Pathway to Japanese Literature

Kofu is a basin.
The surroundings are all mountains.

When I was in elementary school, I first encountered the term "basin" in geography class and had various explanations given to me by the teacher, but try as I might, I couldn't visualize its actual appearance.
It wasn't until I came to Kofu and saw it that I finally understood.
Drain an enormous swamp, make fields and build houses on its bed—that makes a basin.
Though to create one as large as Kofu Basin, you'd need to drain a lake measuring fifty or sixty *ri* around.

Calling it a swamp bottom might make Kofu seem like some gloomy town, but in reality, it's a flashy, small, yet lively place.
People often describe Kofu as "the bottom of a mortar," but that doesn't quite hit the mark.
Kofu is far more cosmopolitan.
Turn a silk hat upside down, plant a tiny, tiny flag on its bottom—if you imagine that as Kofu, you won't be wrong.
It is a refined town where culture has thoroughly permeated every layer.

In early spring, I once worked there for a while.
On a rainy day, I went out to the public bathhouse without even holding an umbrella.
The public bathhouse was very close by.
On the way, I happened to exchange glances with a postal worker in a raincoat,

"Oh, wait!"
The postal worker called out to me in a low voice.

I was not surprised.
Assuming it must be some mail addressed to me, I neither smiled nor spoke as I silently held out my hand to the postman.

“No mail today.”
As he said this with a smile，a raindrop glistened on the tip of his nose.
He was a red-cheeked young man of twenty-two or twenty-three.
He had a sweet face.

“You’re Mr．Aoki Daizo.”
“Aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”
Aoki Daizo was my original registered name.

“There’s a resemblance.”

“What do you mean?”
I faltered slightly.

The postman grinned broadly.
The two of us stood facing each other on the road, drenched in rain and silent for a while.
It felt surreal.

“Do you know Mr. Kokichi?”
He asked in an oddly chummy, almost mocking tone.
“Mr. Naito Kokichi...
You know him, right?”

“Naito, Kokichi?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”
The postman, apparently having concluded that I already knew, nodded with full confidence.

I thought a little longer,

"I don't know him."

"I see."
This time, the postman tilted his head earnestly and asked, "Your hometown is in Tsugaru, isn't it?"

Since getting this drenched in the rain was unbearable, I quietly took shelter under the tofu shop’s eaves,

“Please come over here. The rain has gotten worse.”

“Yes,” he replied straightforwardly, sheltering from the rain under the tofu shop’s eaves beside me. “Tsugaru, right?”

“Yes.”
Even I myself was startled by how unpleasantly I had replied.
Even a word or half-phrase about my hometown would leave me deeply dejected.
It hurt.

“In that case, it’s certain.”
The postman smiled, dimples forming on his peach-blossom cheeks.
“You’re Mr. Kokichi’s older brother.”

For some reason, I felt a jolt. I felt uneasy.

"You say such strange things."

“No, there’s no mistake—it must be you.” He was getting excited all by himself. “You look just like him. Mr. Kokichi will be so happy.”

Like a swallow, he nimbly leaped out into the rainy street,

“Well then, see you later.” After running a short distance, he turned back and said, “I’ll let Mr. Kokichi know right away, okay?”

Left alone under the tofu shop’s eaves, I felt as though I were dreaming.
Daydream.
That’s how it felt.
It had no reality at all.
It was an absurd story.

Anyway, I made a dash to the public bathhouse. Sank my body into the bath and tried to think it through slowly, but an unpleasant feeling welled up. Felt utterly sickened. While I was quietly taking a nap, doing nothing at all, a single bee flew over, stung my cheek, and left. That’s how it felt. An absolute disaster. Having fled various terrors in Tokyo to come secretly to Kofu—telling no one my address, gradually settling into meager work, lately finding some rhythm in it, feeling faint glimmers of happiness—and now this unforeseen catastrophe. Unknown figures swarmed before my eyes, laughing and talking; me surrounded by those specters, unable to muster greetings, just drifting about—the mere thought disgusted me. Work meant nothing now. They’d stir me up enough before inevitably declaring “Wrong person” and leaving. Naito Kokichi. No matter how much I racked my brain—didn’t know him. Brothers? Ridiculous. Clearly mistaken identity. Meeting would settle everything—but this disgust remained. Being called “brother” and “how nostalgic” by strangers—a farce. Repulsive. Lukewarm and sticky—not even comedy material. Pure foolishness.

Tawdry.

Overwhelmed by unbearable humiliation, I emerged from the bath. When I looked at my face in the changing room mirror, I had a repulsively vicious expression.

I was also uneasy.
Because of today’s unexpected events—would my life once again reverse course and plunge into some terrible abyss?—my past miseries were recalled, and this sudden, absurd predicament—yes, it was indeed a predicament—overwhelmed me with its laughable ridiculousness until my mood turned utterly grim. Even after returning to my lodgings, I meaninglessly tore at my half-written manuscript paper in a frenzy of ripping. Then, a cowardly urge to wallow in this disaster reared its head, and I muttered excuses like “How can I work when everything’s so unbearable?” before pulling out a one-shō bottle of Koshu-produced white wine from the closet, gulping it down from a teacup in great swigs until drunkenness overtook me. I spread out my futon and collapsed into sleep.
This too—what a complete fool I was.

I was awakened by the inn’s maid.

“Sir? Sir? There’s a guest here for you.”

“They’re here,” I thought, and jumped up with a thud.

“Show them in.”

The lamp glowed softly.
The shoji screens shone pale yellow.
It must have been around six o’clock.

I swiftly folded the futon and shoved it into the closet, straightened the room, threw on my haori overcoat and fastened its cord, then sat formally by the desk and steeled myself.
An eerie tension filled the air.
Surely even someone like me wouldn’t experience such a strange encounter twice in one lifetime.

The guest was alone.
He was wearing a Kurume kasuri kimono.
He was shown in by the maid, sat silently before me, and made a polite, prolonged bow.
I was fidgeting restlessly.
Without even properly returning the bow,

“It’s a case of mistaken identity. I’m sorry, but it’s a case of mistaken identity. It’s ridiculous.”

“No.”

He said this quietly while still bowing, and when he raised his head, his face was refined. His eyes were too large, giving a somewhat fragile and unusual impression, but his forehead, nose, lips, and chin all had clearly defined lines as if chiseled. He didn't resemble me in the slightest. "I am Tsuruh's child." "Have you forgotten?" "My mother was your wet nurse."

Being told this clearly, I had a sudden realization. I was struck by such an intense upheaval that I wanted to leap into the air.

“I see.”
“I see.”
“I see.”
I laughed out loud—so loudly that even I found it unbecoming.
“Oh, this is terrible.
“This is absolutely terrible, isn’t it?”
“I see.”
“Is that true?”

There was nothing else to say.

“Ha,”
Kokichi also bared his white teeth and laughed brightly.
“I had been thinking that I wanted to meet you someday.”

He was a fine young man.
He was a fine young man.
I could tell at a glance.
To the point that my body went numb—in other words, I was exultant.
Exultation.
Such words hit the mark.
It was a joy so intense it was painful.

I was entrusted to a wet nurse immediately after being born.
The reason remains unclear to me.
Perhaps my mother’s health had been frail?
The wet nurse was named Tsuruh.
She came from a fishing village on the Tsugaru Peninsula.
She still appeared quite young.
Having lost both husband and child in quick succession, she had been found living alone by my family and taken into service.
This wet nurse supported me unwaveringly throughout.
"You must become the greatest person in the world," she would instruct me.
Tsuruh dedicated herself entirely to my education.
When I turned five or six and tried acting spoiled with other maidservants, she would grow genuinely concerned—sitting me down properly to explain why this maid was good or that one bad, drilling adult morals into me with each specific example. I remember this clearly even now.
She read me countless books, never releasing her grip on me for an instant.
I believe I was six years old when it happened.
Tsuruh brought me to the village elementary school, seating me at an empty desk in what I’m certain was a third-grade classroom at the back, forcing me to attend lessons.
Reading came easily.
I managed without difficulty.
But when arithmetic class began, I wept.
I couldn’t do a single problem.
Tsuruh must have been bitterly disappointed.
At the time, mortified before her, I remember crying with exaggerated intensity.

I thought of Tsuruh as my mother.
It was long after that that I first realized—Ah, so this person was my real mother.
One night, Tsuruh disappeared.
I remember it as if in a dream.

My lips were icy cold; when I opened my eyes, Tsuruh was sitting upright by my pillow. The lamp was dim, but Tsuruh sat coldly, dressed in radiantly beautiful white, as if she were a stranger.

“Won’t you wake up?” she whispered.

I tried to get up, but I was so sleepy that I just couldn’t manage it. Tsuruh stood up quietly and left the room. The next morning, when I woke up and found Tsuruh gone from the house, I cried and thrashed about in anguish, repeating “Tsuruh’s gone! Tsuruh’s gone!” over and over. Though I was just a child, my heart was torn to shreds with anguish. Even now, when I think about what might have happened if I had gotten up then as Tsuruh told me to, I feel both sorrow and regret.

Tsuruh had married into a distant, foreign land.
I heard that fact much later.

When I was in second or third grade, during Obon, Tsuruh came to my house once. She had become a complete stranger. She brought along a small, fair-skinned boy. By the kitchen hearth, she sat side by side with that boy, maintaining the composed air of a guest. Even toward me, she bowed respectfully with utter detachment. When my grandmother proudly reported my school grades to Tsuruh and I couldn't help smirking, Tsuruh turned to face me directly,

“Even if you’re first in the countryside, there are far more capable children elsewhere,” she taught.

I was startled.

After that, I never saw Tsuruh again.
As time passed, my memories of Tsuruh faded, and when I entered high school and returned home for summer vacation, I was told by my family that Tsuruh had died, but I didn’t even cry.
Tsuruh’s husband had been a clerk at a Kai silk wholesaler in Koshu. Having once lost his wife and having no children, he remained single until a considerable age. He would come to my hometown once a year on business trips until eventually, with someone to arrange matters, he married Tsuruh.
Even such facts were things I only came to know upon hearing them then, and even my family members didn’t seem to know much more beyond that.
Having been separated for ten years, whether Tsuruh lived or died made no difference to me—the only version that remained real was the young Tsuruh who had devotedly raised me. While I cherished that memory, every other aspect of her had become a complete stranger. So even when told of her death, I merely thought “Oh,” without particular emotion.
Another ten years passed, and Tsuruh continued to shine—small yet undimmed and precious in the depths of my distant memories—but as her image had been perfected and fixed purely within those recollections, never could I have imagined it connecting to my current reality.

“Was Tsuruh in Kofu?”
I hadn’t even known that.

"Huh? My father had opened a shop in this area."

"He had been employed at a Kai silk wholesaler—"
The fact that Tsuruh’s husband had been a clerk at a Kai silk wholesaler was something I had also heard about from my family before, so I had not forgotten that.

“Huh? He first served at the Maruzo shop in Yamanura, but later became independent and started a kimono shop in Kofu.”

The way he spoke didn’t sound like he was talking about a living person, so

“Is your father in good health?”

“Well... he passed away.”
He answered clearly, then looked somewhat lonely and smiled.

“Then… both your parents.”

“That’s right.”
Mr. Kokichi remained composed.
“You knew about my mother’s death, didn’t you?”

“I know.”
“I heard it the year I entered high school.”

“Twelve years ago.”
“I was thirteen—the year I’d just graduated from elementary school.”
“Five years later, right before I finished middle school, Father died in a fit of madness.”
“After Mother passed, he seemed to lose all spirit—maybe started indulging himself a bit—though the shop was sizable enough, its decline became irreversible.”
“Kimono shops nationwide were struggling back then.”
“He must’ve faced all manner of hardships.”
“Died terribly—jumped into a well.”
“To the world, we’d listed it as heart failure though.”

He showed no timidity, yet his tone wasn’t cynically provocative or jadedly bitter—it was simply an attitude of innocently stating facts with concision.
I had even felt something refreshing in his words, but delving into the minutiae of another's household made me uneasy—I found it unpleasant—so I quickly changed the subject.

“How old was Tsuruh when she died?”

“Mother?”
“Mother passed away at thirty-six.”
“She was a splendid mother.”
“Until just before she died, she kept saying your name.”

And then the conversation came to a halt.
When I remained silent, the young man stayed quiet and composed.
If I kept being unable to find any words, lingering in this unfulfilled state,

“Shall we go out? Are you busy?” he said, rescuing me.

I too let out a sigh of relief,

“Ah, let’s go out.”
“Shall we have dinner together?”
I promptly stood up. “The rain seems to have cleared up.”

The two left the inn together.

The young man laughed,
“There’s a plan for tonight.”

“Ah, I see.”
I no longer felt any unease.

“Please just come along quietly.”

“Understood.”
“I’ll go anywhere.”

I had thought that even if all my work were sacrificed, I would feel no regret.

As we walked,

“But we managed to meet after all.”

“Yes, your name—I’d heard it from Mother morning and evening since long ago, and though it may be rude to say, I felt as if you were a true older brother, and had this strange optimism that we’d meet someday.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? Since I was certain we’d meet someday, I was rather carefree.”
“If only I had stayed healthy and alive...”

Suddenly, I became aware of the heat in my eyelids. There had been someone waiting for me in the shadows all this time. I was glad I was alive.

“When I was about ten and you were three or four, we might have met once. During Obon, Tsuruh brought along a small, fair-skinned child, and since that child was very well-mannered and quiet, I felt a bit jealous of him—but was that you?”

“I might have.”
“I don’t remember it well.”
“After growing up, when Mother told me that, I began to vaguely recall it.”
“In any case, it was a long journey.”
“In front of the house, a beautiful river flowed.”

“It’s not a river.”
“That’s a ditch.”
“The water from the garden pond overflows and flows there.”

“I see.”
“And there was a large crape myrtle tree in front of the house.”
“Bright red flowers were blooming in abundance.”

“That’s not a crape myrtle.”
“There’s one Nemu tree.”
“And it’s not even that big.”
“You were small back then, so even a ditch or a tree must have looked so very large to you.”

“That might be the case.”
Kokichi nodded honestly and smiled.
“I don’t remember anything else at all.”
“I should have at least remembered your face.”

“At three or four years old, it’s only natural you wouldn’t remember. But tell me—doesn’t it make you lonely? The brother you’ve finally met is just loafing around some dingy inn, looking utterly unremarkable.”

“Not at all.”
He denied it clearly, yet somehow appeared ill at ease.
I’m lonely.
If I’d known someone like this existed, I thought bitterly, I would have at least become a middle school teacher.

“Is that postman from before your friend?”

I changed the subject.

“Yes.”
Kokichi’s face brightened as he said, “He’s my best friend. His name is Hagino-kun. He’s a good person. He did something commendable this time.”
“I’d been telling him about you for a while now, so he knew your name too. Then, while delivering mail to your inn frequently, he apparently suddenly thought, ‘This might be him.’”
“Five or six days ago, he came to me saying that. I got excited and asked what kind of person you were, but he said he just tosses mail into the inn and has never seen your face.”
“So I asked him to discreetly investigate this time—saying it’d be embarrassing if it was a case of mistaken identity—and even my younger sister joined in, making a huge fuss.”

"Do you have a younger sister?"
My joy grew ever greater.

"Yes, she's four years younger than me, so twenty-one."

“So you’re—”
My cheeks suddenly flushed hot, so I hastily changed tack.
“Twenty-five then.”
“Six years younger than me.”
“Is she working somewhere?”

“At that department store.”

When I looked up, every window of the five-story Daimaru Department Store glittered splendidly with light. Now, this area was Sakura-chō. In Kofu, it was the busiest street, and the locals called it Kofu Ginza. It was a town resembling a neatly arranged version of Tokyo’s Dōgenzaka. The people streaming along both sides of the street also seemed carefree, and yet somehow fashionable. At the plant stalls, azaleas were already on display.

Following along the department store and turning right led to Yanagi-chō. There was a quiet stillness. But the houses on both sides were all darkened, long-established shops. In Kofu, it was probably the most dignified street.

“The department store must be busy now. Business seems to be thriving.”

“It’s tremendously hectic. Just the other day, because we finished purchasing early for once, we made nearly thirty thousand yen in profit.”

“Has she been working there long?”

“Right after graduating middle school. When we lost our house, people sympathized with us—and with help from Father’s acquaintances—she was able to join that department store’s fabric section. Everyone’s been kind. My younger sister works on the first floor too.”

“That’s impressive.”
It wasn’t flattery.

“I’m being willful—it’s no good.”
The sudden shift to a tone of faux-adult thoughtfulness made me find it amusing.

“No, you’re doing great yourself.”
“Not getting discouraged at all.”

“I’m just doing what needs doing.”
She squared her shoulders slightly as she said this, then stopped.
“Here we are.”

When I looked, it was indeed an old-fashioned restaurant with a blackened frontage spanning about ten ken.

“It’s too nice. Isn’t it expensive?”
In my wallet, there was only a single five-yen bill and two or three yen in coins.

“It’s fine. It’s no trouble.”

Mr. Kokichi was oddly enthusiastic.

“It’s expensive, I tell you. Definitely this place.”
I just wasn’t feeling up to it.
The name Mōfukaku, carved into a large vermilion plaque, seemed both overly imposing and pricey from the get-go.

“I’m actually here for the first time too—”
Mr. Kokichi faltered slightly, admitting this in a hushed voice before pausing to collect himself. “But it’s fine. Really.
“We must go in here.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”

There seemed to be some reason.

"I wonder if this is okay."
I didn’t want Kokichi to spend too much money either.

"I had planned this from the very start."
Kokichi declared in a decisive tone, then—becoming aware of his own excitement—laughed self-consciously and said, "Didn’t you promise to go along with me anywhere tonight?"

Having been told that, I too resolved.

“Alright, let’s go in.”

It was no small resolve.

Upon entering that restaurant, Kokichi did not seem like a first-time visitor.
“We’ll take the eight-mat room on the front second floor.”
He said such things to the guiding waitress.

“Oh, they’ve widened the stairs too.”

He looked around nostalgically, his eyes darting about.

"What's this? Doesn't seem like your first time here at all," I whispered.

"No, this is my first time," he answered while asking the waitress, "Would the eight-mat room be too dark? Is the ten-mat one available?" He kept pressing her with questions.

We were shown to the ten-tatami room on the front second floor. It was a fine tatami room. The transom, the walls, and the sliding doors were all old, solidly built, and far from shoddy construction.

“This place hasn’t changed one bit.”

After sitting down across the table from me, Kokichi looked up at the ceiling, turned to gaze at the transom, and fidgeting restlessly, muttered, “Hmm, has the alcove changed a little?”

Then he looked straight at my face and smiled warmly,

“This place, you see—it was my home.”
“I had always wanted to come here someday—at least once.”

Having heard that, I too suddenly grew excited.

“Oh. Right.” No wonder the house’s structure didn’t seem like a restaurant, I thought. “Oh. Right.”

I too looked around the room again.

“In this room, you see, shop goods were piled up in great quantities, and we would build mountains and valleys with those fabric bolts to climb and play.”
“This place gets such good sunlight here, doesn’t it?”
“That’s why Mother would often sit right where you’re sitting now doing her sewing work.”
“Even though it’s been ten years, coming back to this room makes every little thing from those days come rushing back clear as yesterday.”
He quietly stood up and slightly opened the bright shoji facing the main street,

“Ah, it’s just the same across the street.”
“Mr. Kurushima.”
“Next door is the thread shop.”
“And next to that is the scale shop.”
“They haven’t changed a bit.”
“Oh—Fuji is visible.”
He turned back toward me,
“It’s visible straight ahead.
“Look.
“Just like the old days.”
I had been growing increasingly uneasy for some time now.

“Hey, let’s go back. We shouldn’t. We can’t even drink sake here. I get it already—let’s go back.” He had grown even sullen. “This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?”

“No, I don’t feel any sentimentality at all.” Closing the shoji, he came to sit cross-legged by the table. “After all, this is someone else’s house now. But coming here after so long—everything seems new and fresh. It makes me happy.” He smiled with unfeigned delight.

I was impressed to the point of amazement by that utterly unbothered attitude.

“Would you like some sake?”
“I can manage a little if it’s beer.”

“Is sake no good?”
I too made up my mind to drink there.

“I don’t like it.
Father was an alcoholic.”
With that, she smiled adorably.

“I’m not an alcoholic, but I do like it quite a bit.”
“Well then, I’ll have sake—you stick to beer.”

He had given himself permission that tonight, it was okay to drink through the night.

Kokichi clapped his hands to call the maid.

“You, there’s a call bell right there.”

“Oh. Right.”
“When this was my house, there was nothing like this.”

The two laughed.

That night, I got quite drunk. Moreover, I got unpleasantly drunk, quite unexpectedly. The lullaby didn’t help. I never sing when drunk, but that night, for some reason, I suddenly started belting out nonsense—something about village shrines and spinning drums—and Kokichi softly joined in, which turned out to be a mistake. I felt as if I alone had been made to bear the crushing weight of all the world’s sentimentality, and it became utterly unbearable.

“But it’s nice, isn’t it? Milk siblings... they’re a good thing, aren’t they? Blood ties can be a bit too thick, a bit cloying—hard to bear at times. But milk siblings? That’s a bond of milk. Refreshing and good, isn’t it? Ah, today was good.” I said such things, trying desperately to escape the immediate pang of sorrow, but really—sitting cross-legged in the very spot where our wet nurse Tsuruh had once diligently done her needlework day after day, drinking sake here of all places—there was simply no way to achieve proper drunkenness. When I glanced up, there sat Tsuruh right beside me—back rounded over her sewing—as vivid as life itself, making it utterly impossible to maintain any semblance of relaxed conversation with Kokichi. I drank alone, gulping down sake, and before long started hurling unreasonable challenges at Kokichi. I had begun bullying the weak.

“You know, as I was saying earlier, you must’ve been terribly disappointed when you met me.”
“No—I know.”
“I don’t want to hear any excuses.”
“If I’d become something like a university professor, you would’ve tracked down my Tokyo home much sooner. Then you and your sister—the two of you—would’ve come to visit me.”
“No—I don’t want to hear any excuses.”
But as for me—right now, without even a proper home to call my own—I’m such a spineless writer, even to myself.
I’m not famous at all.
I have another strange pen name besides Aoki Daizo that I only use when writing novels.
There is one, but I won’t say it.
Even if I told you all, you wouldn’t know anyway.
It’s such a strange name—not something you’ve ever heard even once.
It’s pointless to even mention it.
But you—don’t go scorning.
In this world, people of our kind are indeed necessary.
Without us, it can’t function—one of those crucial cogs.
I believe that.
That’s why, even when it’s painful, I keep pushing forward like this.
Like hell I’ll die.
Self-respect.
A person must not forget this.

In the end, the only thing I could rely on was this single feeling. Someday, even I would become great. What did it matter? Just one or two houses like this. I'd buy them back splendidly. Don't be discouraged, don't be discouraged. Self-respect. As long as I didn't forget this, I'd be fine. Even as I spoke the words, it grew unbearable. Don't be discouraged. Listen—your father and mother joined forces to build this house. Then through ill fortune, they let it go again. But if I were your parents, I wouldn't grieve over that. Both children have grown splendidly, living each day cheerfully without anyone pointing fingers—could there be greater joy than this? A grand victory. VICTORY! What did it matter? Just one or two houses like this. Don't get attached. Cast off the forest of the past. Self-respect. I am here.

“Who the hell cries?”
I was the one crying.

After that, everything went haywire.
What I said, what I did—I hardly remember any of it.
I once stood in the lavatory.
Kokichi led the way.

“He knows every damn thing.”

“Mother always kept the lavatory the cleanest.”
Kokichi answered with a laugh.

That, and one more thing.

Drunk to the point of collapse, I lay there as I was, when at my pillow,

“Hagino-san says you two are very similar.”
It was the girl’s voice.
Because I thought the younger sister had come, I—while lying there—

"That's right," I said. "Kokichi-san isn't related to me by blood." My words slurred slightly as I rolled onto my back with exaggerated force. "No blood connection at all—just this milk bond nonsense." A bitter laugh escaped me. "Look alike? Don't make me laugh!" The tatami mat prickled against my cheek as I added hoarsely, "Someone like me... useless drunk... better off gone."

"That's not true." Her voice cut through my haze—clear and urgent like wind chimes in summer heat.

"We're happy," she insisted. The floorboards creaked as she leaned closer. "Please keep trying." Her sleeve brushed my shoulder when she reached for the empty bottle beside me. "And don't drink so much."

Because the harsh tone bore a striking resemblance to that of wet nurse Tsuruh, I cracked my eyes open slightly and gently looked up at the girl by my pillow. She sat properly upright. Since she had been staring intently at my face, my drunken eyes briefly met her gaze, and the girl smiled. It was as beautiful as a dream—closely resembling Tsuruh’s smile on the night she left to be married. The severe drunkenness that had gripped me until then dissolved like cool water, leaving me profoundly relieved before I apparently fell asleep again. I had been thoroughly intoxicated. Only two memories remained clear afterward: standing in the lavatory and that girl’s smile. Everything else had completely vanished from my mind.

Half-asleep, I was placed into a car, and the Kokichi siblings seemed to be seated on either side of me.
On the way, I heard the eerie screeching of a bird,

“What’s that?”

“It’s a heron.”

I dimly remembered having that conversation. Even while drunk, I felt a traveler’s melancholy—we were in a town nestled between mountains.

Having been delivered to the inn and likely had even the futon laid out by the Kokichi siblings, I slept sloppily until near noon the next day like a discarded codfish.

“It’s the postman.”
“He’s at the entrance.”
I was woken up by the inn maid with those words.

“Is it registered mail?”
I was a bit groggy from sleep.

“No,”
The maid was laughing too.
“He says he’d like to see you briefly.”

I finally remembered.

The events of the entire day before came back to me one after another, yet somehow, from start to finish, it all felt like a dream—I simply couldn’t accept it as something that had truly happened in this world. Wiping the oil from my nose with my palm, I ventured out to the entrance.
The postman from yesterday stood there.
As expected, with his cute face smiling brightly,

“Oh, you were still resting, weren’t you?”
“I heard you got drunk last night.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?”
He spoke in an extremely familiar tone.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” I answered, embarrassed in spite of myself, in a hoarse and sullen voice.

“This is from Kokichi’s younger sister.” He held out a bouquet of lilies.

“What’s that?”
I vacantly gazed at those three or four white blooms and let out a big yawn.

“Last night, you said that, didn’t you?
‘I don’t need any help or anything.’
‘If there’s a single flower to decorate your room, that’s more than enough.’”

“Hmm, did I?
Did I really say something like that?”
In any case, I accepted the flowers. “Well, thank you.
Please tell that to Kokichi and his sister as well.
I was truly rude last night.
I’m not usually like that, so please don’t be scared—keep coming to visit the inn whenever you want.”

“But you did say that,” he persisted. “You told us not to come to the inn because it would interfere with your work, so we agreed that once you finished your tasks, we’d all visit Mitake together.”

“I see.” My voice felt detached. “Did I really spout such nonsense? Tell them this: ‘I can adjust my work schedule however needed. Whether it’s Mitake or elsewhere, I’ll definitely join you.’” The words tumbled out faster than intended. “I’m available anytime. The sooner the better—within two or three days would be ideal. Just let them decide what’s most convenient.” I caught myself leaning forward, palms pressed against the tatami. “Really, anytime works for me.”
I realized I’d become overly insistent.

“Got it.”
“I’ll be joining you too.”
“Let’s keep this up from now on.”

Because it was such a strange, flustered farewell, I took another look at the postman’s face.
His face was completely red.

I thought for a moment and immediately understood. Between this postman and that girl, things would surely proceed modestly and smoothly, I thought. My slightly forlorn and confused emotions had also been neatly sorted out on the spot. That, in itself, was fine, I decided.

I told the maid to put the lilies in whatever vase she could find and bring them to my room, then went back to my room and sat down at the desk.
I thought I needed to do proper work.
The silent support of my good younger brother and good younger sister felt cool against my back, and even if just for their sake alone, I thought I wanted to somehow make something more of myself.
When I suddenly glanced to the side, there was the kimono I'd worn out last night, neatly folded and placed by my pillow.
It must have been my new little sister who'd taken it off me last night, folded it, and left it there.

Two days later came the fire. I was still awake working. Past two in the morning, the fire bell clanged violently—so urgently that I stood and slid open the glass-paneled door to look. It blazed fiercely. The flames rose far from the inn. Yet with no wind tonight, the fire stretched freely skyward; even from here, I could hear its crackling roar—a sight so spectacular it made me tremble.

When I glanced up suddenly, Mount Fuji stood faintly visible in the moonlight. Perhaps my imagination colored it, but Fuji too seemed tinged pale red by the flames' glow. The surrounding mountains appeared to sweat crimson.

A Kofu fire burns like a marshland bonfire. As I stared vacantly, I recalled Yanagi-chō and Mōfukaku from nights past. Close—undoubtedly that area.

I threw my coat over my padded robe, wound my wool scarf tight around my neck, and rushed out. After sprinting fifteen blocks to Kofu Station's front, I nearly collapsed. Clinging to a utility pole while wheezing for breath, I heard people racing past shout "Yanagi-chō! Mōfukaku!" Strangely calm now.

Walking slowly toward the prefectural office, I caught whispers of "Let's go to the castle." Realizing the vantage point, I followed the crowd up Matsurugijō Ruins' stone steps—trembling slightly—until reaching the plaza atop the wall. Below us roared the fire: a volcanic crater viewed from above.

Heat prickled my eyebrows—or so it seemed—and instantly my body shook violently. Since childhood, fires have always made me tremble so.

Whenever I saw a fire, for some reason, my whole body would tremble violently—a bad habit I’d had since childhood. My teeth chattered uncontrollably—that was precisely the apt sensation.

My shoulder was lightly tapped.
When I turned around, the Kokichi siblings were standing behind me, smiling.

“Ah, it burned down.”
My tongue tangled, and I couldn’t speak clearly or well.

“Yes… It was a house meant to burn.”
“Father and Mother were happy.”
Bathed in the flames’ light, the figures of the Kokichi siblings standing side by side held a dignified beauty.

“Ah, looks like the fire’s reached the back second floor too.”
“It’s a total loss.”
Kokichi muttered that to himself and smiled.
It was indeed, simply put, a smile.
I felt deeply ashamed of the cotton-stuffed weakness in my own belly that had been scorched by sentimentality over the past decade.
I even found repulsive my own blind passions up to now that had forgotten wisdom.

The roars of beasts could be heard continuously.

“What is that?”
I had been suspicious for some time now.

“There’s a zoo in the park right behind us.”
The younger sister told me.
“If lions escaped, that’d be a real problem,” she said with an untroubled laugh.

You were happy.
Total victory.
And thus I could become happier—happier still.
I crossed my arms broadly and yet kept trembling all over while secretly flexing my muscles.