a neck? Though no trace of hair graced chin or brows, the scalp alone boasted thick jet-black locks—perhaps oiled daily—meticulously parted down the middle. As Oda warily observed this jarring dissonance of features, sensing something deeply unsettling—

“What were you making such a fuss about?”

the nurse asked.

“Heh heh heh”

He was simply laughing in that repulsive manner when suddenly he glared at Oda, abruptly slammed the glass door shut, and dashed away.

When those footsteps finally faded at the far end of the corridor, another set of footsteps—steadily approaching—began to echo from this direction.
Compared to the previous ones, these footsteps were remarkably quiet.

“It’s Mr. Sagaki.”

They must have recognized him by the sound.
They exchanged glances and nodded in silent agreement.

“I was a bit rushed, so I was late.”

Sagaki quietly opened the glass door and stepped inside before speaking those words first. He was a tall man, one eye gleaming with an unnaturally beautiful light. Though dressed in a white uniform resembling a nursing attendant’s, his face bore such advanced ravages of disease that anyone would instantly recognize him as a patient. The other eye remained clouded—whether because of this contrast or not, its striking counterpart gave Oda an acutely discordant impression.

“Are you on duty?”

The nurse looked up at his face as she asked,

“Ah, yes,”
he replied briefly,
“You must be exhausted,”
and gazed at Oda.
His appearance made it difficult to guess his age, but his words brimmed with youthful vigor, delivered in a manner so self-assured it bordered on arrogance.

“How was it? Was the bath water not too hot?”

Sagaki was smiling as he gazed at Oda’s somehow mismatched appearance in the hospital kimono he had put on for the first time.

“Perfect timing, Mr. Oda.”

The nurses took over with that and looked at Oda.

“Yes.”

“Is the hospital room ready?”

“Ah, it’s completely ready.”

When Sagaki responded, the nurses turned to Oda and—

“This is Mr. Sagaki—he’s the attendant for the hospital room you’ll be staying in.
If there’s anything you don’t understand, ask Mr. Sagaki here.”

With that, they slung Oda’s luggage,

“Well then, Mr. Sagaki, we’ll leave this in your hands.”

With those final words, they left.

“I’m Oda Takao. Pleased to meet you—”

When he greeted him,

“Yes, I’ve known about you for some time now.”
“There had been a notification from the office.”

And then,

“Your condition still appears quite mild. There’s no need to fear leprosy.”
“Hahaha, now please come this way.”

With that, he began walking toward the corridor.

Through the trees shone the lights of residential quarters and hospital wards.
It must have been nearly ten o’clock.
Oda had stood motionless in the pine grove all this while, staring at those lights.
Whether this was sadness, anxiety, or terror—even he couldn’t distinguish the nature of his abnormal mental state.
The vision of that severe ward he’d first entered under Sagaki’s guidance kept churning through his mind—the man with a caved-in nose, the woman whose mouth twisted sideways, the skeleton-like figure eyeless as death—all flickered relentlessly behind his eyelids.
That’s what I’ll become too—he thought these things with a mind dulled by pus’s rancid stench.
Half-unbelieving—and terrified to believe.
When an image surfaced of Sagaki silently nursing critical patients amid bandages and gauze yellowed with suppuration—Oda shook his head and started walking.
What thoughts sustained this man who’d told him he’d lived five years in this hospital—what kept him clinging to life?

Even after settling Oda onto the hospital bed, Sagaki continued busily moving about the room and working.
For those who couldn’t move their limbs, he would wrap bandages, help them relieve themselves, and even take care of their meals.
Yet when quietly observing this behavior, there were many signs suggesting he wasn’t performing these tasks earnestly out of care for the patients.
That said, one couldn’t think he was treating them harshly, of course, but somehow he seemed to carry himself with an air of arrogance.
Even when thrusting his head into the groin of a critically ill patient on the verge of collapse to apply bandages, he never showed a displeased expression—it seemed he had forgotten how to make such an expression altogether.
Even if what appeared as an abnormal sight to Oda’s eyes seeing it for the first time, to Sagaki it was likely nothing more than a minor fluctuation in the daily routine.
When work became less busy, he would come to Oda’s bedroom to talk, but he never attempted to comfort him.
When asked about the hospital's system and the patients' daily lives, he would explain in a calm tone.
His explanations seemed carefully crafted to avoid any wasted words, yet each was expressed so aptly that Oda found himself convinced by every point—as if they could be transcribed directly into text.
However, he never asked Oda a single question about his past or the state of his illness.
Even when Oda tried asking him about his past from his side, he would only laugh and never attempted to speak.
Even so, after Oda mentioned having been in school until he fell ill, Sagaki suddenly seemed to develop fondness for him.

“Until now, I’ve had few people to talk to and have been at a loss.”

On Sagaki’s face as he spoke was clear joy, and a natural camaraderie between fellow young men had taken root.
But at the same time, when Oda pictured himself growing closer to leper Sagaki like this, he was overcome with inexpressible disgust.
While thinking this shouldn’t be happening, an instinctive revulsion surged up uncontrollably within him.

While recalling Sagaki and the hospital ward, Oda kept walking through the dark pine grove.
He had no particular destination in mind.
He had rushed out because he couldn’t endure the hospital ward—a place offering nowhere to avert his eyes.

As soon as he exited the forest, he collided with a holly hedge. Clinging to it almost unconsciously, he shook it with all his strength. Now that his money had been taken, even escape was no longer permitted. Yet he began carefully climbing over the hedge. No matter what happened, he had to get out of these hospital grounds. He felt strongly that he must not die within these walls. When he emerged outside, relief washed over him, and as he entered the mixed forest with heightened caution, he slowly untied his sash. I'm definitely not committing suicide. "It's just been decided I must die now—though I don't know who decided it—but everything's settled that way," he muttered as if blurting it out, draping the sash over a chestnut branch above. The hospital sash from the bathhouse hung frayed like rope, looking likely to tighten slowly around his neck. Then the thought of dying with this hospital-issued cloth began feeling utterly pathetic. But what did the sash matter anyway?—he reconsidered, experimentally tugging it two or three times until the thick branch clad in fresh leaves rustled with a cool sound. Though not seriously intent on dying yet, after tying one end and hooking it around his neck—finding it settled snugly against his throat—he tried shaking the branch with his jaw. The branch's thickness made it immovable to jaw strength alone, and it hurt. Of course this height was too low—what elevation would work better? He'd heard many times that hanged corpses typically had necks stretched a foot longer—though unsure if true—but figured a higher branch would suffice. Yet imagining his own corpse dangling with grotesquely elongated neck struck him as shameful. After all, this was a hospital—wouldn't obtaining proper medication secretly be far better? But even now with the noose around his neck, he realized these trivial thoughts always thwarted him—that precisely such trifles had dragged him this far in faltering steps. "Well then—" he pondered deeply, neck still resting on the sash.

At that moment came the dry rustle of footsteps crushing fallen leaves. Just as he tried to withdraw his neck from the noose, the geta on his feet flipped over.

"Damn it."

He gasped involuntarily and let out a small cry.
The sash dug into his neck.
He couldn't breathe.
Blood surged to his head with a thunderous roar.

"I'll die—I'll die."

In a blind panic, he thrashed his legs.
Then came the clink of geta against toes.

"Ah—that startled me."

He finally slipped his neck from the loosened sash with relief, cold sweat breaking under arms and down spine as his heart thudded violently.
No matter how disgraceful this blunder—how could someone bent on suicide startle at such trifles?—he lamented this perfect opportunity even as any will to try hanging himself again failed to surface.

When he crossed the hedge again, he began walking silently toward the hospital ward.
Why must my mind and body be so utterly divided against themselves?
But what on earth had I been thinking?
Do I have two hearts, and what on earth is this other heart of mine that I’m unaware of?
Are these two hearts always in conflict? Ah—am I truly doomed to never die? Must I live on for tens of thousands of years? Has death itself been denied to me? What in the world am I supposed to do now?

But when he came near the hospital ward, the nightmarish scene inside flashed before him, and his legs stopped of their own accord.
An intense disgust surged up, and he found himself unable to move his legs at all.
Reluctantly, he turned back and began walking, but couldn't muster the will to reenter the forest.
Then he started taking two or three steps toward the orchard he'd seen beyond the hedge during daylight hours, but soon grew repelled by that idea too.
Ultimately, returning to the hospital ward began seeming like the best option, and he turned around once more—only for the thick stench of pus to assault his nostrils, forcing him to halt where he stood.
At a complete loss where to go, his heart grew frantic with the knowledge that he must go somewhere—anywhere.
The surroundings lay dark, the glass doors of the long ward corridor glowing brightly nearby.
He stood vacantly staring at that dense brightness until its stark whiteness began seeming unnatural, gradually feeling an icy sensation like water trickling down his spine.
Wondering what was happening, he opened his eyes wide—only for the eerie atmosphere to intensify relentlessly.
His body started trembling in tiny spasms as a chill seeped through him like his entire being might freeze solid.
Unable to remain still, he hastily turned back again but suddenly became utterly bewildered.
Just where do I mean to go?
Where should I go? The forest, orchard, and vegetable garden being no places for me—this much was crystal clear. And yet I must go somewhere—that too was undeniably certain.
And yet,

"Where... do I... want to go?"

All he felt was his heart seared by vague anxiety—no place to go—nowhere at all to go.
As if he were a traveler lost in a wilderness, loneliness and anxiety swarmed over his entire body.
A hot lump welled up and his chest began to sob convulsively, yet strangely, not a single tear fell.

“Mr. Oda.”

At Sagaki’s sudden call, Oda’s heart thudded once heavily, and he staggered with dizziness.
He barely managed to steady his body as it nearly gave way, but his throat had dried up completely, and no sound would come out.

“What’s wrong?”

In a voice that seemed to be laughing, Sagaki said as he approached,

“Is something the matter?”

he asked.
At that voice, Oda finally regained his composure,

“No, I just felt a bit dizzy.”

However, his voice was so dry—sticking dry—that even he himself was startled by it.

“I see.”

Sagaki cut off his words and seemed to ponder something, but—

“Anyway, it’s late now—let’s return to the hospital ward.”

Having said that, he started walking.
Oda found himself somehow reassured by Sagaki’s steady footsteps and followed along.

The patients slept on beds as uneven as camels’ backs, spreading futons over them.
When Oda sat on the edge of the bed he’d been given, Sagaki silently sat down beside him.
The patients had all fallen asleep, and at times the footsteps of those walking down the corridor to the toilet were loud.
Oda lacked the energy to look at the grotesque forms of the patients sleeping on row upon row of beds. He kept his gaze downward, filled with the desire to burrow under his futon as quickly as possible.
Every last one of them were people riddled with leprosy—less human beings than breathing clay dolls.
The bandages wrapped around their heads and arms appeared stained blackish-yellow with pus, perhaps due to the electric light.
Sagaki was looking around the area once over, but—

“Mr. Oda, don’t you find something strange when you look at these patients?”

he proceeded to ask.

“Strange how?”

Oda looked up at Sagaki’s face—but in that instant, he nearly cried out.
Sagaki’s beautiful eye had vanished without notice, leaving the socket hollowly caved in like a skeleton’s.
The situation was so abrupt that Oda, left speechless, was thrown into confusion—

“In other words, these people—and myself included—are alive.”
“Don’t you find this strange?”
“Don’t you find this bizarre?”

Sagaki’s face, now suddenly missing an eye, gave off an oddly unfamiliar impression; Oda, fearing he might be hallucinating, regarded Sagaki warily despite his trepidation.
Sagaki seemed to sense Oda’s astonishment. He abruptly stood up and briskly walked over to the duty bed—the one in the center of the room where the night attendant slept—but soon returned and,

“Ha ha ha.
“I forgot to put in the artificial eye.
“Were you surprised?
“Because I just washed it—”

Having said that, he showed Oda the artificial eye placed on his palm.

“It’s troublesome.
“I even have to wash this eye, you know.”

And Sagaki laughed again, but Oda could only swallow the saliva that had pooled in his mouth.
The artificial eye was shaped like one half of a bivalve shell, its curved surface etched with an iris pattern.

“This eye here is already the third one.
“The first one and the second one both flew out when I sneezed hard—unfortunately landed on a rock, so they shattered.”

As he said this, he pressed it against his eye socket and worked it into place with muffled movements, but—

“Well? Looks alive, doesn’t it?”

By the time he said this, it had already settled properly back into its original position.
Oda, feeling as though he were witnessing some incredible magic trick, remained dumbfounded and swallowed his saliva once more, unable to muster a response.

“Mr. Oda.”

After remaining silent for a moment, he called out in a tone edged with sharpness,

“Even like this, I’m still alive—I find it strange myself.”

When he finished speaking, he suddenly softened his tone and smiled, but added:

“I must apologize for my rudeness, but I saw everything.”

“Huh?”

When Oda retorted in a manner that showed he hadn’t comprehended in an instant,

“Earlier, you see.”
“In the forest, you see.”

Sagaki said this with his usual smile, but Oda thought, *This guy’s not someone to let your guard down around.*

“So you saw everything?”

“Yes, I saw everything thoroughly.”
“After all, it seems you still couldn’t manage to die.”
“Ha ha ha.”

“...”

“When ten o’clock passed and I still couldn’t see you, I thought perhaps—so I went out to check.”
“People entering this hospital ward for the first time usually feel that way.”
“I’ve come across several such people myself, but most end up failing.”
“Or rather, intellectual youths—those types consistently botch it.”
“One could explain it any number of ways—”
“Then I saw your figure in the woods.”
“Though of course it was too dark to see clearly.”
“Just as I suspected—you climbed over the fence.”
“Ah, so you wanted to do it outside the grounds—I thought—but having no intention of stopping you, I simply watched.”
“Those who’d die unless stopped are better off dead anyway. And those who harbor something within that makes them rise again—they always fail.”
“It seems what’s inside won’t let you die properly.”
“I think—no, I say—the scale of one’s will matches the scale of their despair.”
“How could there be despair without will?”
“I’ve always believed the will to live itself is despair’s source.”
“But when your geta flipped over—I must admit that startled me.”
“How did you feel?”

Oda couldn’t tell whether it was meant seriously or as a joke, but as he listened to those pompous words, an intense fury gradually welled up within him,

“I thought, ‘I can die successfully,’ and felt relieved.”

he retorted, but—

“At the same time, the heart pounded.”

he had ended up confessing honestly.

“Hmm,”

Sagaki pondered.

“Mr. Oda—don’t you think there’s something unexpected lurking in this gap between contradictions? The mind that finds relief in being able to die, and the heart that keeps pounding.”

“I haven’t even tried to explore it.”

“I see.”

Sagaki stood up as if about to cut short the conversation, but then sat back down again.

“Though it’s terribly rude of me to say such a thing on the very day we’ve met for the first time,”

he prefaced in a gentle voice,

“Mr. Oda, I feel as though I understand your feelings quite well.”
“As I mentioned during the day, I came here five years ago.”
“You are now experiencing my feelings from that time five years prior—no, even greater anguish than that.”
“I truly understand your feelings well.”
“But Mr. Oda, you will surely be able to live.”
“There is surely a way to live.”
“No matter how far one goes, I believe there is surely an escape route in life.”
“Let us become even more humble toward ourselves and our own lives.”

Because he had said something unexpected, Oda looked up at Sagaki’s face in surprise.
Sagaki’s face—half-collapsed yet somehow hardened—twitched spasmodically as he spoke with intensity, the dim electric light accentuating its jagged contours.
Sagaki remained deeply engrossed in thought for some time,

"Anyway, I think becoming fully a leper is what matters most."

he said.
A defiant spirit peered through those brief words.

“It may seem a terribly cruel thing to say to you who’ve only just been admitted.”
“What I just said.”
“But I think it’s better for you than sympathy or comforting with sympathy.”
“In truth, there is nothing farther from love than sympathy.”
“Moreover, how on earth could a half-collapsed fellow patient like me possibly comfort you properly?”
“After all, any comfort offered would have its lies exposed in no time, don’t you think?”

“I understand well what you’re saying.”

Oda tried to continue speaking, but at that moment,

“Gotta piss…”

A hoarse voice came from the bed at the far end, so he fell silent.
Sagaki quickly stood up and walked toward the man.
Oda realized for the first time that the man had addressed Sagaki as “Mr. On-Duty.”

“What is it?”

Sagaki said curtly.

“I need to piss...”

“It’s about urinating, huh? Alright, alright.”
“Go to the toilet or use a bedpan—which’ll it be?”

“Go to the shitter.”

Sagaki hoisted the man onto his back with practiced ease and went out into the hallway.
When viewed from behind, the man being carried had lost both legs, and near his kneecaps, something white resembling bandages were visible.

What a monstrous world this was.
Here in this hell, Sagaki said he would live.
But how was I to determine my approach to living?

It was the first question that had come to Oda’s mind since contracting the disease.
Oda examined his palms intently, studied his feet, then pressed his hands against his chest in exploration.
Everything had been stripped away until only life remained.
He surveyed his surroundings as though seeing them anew.
The space hung thick with pus-clouded air, lined with row upon row of beds.
A moribund patient lay upon one; the rest held bandages and gauze, prosthetic legs and crutches.
There he sat amidst these accumulated remnants.
As he stared fixedly at them, Oda felt life—viscous and clinging—coating every inch of his being.
Try as he might to shake free, it held him fast with the tenacity of birdlime.

Sagaki, who had returned from the restroom, laid the man down as before and asked while covering him with a futon: “Is there anything else you need?” When the man answered that he needed nothing more, Sagaki came to Oda’s bed again and said: “Well, Mr. Oda. Let us make a new start. For that, I believe it’s first necessary to fully become a leper.” He seemed to have completely forgotten about the man he had taken to the restroom, and this struck Oda deeply. In Sagaki’s heart, there must have been no leprosy, no hospital, no patients. Was this crumbling man’s inner being fashioned from some entirely different fabric than ours? To Oda, Sagaki’s figure gradually began to loom larger.

“In the face of this fact—that I cannot fully die—I too seem to be gradually yielding.”

When Oda said this,

“That’s right.”

Sagaki gazed attentively at Oda’s face,

“But you still cannot yield to leprosy.”
“Your case remains mild, and truth be told, yielding to leprosy isn’t easily done.”
“Yet you must yield once and for all—grasp firmly the eyes of a leper.”
“Otherwise, this new contest cannot begin.”

“A contest fought in earnest.”

“Indeed—it resembles a duel to the death.”

It was pale and transparent like a moonlit night.
But nowhere was the moon visible; he couldn’t even tell whether it was night or day.
It was merely a pale and transparent field.
Through this Oda ran and ran.
His chest heaved until breathing grew difficult.
But to collapse meant death.
He had to flee desperately.
The pursuers closed in rapidly.
They drew nearer still.
The pounding of his heart reached his skull; his legs tangled beneath him.
He nearly fell time and again.
The pursuers' battle cries now pressed close at hand.
Find somewhere to hide—quickly.
He looked ahead and froze rigid.
A holly hedge stood before him.
Trapped completely; the shouts already rang at his ears.
Glancing down suddenly—a narrow stream at his feet, a waterless ditch. In desperation he leapt in, legs sucked down with a viscous slurp.
"Damnation," he thought, yanking at his legs only to feel them slide deeper with a slick gulp.
Already the swamp reached his waist.
He thrashed, he clawed, but the mire kept rising—waist to belly, belly to chest.

It was a bottomless quagmire; he could no longer move.
His legs had gone numb and wouldn’t move.
He could only gasp for breath, his eyes rolling wildly.
A scream of “Uwaaa!” rang out overhead.
“That bastard’s already dead, yet he went and ran away!”
“Damn you! We won’t let you escape now!”
“We won’t let you get away!”
“Burn him alive!”
“Capture him!”
“Capture him!”
They came jumbled together.
Thudding, tremendous footsteps resounded like distant thunder.
A prickling sensation ran through him—every hair on his body stood on end as if his very spine had frozen to the marrow.
—I’ll be killed, I’ll be killed.
A hot mass rolled heavily in his chest, but not a single tear remained—they’d all dried up.
When he suddenly noticed, he was standing beneath a mikan tree.
It was a familiar mikan tree.

It was a bleak and rainy dusk.
Before he knew it, he had donned a conical sedge hat.
He wore a white kimono with gaiters tied around his legs and straw sandals on his feet.
The pursuers raised their war cries in the distance.
They seemed to draw near again.
He crouched at the base of the mikan tree and held his breath—the instant he did, a booming laugh rang out overhead.
When he looked up with a start, Sagaki stood there.
A terrifyingly enormous Sagaki.
He appeared twice his usual size.
The man looked down from the tree.
His face—cured of leprosy—was grotesquely beautiful.
Two thick eyebrows arched boldly.
Oda instinctively touched his own brows and froze.
The remaining one that should have been there was now gone.
He frantically rubbed the spot again and again, but nothing remained.
Only smooth skin met his fingers.
Grief erupted violently within him as tears streamed down.

Sagaki was grinning mockingly.

“You’re still a leper.”

From the treetop, he said.

“Mr. Sagaki, have you already been cured of your leprosy?”

He listened fearfully.

“I’m cured. Leprosy or whatever—it can be cured anytime.”

“Then should I be cured as well?”

“You won’t be cured.”
“You.”
“You won’t be cured.”
“How unfortunate for you.”

“How can I be cured?”
“Mr. Sagaki.”
“I beg you, please tell me.”

With his thick eyebrows writhing and contorting, Sagaki laughed.

“Please, I’m begging you.”
“Please, tell me.”
“I truly mean it.”

He joined his palms together, bent at the waist, and muttered prayer-like phrases under his breath.

“Hmph! As if I’d tell you. As if I’d tell you.”
“You’re already dead.”
“Because you’re already dead.”

And Sagaki grinned mockingly, then suddenly shouted in an ear-splitting voice.

“Still alive, are you? Still—you—you’re still alive!”

And he glared fiercely.
The eyes were terrifying.
Oda found them more terrifying than the artificial eye.
He braced himself to flee, but it was already too late.
In a flash, Sagaki leaped down from the treetop.
Oda had been effortlessly scooped up under the arm of the giant Sagaki.
He waved his hands and kicked his legs, but the giant paid no attention.

“Now then, let’s roast you alive.”

And he started walking.
Right before his eyes stood a terrifying pillar of fire.
A swirling vortex of blazing flames was roaring with a thunderous sound.
He was thrown into those flames.
He writhed, bereft of self or world.
It was futile.
What should I do? What should I do? A scorching wind blew in and caressed my face.
Cold sweat streamed down his entire body.
Sagaki advanced leisurely toward the pillar of fire.
In an attempt not to be thrown, he clung to Sagaki’s torso.
Sagaki braced himself, took his stance, and swayed back and forth.
Each time his body swayed unsteadily and approached the flames, the scorched air would caress his face.
Oda screamed desperately.

“I’m going to be killed...
I’m... going... to be killed...
I’m going to be killed by someone else—”

When he wrenched out a bloodcurdling voice, the voice of Oda within the dream reached the ears of Oda on the bed with perfect clarity.
It was a strange moment.

Ah, it was a dream.

Cold sweat drenched his entire body, and his heart pounded violently.
The voice that had screamed “I’m going to be killed by someone else—” still clung to his ears.
His heart was utterly terrified. Burying his head deep into the futon and keeping his eyes closed, he found the pillar of fire flickering before his eyes.
He started to feel himself being dragged back into the nightmare and opened his eyes.
What time could it be now? The hospital ward remained filled with a foul stench, the air staying thickly murky as it maintained an eerie silence like a pit cellar.
From his chest down to his groin, the sweat felt slimy—an unpleasant sensation beyond mere discomfort—but he couldn’t bring himself to sit up.
For a while, he curled up his body and remained still like a shrimp.
He felt the urge to urinate but decided to endure until morning.
Then, hearing a whimpering sound coming from somewhere, he strained his ears. It rose and fell intermittently, sounding as though it were coming from inside a bag.
It was a voice filled with groaning anguish, as though someone were being strangled.
When it grew louder, it seemed right by his pillow; but when it faded, it sounded as distant as if coming from the adjacent room.
Oda slowly lifted his head.
For a little while, he couldn’t tell where the crying was coming from, but it was from the bed directly across from him.
They had completely covered themself from head to toe with a futon; it was faintly swaying.
Trying not to let others hear their crying, they seemed to be sobbing even more violently.

“Ah... ch-chi...”

Oda noticed that mixed with the crying were voices crying out in intense pain.
His heart still trembled from the earlier dream, but because the crying was so unbearable, he sat up on the bed with wary suspicion.
He thought to ask what was wrong and stood up, but upon remembering that Sagaki was on duty, he sat back down.
When he craned his neck to look at the night-duty bed, Sagaki lay prone writing something with desperate focus.
Wondering if the night-duty attendant had failed to notice the crying, Oda considered calling out—but reasoning that someone on duty couldn’t possibly remain unaware of such sounds, and thinking it wrong to interrupt his intense writing—he silently changed into his nightclothes instead.
The nightclothes were of course provided by the hospital and looked exactly like a burial shroud.

In two rows of beds lay critically ill patients who were unbearable to look at, literally sleeping with their breath faint and fading.
Every last one of them slept with their mouths agape—likely because their noses had been ravaged, making breathing difficult.
While feeling a chill in his heart, Oda was nevertheless able to gaze quietly at their forms for the first time since coming here.
A shaven head darkened to reddish-black glowed dully under the weak electric light; next came one with a large bandage stuck to its crown.
Under the bandage there must have been a gaping hole.
The sight of those heads lined up in rows possessed a bizarrely comical yet horrifying quality.
The man immediately to Oda’s left dangled hands rounded at the ends like clapper sticks over the edge of his bed; across lay a young woman whose upturned face had been ravaged by countless nodules.
Her hair had nearly all fallen out—only sparse patches remained on her occiput and temples that resembled caterpillars crawling—making it difficult to determine her gender at first glance.
Perhaps due to the heat, she had lifted her legs onto the futon and thrown her morbidly plump white arms across it—sleeves rolled up to expose flesh that glistened under the dim light.
It was a gruesomely carnal sight.

What next caught Oda’s attention was the man next to the crying one—though he had eyebrows and hair, his jaw was sharply twisted. Despite lying face up, his mouth alone was turned sideways, likely unable to close it, allowing drool to hang down in a slovenly white thread.
He appeared to be over forty.
Under the bed lay two prosthetic legs.
Even calling them prosthetic legs, they were crudely fashioned from corrugated iron into cylindrical tubes—tapering at the ends with small foot-shaped pieces attached to the tips, resembling nothing so much as toys.
When he shifted his gaze to the next man, he could no longer bear to keep his face turned toward him.
From head to face, limbs, and entire body—all were tightly swathed in bandages; likely due to the stifling heat, the futon had been completely kicked off, its edge barely clinging to the bed.
Oda held his breath and fearfully shifted his gaze, but his entire body grew cold with a shudder.
Could one still believe this was human? Exposing even the genitalia under the electric light—there, countless nodules had formed like black insects.
Of course, not even a single pubic hair remained.
Could the leprosy bacilli mercilessly ravage to that extent? Oda shuddered.
Even having come to this, he still couldn’t die—Oda let out a sigh for the first time, and the grotesque tenacity of life felt cursed.

While acutely feeling the terror of living, he got down from his bed and went to the toilet.
Why hadn't I hanged myself earlier? Why hadn't I thrown myself into the sea at Enoshima?—As he entered the toilet and caught a whiff of strong disinfectant, he felt a wave of dizziness.
He barely managed to cling to the door by a hair's breadth.

“Takao!
“Takao!”

The voice calling "Takao" was clearly heard. He looked around with a start, but of course there was no one there. It was unmistakably a voice he had known since childhood, yet he couldn’t tell whose voice it was. It must be some illusion, Oda told himself to calm down, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice might leap at him again. It felt as though even his urine would freeze; he couldn’t get it to come out easily. After managing to relieve himself in his anxious state, he hurried out into the hallway—and suddenly ran into a blind man coming from the adjacent room, who then stroked his face with a bandaged palm. He barely stifled a scream, but he felt no semblance of being alive.

“Good evening.”

With a friendly voice, the blind man said this and, while feeling his way through the space, disappeared into the toilet.

“Good evening.”

Oda also had no choice but to return the greeting, but his voice wouldn’t stop trembling.

“This is truly a monster house.”

he thought with a sinking heart.

Sagaki still appeared completely absorbed in his writing.
Oda felt a flicker of curiosity about what Sagaki could possibly be writing at this late hour, but found himself hesitating to speak up, and so climbed back into bed.
Then,

“Mr. Oda”

Sagaki called out to him.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” replied Oda, climbing down from the bed again and walking toward Sagaki.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No—I had a strange dream.”

Before Sagaki lay a thick notebook in which he had likely been writing until now. The characters were quite large yet densely packed.

“Are you studying?”

“No, it’s nothing important.”

The muffled sobbing continued unabated, its intensity ebbing and flowing without cessation.

“What happened to that person?”

“It’s neuralgia.”
“Truly dreadful.”
“When a grown man spends the whole night weeping like that.”

“Don’t they provide any treatment?”

“Well...”
“Even if you call it treatment, it’s just giving anesthetic injections to endure the moment.”
“The bacteria invade the nerves and cause inflammation, so there seems to be nothing we can do.”
“After all, leprosy remains incurable at present.”

And then,

“The medicine works at first, but once it gets severe, it stops being effective.”
“They administer things like Narcopon, but even when it works, it only lasts two or three hours.”
“And then it quickly stops working.”

“Do you just silently watch them suffer?”

“I suppose so.
“If left alone, it’ll eventually stop on its own—there’s simply nothing else to be done.
“Of course, morphine would be more effective if administered, but that isn’t permitted in this hospital.”

Oda silently turned his gaze toward the source of the crying.
It was closer to a groan than a cry.

“Even when I’m on duty, it’s truly troubling how there’s nothing we can do.”

Sagaki said.

“Excuse me.”

Oda said and sat down next to Sagaki.

“Now, Mr. Oda.
No matter how much they suffer, they don’t die; no matter how much their exterior crumbles, they don’t die.
It’s a characteristic of leprosy, you see.”

Sagaki took out a pack and offered it to Oda while,

“What you’ve witnessed of leprosy sufferers’ lives remains merely the surface.
Within this hospital’s interior, there exist forms of human existence beyond anything people in ordinary society could possibly imagine—lives depicted and constructed in ways unimaginable to them.”

When he finished speaking, Sagaki too pulled out a cigarette from his pack and lit it.
From his collapsed nostrils, Sagaki emitted billowing smoke as he asked,
“What do you think of that?”

As Oda gazed in the indicated direction, something struck him with sudden force in the chest.
Unnoticed by him until now, the man who had been lying at the far right had risen to sit rigidly upright.
Though his entire body was swathed in bandages, there was an inexplicably solemn dignity to his figure emerging in the dimly lit room.
The man remained motionless for some time before finally beginning to chant “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu” in a rasping whisper of a voice.

“Please look at that person’s throat.”

When he looked, a bib-like cloth—the kind worn by a two- or three-year-old child—hung from the man’s neck, and he was raising one hand to press it down.

“That person has a hole in their throat, you see.”
“He breathes through that hole.”
“What we call laryngeal leprosy—they made a hole there, and he’s managed to survive for five years already.”

Oda could only gaze fixedly.
The man had been chanting sutras for some time, but when he eventually stopped, he seemed to exhale two or three times through that hole before going completely limp and letting all strength drain from his body,

“Ahh, ahh… Isn’t there any way I can die—”

The voice, utterly hoarse and inhuman, held all the more visceral power for it.
The man had been sitting quietly for about twenty minutes but then lay down as before.

“Mr. Oda, do you think those people are human?”

Sagaki said quietly, yet in a voice laden with grave significance.
Oda struggled to grasp Sagaki’s meaning and fell silent in thought.

“Now, Mr. Oda. Those people aren’t human anymore.”

Oda, increasingly unable to comprehend Sagaki’s mind, gazed at his face,

“They are not human.
“Mr. Oda, you are absolutely not human.”

Perhaps because he was nearing the core of his own philosophy—or perhaps driven by it—Sagaki spoke now with a faint edge of excitement.

“They are not human.
“They are life.”
“Life itself—life in its purest form.”
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Oda?”
“Their ‘humanity’ has already died and perished.”
“Only life continues to live on, quivering.”
“What tenacity!”
“The instant anyone contracts leprosy, their humanity perishes.”
“It dies.”
“It’s not merely their existence as social humans that perishes.”
“It is by no means such a superficial destruction.”
“Not disabled soldiers—social invalids.”
“But, Mr. Oda, we are phoenixes.”
“When you gain new ideas and new eyes—when you fully embrace the life of a leprosy sufferer—you will be reborn as human once more.”
“Resurrection—yes, resurrection!”
“Life that quivers with existence acquires a physical form.”
“That is when the new human existence begins.”

“Mr. Oda, you are dead now.”
“You are dead—you’re not human.”
“Your anguish and despair—consider where they come from.”
“Could it be you’re searching for the human you once were—the one who died?”

Oda listened intently to Sagaki’s increasingly vehement words, but when the man’s decaying face loomed large in his vision, he found himself suspecting—even as he felt crushed by the force of those words—whether this man might not be insane.
While Sagaki ostensibly directed his vehement arguments at Oda, to Oda he appeared instead to be locked in a bloody battle against something welling up from within his own mind—a struggle that now disrupted Oda’s desperate attempt to listen with undivided attention. Then indeed, Sagaki abruptly grew feeble,

“If only I had a bit more literary talent—how I grind my teeth at the thought.”

That voice carried an unexpected shadow of anguish—unlike any version of Sagaki he had encountered before.

“Now, Mr. Oda—if I had genius, I would construct this new human being, forge a human image never before seen... but I fall short.”

With that, he showed Oda the notebook by his pillow.

"Are you writing a novel?"

"I can't write."

He snapped the notebook shut and spoke again.

"If only I had free time and proper eyesight."
"This agony of not knowing when I'll go blind—you couldn't possibly understand."
"As you know, one eye's artificial already. The other will likely fail soon—I've made peace with that myself."

Perhaps because the tension that had sustained him moments earlier suddenly drained away, Sagaki's words now spilled out in chaotic disarray, bordering on sentimental.
Oda found no ready response. When he looked up at Sagaki's face, he noticed for the first time how darkly bloodshot the man's eyes were.

“Even like this—it’s been better these past two or three days than usual.”
“During bad spells, I can barely see at all.”
“Please try to imagine.”
“The endless frustration of black specks swirling before my eyes. Have you ever opened your eyes underwater? When my vision’s at its worst, it becomes nearly identical to that.”
“Everything appears blurred and hazy, as if dissolving.”
“Even on good days, it’s like sitting in a sandstorm.”
“Whether I’m writing or reading—once that sandstorm begins plaguing me—it truly feels like I’m going mad.”

Just moments ago, Sagaki had told Oda there was no way to comfort him, but now even Oda could find no words of solace.

“In such a dark place—”

Even so, when he finally started to say that—

“Of course it’s not good.
“I’m well aware of that myself, but if I don’t write during night shifts or something, there’s simply no time to do it.
It’s communal living, after all.”

“But please don’t rush so much—after you’ve received treatment—”

“I can’t help but feel rushed. Because it’s become perfectly clear there will be no improvement. Every day it rises and falls like waves, yet keeps worsening like the incoming tide. This is truly force majeure.”

Oda fell silent.
Sagaki also fell silent.
The sound of sobbing could be heard again.

“Ah, the night is nearly over.”

Sagaki said while looking outside. The distant dark forest was growing pale with light.

“These past two or three days have been good—I can see that whiteness.”
“It’s something rare.”

“Why don’t we go for a walk?”

When Oda changed the subject and suggested,

“Let’s do that.”

Immediately after saying this, Sagaki stood up.

When the cold outside air touched them, the two of them naturally felt their spirits rejuvenate, as if they had come back to life.
While walking side by side, Oda couldn’t help occasionally turning to look back at the hospital ward.
It was the feeling of looking back on a night that would surely become an unforgettable memory in his lifetime.

“Even though I know full well I’ll go blind, Mr. Oda, I’ll still write.”
“Even if I go blind, once I do, there must surely still be a way to live.”
“You too must begin a new life.”
“Become the leper and discover a path forward.”
“I will strive until I can no longer write.”

In those words, Sagaki had reverted to the defiant man he’d been when they first met.

“Suffering—that will cling to us until we die.”
“But didn’t someone say that it takes talent to suffer?”
“There are also those who cannot suffer.”

And then Sagaki took a single deep breath, his every step firmly planting itself upon the earth as he walked—radiating an unwavering youthfulness.

As the surrounding darkness gradually seeped into the earth, a brilliant sun soon appeared beyond the forest, and the rays of light—streaking through the treetops in striped patterns—began piercing even the resilient tree trunks.
Whether he could reach Sagaki’s world or not, Oda still harbored deep anxiety, yet as he continued gazing at the striped patterns of light, he resolved that he must try living on regardless.

(Showa 11 [1936], Kaizo, February Issue)