Pathway to Japanese Literature

Matsune was already over forty when she gave birth to her fifth child, Gunji.
The children's births were spaced so far apart that by then, the eldest daughter Toshiko had already been married off elsewhere. Among the boys, the eldest son Ryūichi had only just entered elementary school, the next one Shōhei was in his most mischievous phase, and Gunji—perhaps owing to being a late-life birth—showed such stunted growth that people doubted he would survive being raised properly.

Matsune’s health also markedly deteriorated thereafter.
She had been warned by the doctor about her weak bronchi, and on rainy days she would spend time lying down.
However, her decline wasn’t solely due to childbirth.
Her neurotic temperament—that noticed every last thing—had already thoroughly consumed her mind and body by that point.
As the second daughter Umejo was coming of age, she could generally manage the household chores just by following Matsune’s instructions.
When Umejo saw her mother tending to Gunji—moving her body with a listlessness unlike her former self—she would abandon whatever task she’d started, come to their side, and take the infant into her own hands.
And yet, she would efficiently handle whatever needed doing.
In that way, she resembled her mother in her younger days.

Matsune appeared to let her guard down; keeping Toshiko—who occasionally visited—company, she watched Umejo working busily and laughed, "Then it'll be fine even if I'm not here."

That Toshiko arrived one day with a hardened expression.

She had heard the rumors about Father and Ikku.
The one who had spoken of it with such bitterness was her father-in-law Doi—Toshiko had known Ikku was proprietress of a restaurant called Nakamuraya, now living alone with her mother—but she found herself thinking precisely the opposite about her father.
With no one else to verify the rumors, she had come to her mother’s place—yet faced with her mother’s utter lack of telltale demeanor, she found herself unable to broach the subject.
There being nothing left to discuss, she remained seated beside her for a long while.
She would go to Umejo’s side only to return again to her mother’s.
In the end, it was Matsune who finally said—as if making light of it—“Can you really afford to take your time like this when it comes to the Doi household?”

At that time she had simply returned home, but if the rumors were true, Mother’s demeanor seemed excessively composed; and if they were baseless, there were too many things reaching her ears.
Father-in-law Doi—a retired bureaucrat who habitually invoked terms like “family reputation” and “dignity”—never spoke those words again, but would occasionally inquire about the Toba family’s circumstances with Toshiko, obliquely hinting at his displeasure.
This was stifling and also made her anxious about her parents’ situation; Toshiko shuttled between the Doi and Toba households, but as days passed, it began to dimly sink in—piece by piece—that the rumors were indeed true, and that her mother had known everything all along while feigning ignorance.

Matsune never mentioned it to Toshiko even after that.
Pressed into silence by this，Toshiko would suddenly flare up with anger.
As she wavered over when to broach the subject，Toshiko began noticing how Mother had recently started making a conspicuous show of intimacy with Ikku.
On fine weather days，when she went there，only Umejo would be present; when she asked，she would say Mother had gone to Nakamuraya.
Such things occurred many times.
As Toshiko，wondering if Mother had gone there again today，was vaguely about to return，she sometimes encountered Mother coming back through the rear entrance.
For a mother who disliked going out，this was strange; considering her weakening constitution，it felt suspicious.

Toshiko had once tried indirectly expressing dissatisfaction toward Father; Mother fell silent for a while as if considering what that dissatisfaction referred to, then—
“You mustn’t say such things,” she rebuked sharply, then lightly masked it with a laugh.
Until then, Toshiko had felt perplexed about why Mother would not lay bare her innermost thoughts; but in that moment, her chest tightened to the point where she could not utter a single word.
She thought: Mother’s temperament—resolving everything internally without letting anything show on the surface—was something she believed she had fully understood, so why had she failed to notice the pain Mother was now so nonchalantly concealing?
Her own dissatisfaction with Father—when traced to its source—stemmed from Father-in-law Doi’s indirect slanders about him directed at her; compared to Mother’s circumstances, she could even consider it trivial.

When I thought of it that way, each of Mother’s actions made perfect sense.

Mother and Ikku had been acquainted since before, but their recent intimate comings-and-goings too arose from Mother’s consideration to spare Father any embarrassment.

“You see how frail I am,” Mother once said in that particular manner of hers, making Toshiko involuntarily turn her face away.

However, what true feelings had Mother harbored toward Ikku? Since becoming a widow, Ikku had managed to run her bustling restaurant with just her elderly mother, doing so without inviting gossip—proof she was a woman soft in demeanor yet fundamentally upstanding. Now that things had come to this, Mother had undoubtedly considered that she did not want Ikku to do anything that would disgrace Father’s name.

In fact, seeing how close Mother and Ikku had become, the townspeople ceased their malicious gossip.
Even so, whenever Toshiko noticed her ailing mother turning over various thoughts and striving to maintain that facade, she found it simply painful—and yet felt inexplicably angry at no one in particular.

When Father met Toshiko, he would make a somewhat awkward face—though this was only momentary.

“No changes?” he asked briefly, his face reverting to its familiar sternness.
Father had always been taciturn and spoke in that manner even ordinarily, but in this instance, it seemed to Toshiko to carry a special significance.
However, when Toshiko saw Mother being more gentle than ever toward Father, she resolved not to let Mother’s considerate efforts go to waste—and made a conscious effort not to look at Father.
Even so, beneath his usual stern expression from days past, it was clear Father remained fully aware of Mother’s considerate efforts.

Even setting aside Umejo right below her, her still-younger brothers were of course completely unaware of anything; unconcerned, they ran about the house playing their games.
That was both heartrending and deepened her sense of being the only one who truly grasped Mother’s heart, so Toshiko found herself returning to her parents’ home countless times depending on the day.

Later, Toshiko would discuss this with her younger sister Umejo too; it would fleetingly occur to her—had it not been for this mental strain, Mother’s illness might not have worsened so severely.

As Toshiko grew concerned over how Mother’s face had seemingly begun to show signs of utter exhaustion like a thin film, she suddenly developed a fever and took to bed. What began as pleurisy progressed until her lungs were said to be afflicted, and thereafter she remained gravely ill for nearly a year.

Shortly before her death—had Matsune sensed it somewhere?—Gunji, who by then had begun speaking in broken phrases, was held by Umejo as he peered into the sickroom from the garden and called for his mother in imitation of his sister’s voice; but upon noticing Toshiko, who happened to be present—

“That child... he’s been on my mind,” Matsune began, then stopped herself.

Though her chest tightened painfully,

“You mustn’t be so faint-hearted,” Toshiko urged. Umejo too drew near and peered at their mother’s face, but Matsune turned hers away on the pillow.

Who had informed her of the grave illness? When Ikku—who until then had never once entered the house—came visiting, only Umejo happened to be present.
Ikku still refrained from showing herself, having a maid announce her visit instead.
Unsure how to respond, Umejo relayed this directly. Mother nodded.

That was Umejo's first time seeing Ikku, but she proved far smaller than imagined—no trace of face powder—timidly greeting Umejo before being led to the sickroom, appearing utterly unlike the Ikku from rumors.

When Toshiko later learned of this, she involuntarily furrowed her brows.

"She must feel some guilt," she murmured, yet found herself unable to resent the woman.

But one day Mother suddenly called out to Toshiko in a hoarse voice. When Toshiko leaned close, Mother simply stared fixedly into her eyes without speaking. In that strangely tense moment, Toshiko sensed Mother wanted to speak of Ikku but couldn't bring herself to voice it.

“Please rest assured; I will take care of everything from now on,” Toshiko said tearfully.
Mother closed her eyes in what might have been a nod, but Toshiko believed without a doubt that Mother had indeed been reassured by her words.

All the more because of this—when about half a year had passed after Mother’s death and Father finally broached the topic she had long wondered when would surface—Toshiko made herself recall that day with deliberate effort, her heart tightening.
He was proposing to take Ikku as his second wife.

When I earnestly listened to Father's account, it became clear he indeed had his justifications, making me feel I couldn't directly oppose him—yet whenever alone, this conviction that it would betray Mother came surging up uncontrollably.
Moreover, upon reflecting how Father had approached this matter more as a settled decision than a discussion, I thought—though now wed into another household, in Mother's absence I'd effectively become her substitute—he should have shown greater restraint. And yet, having reached an age where even as a daughter I possessed reasonable judgment, I deserved such consideration myself.
Thinking thus made only the conversation's disagreeable aspects flood my mind, and resolving that no matter what transpired I mustn't let Father have his way here, I sternly admonished myself.

Perhaps that showed on her face—Toba remained before Toshiko, bitterly sullen for a time; but when Toshiko, emboldened, began to speak of Mother, his features abruptly hardened into severity.

“What do you know?” he snapped.

Even those around Ikku were making various comments, which had reached Toshiko's ears.
They said it made no sense—why would she abandon the family business she'd maintained until now, even living apart from her sole elderly mother, just to enter the prestigious Toba household with its many children? It was practically like becoming some kind of able-bodied maid substitute.

On Toba’s relatives’ side, they viewed the matter through a distinct lens.
They said they couldn’t fathom Ikku’s true intentions despite her having done so much up to that point.
Though they never stated it outright, they went as far as declaring they would refuse all kinship ties if that woman were taken in as a second wife.

Toshiko had repeatedly been made privy to such insinuations from Doi, but she clearly perceived they were uttered with the expectation they would reach Toba through her. However, she couldn't possibly repeat those words verbatim to Father—yet if she didn't, how ought she respond to her father-in-law? If matters continued thus, she felt she might even be sent back to the Doi household. Regardless of how things had come to this pass, she simply grew overwhelmed with sorrow and let her shoulders slump as though rooted to the spot.

“I can’t face Father-in-law either,” she retorted.

Toba shot a sharp glance but,

“I’ll handle that explanation. You just need to keep quiet,” he snapped, and with that left the room.

Toshiko later wept alone, but upon hearing her younger brothers’ running footsteps approach, she fled the room as though escaping.

Mother had been bedridden for a long time, and circling around the side of the annex where she had drawn her last breath revealed the back garden.
Toshiko stood by the Chinese-style water basin there, blankly gazing at the sky and surveying the fields as tears spilled forth one after another.
Quiet footsteps sounded from behind; though Toshiko knew it was Umejo, she remained rooted in place.

After a fashion, the matter was settled and Ikku was to enter the Toba household—though this outcome owed much to mediation from Toba’s friends.

Toba remained as taciturn as ever, but must have felt some measure of relief, for he resumed dabbling in gardening he’d long neglected.
To be sure, his method merely involved hiking up his kimono hem, clutching shears, and circling between trees—a pantomime the children often derided as mere posturing. Yet he kept up the appearance of having tended them without dirtying his hands, smoking while surveying the grounds.
Most garden trees were evergreens—osmanthus, sasanqua camellias, mokkoku—that Matsune had favored planting in her lifetime.
It was Umejo who particularly recalled this fact; whether Father had reflected on it too remained unclear.

The two older boys were at any rate of an age to attend elementary school, but Gunji, the youngest—perhaps because he had been born late in his mother’s life—was physically weak; moreover, given the nature of his illness, they had refrained from letting him nurse, leaving him with a frail appearance from his skin down to his hands and feet. Around this time he had also grown markedly mischievous, and a rosy hue began to appear on his cheeks. With all those layers of kimono he wore, one might have thought he was putting on weight; Toba always bathed him himself, and indeed, he seemed to have developed something like a normal child’s healthy flesh. There was a time when Gunji ran vigorously back and forth along the corridor connecting the main house and annex as he played, singing his older brother’s half-remembered songs in a loud voice—Toba glanced back at Umejo and remarked, “He never knew his mother.” Calling him “Poor dear” had become Toba’s habit. Whenever this happened, Umejo would think that even within Father, memories of Mother must occasionally surface as profound recollections. As her thoughts settled there, she too grew nostalgic for Mother, and sensing Father’s feelings in such moments, tears would naturally well up in her eyes. Yet Umejo did not harbor such ill feelings toward Ikku. The image of Ikku coming to visit during Mother’s illness remained vivid before her eyes. When Mother died, Ikku had come with her elderly mother to help, but it was Maki who mainly did the talking while Ikku kept herself reservedly in the background; even when assisting, she stayed mostly in the kitchen and rarely showed herself in the crowded main rooms where people gathered.

At the ritual bathing, when Maki saw the helpers hesitating due to the nature of the illness, she stepped forward herself.

"Poor dear, poor dear, ended up like this," she muttered under her breath as she lifted the emaciated corpse.
Among the relatives, some stood by watching with expressions that said she was overstepping her place, but Maki wiped every part clean as if none of it registered in her eyes.
As for Umejo herself, whenever she thought that this corpse she touched was her own mother, tears would well up uncontrollably—ultimately she could barely manage to clasp her hands and suppress her tears. It was precisely because of this that she felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude toward Ikku’s elderly mother for handling it this way.

Later, someone remarked, "That old woman is quite dependable," but for Umejo, the meaning seemed graspable yet remained elusive. Moreover, there were those who made cutting remarks—that Ikku had endured accepting the condition imposed by Toba’s relatives, who had finally consented only if she remained a mere housekeeper despite knowing their terms full well—all because she schemed to elevate her social standing through this arrangement.

Umejo was unfamiliar with such ways of looking at things. The image of Ikku’s small-statured frame came to mind, evoking pity, yet she sensed unfathomable things around her that someone like herself couldn’t grasp. However, even her sister Toshiko had voiced similar thoughts. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she detected a certain turn of phrase in neighbors’ passing greetings that could be interpreted that way if one chose. This cast a shadow within Umejo that would suddenly resurface just when she had forgotten it.

To be sure, Ikku always demeaned herself; even when the children called her "Auntie," she never showed any sign of displeasure.
Generally, Umejo tended to her brothers while Ikku managed the kitchen—this division of labor had formed naturally without explicit arrangement. Yet whenever Toba returned from work and voiced complaints, it often remained ambiguous whether the failing originated with Umejo or Ikku.
Then Ikku would invariably claim responsibility as her own failing.
And even when Toba clearly recognized the lapse as Umejo’s, he would still reprimand Ikku.

Umejo would sometimes blush behind Ikku as she apologized to Father, yet she also felt grateful for his manner of handling matters—though as these instances multiplied, she occasionally found Father’s demeanor overly rigid.
Still, she did sometimes consider that had their positions been reversed—were she the one perpetually being rebuked—that too would have been infuriating; but since this remained hypothetical, her thoughts never lingered there.

They had let out the restaurant, while Maki rented a house not far from the Toba residence where she lived alone—yet she would frequently emerge through the back garden.
When she visited, she would tediously repeat the same stories in that wearisome way of the aged—so much so that Ikku grew vexed by these intrusions.
In Umejo’s presence, the two had even quarreled over such matters.
Ikku too would occasionally affect anger toward her mother.
Yet even Umejo could perceive their disputes lacked genuine conviction.

Even when admonished by Ikku, Maki would seize Umejo regardless and recount in detail how profoundly she owed Toba, how she had resolved to abandon her former business for his sake, and even the particulars of conversations between herself and Ikku that had culminated in this firm decision.

Initially, Umejo had listened with both embarrassment and bewilderment, but now she seemed to have grown accustomed not only to those stories but also to the manner of this self-effacing speaker.
Or perhaps her mother—whose memory had now begun fading—lay buried deep within her mind, and the resentment toward Ikku that she had witnessed during her lifetime was resurfacing in transmuted form.
Umejo had come to openly frown whenever she noticed disagreeable aspects of Ikku’s mannerisms, and this too had gradually become an ordinary occurrence.

Regarding her brothers, since Umejo had been caring for them since their mother's lifetime, there was no particular change in that respect even after Ikku's arrival. Yet in how Umejo now spread their bedding or put the youngest Gunji to sleep, something different from before had crept in.
To put it plainly, there was now an air of not letting anyone else lay a finger on these tasks.
This protective stance had acquired a spiteful undertone in Umejo's demeanor, though both she and Ikku had come to treat it as perfectly normal.

However, to their young and therefore all the more sensitive younger brothers, the interactions between their sister and Ikku that met their eyes became implanted in their minds in a particular form. As for Ryūichi, the eldest son who had now reached junior high school age—he was a different matter—but Shōhei and Gunji would sometimes mimic their sister and father’s manner of speaking to rebuke Ikku.

Though she had steeled herself for this, even Ikku couldn’t help but feel stung when the children called her "Auntie." She never bothered to wonder who had taught them that address—and besides, it was unavoidable. If laid bare, this stemmed from her inability to leave Toba; yet toward Toba himself, who had devotedly cared for her in countless ways, and toward Toba’s wife as well, she felt an inexplicable sense of obligation compelling her thus. For even while maintaining their business, being merely parent and child with no real connections left her loneliness cutting deep—so she clung to the hope that by entrusting herself completely to Toba, paths forward might yet open.

However, when even young Gunji repeatedly defied her authority, she found herself wondering how she had come to feel this way.
The only one who could soothe Ikku's heart was Toba, and he would occasionally

"I'm sorry," he said curtly.
Though this happened only occasionally, Toba continued to feign ignorance of household affairs—until one day he abruptly lashed out at Umejo.

The matter itself was trivial, but Toba’s fury proved unexpectedly intense—so much so that Ikku initially wondered what grave offense had occurred.
What reached her ears still pertained to herself, leaving her unable to intervene as she watched on with bated breath.
Then Umejo—covering her face—left Father’s room and immediately ran toward the kitchen. Gunji stood frozen in place with a toy clutched in hand at the sudden noise, until Father emerged moments later and patted his head. Yet Gunji kept staring at Ikku in shock before abruptly bursting into tears and clinging to her.
Toba left with a wry smile, but Ikku had never before felt so utterly out of place.
Since then, she had resolved that as long as she remained in this house, she must never let her hardships show on the surface.

However, precisely because Maki lived apart, she seemed perpetually concerned—even her occasional visits served primarily to check on Ikku's condition. Unlike before, the roughness developing in Ikku's fingers and her neglected appearance became impossible for Maki to ignore. Though Ikku tried concealing these signs, there were moments she paradoxically wished her mother alone might notice them. Yet when Maki persistently probed these very matters, Ikku found herself seething anew.

That Maki chose to appear one day at the worst possible moment.

Ikku was being struck by Gunji.
It was unclear what had angered him, but Gunji—frail yet prone to fits of temper—stamped his feet while shouting incoherently and struck at Ikku's shoulders with his small hands.
Ikku braced one hand against the kitchen's wooden floor and, as if suppressing something, let Gunji batter her shoulder as he pleased.
Upon seeing this—perhaps everything came flooding back at once—Maki's face drained of color. Without uttering a word, she approached and suddenly seized Ikku's arm to yank her away.
Pressed by Maki's imposing force, Ikku hunched her body down resisting the senseless pulling—but Maki dragged her with such unexpected strength that one marveled at its source.
Seeing Maki too agitated to speak—lips moving soundlessly, gaze fixed in a manner wholly alien to her usual self—Ikku shrank back further. Then Gunji, who had stood frozen in shock, suddenly screamed and fled.
Umejo appeared to be calming Gunji as he wailed violently near the children's room across the way. Though the other children's voices mingled briefly with his, these too soon faded into abrupt silence.
In that hollow quietude—sharp as a cleaver's drop—Ikku and Maki continued their wordless struggle until both exhausted themselves into stillness. Ikku collapsed onto the earthen floor beside the wooden boards, letting her face slide between rigidly outstretched arms as she began weeping with small, childlike hiccups.

Still treated as “Poor dear” by Father and showered with special affection by Umejo—who had raised him with devoted care in place of a mother—Gunji had developed the presumptuousness natural to a child whose only sharpened instinct was survival.
In other words, the notion that Ikku would do anything for him and that it didn’t matter how he treated her had naturally taken root within Gunji.
However, precisely because he possessed no memories of his mother at all, there was also an affectionate side to him; in one respect, it was equally true that he had grown closer to Ikku than any of his brothers.

In this regard, it was the same for Ikku as well—by now she had come to feel an affection for Gunji that even she found puzzling.
Since she had never had a child of her own, she couldn’t acknowledge this as a mother’s feelings, and with Umejo there, there was no reason she should be in such a position—yet she had come to feel an unexplained joy in being depended upon by Gunji.

All these things—the feelings she had never even imagined—had truly begun to take shape within her around the time Umejo married into another household.
To begin with, even Umejo herself seemed to find it difficult to make such requests directly to Father, so naturally Ikku began speaking up on her behalf and mediating—and thus, before anyone realized it, the relationship between Ikku and Umejo had gradually softened over time.
When Umejo became occupied with preparations and such, it fell to Ikku to look after Gunji for the most part.
Since she said they had to establish the habit now, Gunji came to sleep while being held by Ikku.
And this lonely child would reach for Ikku’s breast.

The village where Umejo had married lay deep in the mountains along a riverside road from town, with rickshaws forming a leisurely line in the order of Father, Umejo, and Ikku. Yet Gunji capriciously shifted from Father's lap to Ikku's side this time, never once asking to ride in his sister's rickshaw.
Even after settling into the house across the way, Gunji merely watched Umejo—now wearing heavy makeup—from a distance as if observing her from afar, never approaching her side.
At the wedding reception, Gunji suddenly declared he wanted to sit beside his sister—but when Ikku lightly admonished him, he obediently came to her lap instead.

Because Toba was manager of a local bank’s town branch, bringing the noon lunchbox to the bank became Gunji’s appointed task.
This was Gunji’s greatest pleasure.
When at the bank, Father would show nothing more than a slight nod when Gunji came and made no real effort to engage with him—but whenever there was something he wanted that Ikku refused to allow, Gunji would invariably go plead with Father at the bank.
Toba never once scolded Gunji for such behavior.
When addressed, he would silently place a small amount of money into an envelope and hand it over.
Gunji would buy what he wanted, return home, and show it to Ikku as if declaring, “See? I got it bought after all.”

Toba had a swarthy face with somewhat thin lips that he always kept tightly pursed, and in most cases wore a stern, bitter expression—but the only one who did not fear this was Gunji; to others, he appeared quite severe. Indeed, during business negotiations, he spoke with a sharp, forceful manner that made it seem he could see right through the other party’s intentions. In this regard he had made many enemies, but on another level—once people grew close—he proved weak-willed, with numerous instances of credit extensions unbefitting his position; these only took shape and emerged after his downfall.

Initially, it began with tampering with fixed-term deposits using the bank’s funds. When that failed and the losses gradually grew, he found himself digging his own grave.

What was inevitably due to come had arrived.
Everything had been exposed through the auditors’ investigation.
The embezzlement had been carried out by several individuals, but only Toba possessed the means to repay them. Given his responsibility in the matter, he was to provide all of his personal assets—yet even this proved insufficient to cover the full amount.
Though exposed, it remained an internal bank matter; with friends’ intervention, it appeared likely to be resolved through a settlement.

There had long been talk of Gunji succeeding to Ikku’s family name, but it was during this period that the matter was finally settled—and likewise when Shōhei, the second son, was decided to be adopted into a distantly related household.
Had Father already resolved to commit suicide by that point?
Otherwise he would never have settled each child’s affairs in that manner—or so the relatives later conjectured among themselves. Be that as it may, the estate was handed over to the bank, Ikku reclaimed the restaurant building she had previously rented out to others and began operating it anew as an inn, and Toba was at last supposed to be under Ikku’s care.

It was at this juncture that someone leaked everything to the Prosecutor’s Office and newspaper companies.
The day before the prosecutors were to conduct a house search, Toba left Ikku’s house, went to his own familiar home, and hanged himself in the annex where his mother had died of illness.

It was past noon, and in the main house were Ryūichi—the eldest son who had returned from his junior high school dormitory on vacation—along with Shōhei and Toshiko, who had also happened to come by; yet not a single one of them noticed.
Father went out toward the backyard once and apparently entered the annex from the rear.
The last to see Father was Shōhei; while Shōhei was drawing water for the bath, Father touched his head in that habitual twisting manner—

“You’ve been working hard,” he said.
And then,

“Has Gunji gone out to play somewhere?” he asked.

When Shōhei answered, “I don’t know,” Father slowly headed toward the back, keeping one hand in his pocket.

It was Gunji who first discovered Father’s hanged body.

Gunji, having returned exhausted from playing, heard from Ikku that Father had gone to the old house and went after him—but when his brother and sister saw Gunji with mud caked from his hands and feet to his face, they teased him half-heartedly, saying Father hadn’t come here.
He took this at face value and rushed back out to play, but being the “Poor dear” that he was—all the more driven to seek his father’s figure—before long he came doubling back once again.
This time, thinking it must be the backyard, he went to look—but again Father was nowhere to be found. He called out for Father at the top of his voice, and when no answer came, his calls shifting from a singsong tone to muttered curses directed at Father all the while, he sneaked into the annex—now crammed full with packed-up furniture and utensils until no one could possibly enter—intending some mischief or other, where Gunji laid eyes on Father’s transformed figure.
From then on, Gunji was in a frenzy—if his brother ran, he would run along; if his sister screamed and cried, he too would burst into loud sobs.

Ikku knew Toba had stayed up late writing something the previous night, but preoccupied with preparations for their new business venture, she never once imagined it might be a suicide note.

From the beginning—true to his nature—Toba had said nothing to Ikku.
Still, fragments reached her through sudden flurries of activity and his increasingly drawn expression until she grasped the situation’s outline.
When matters reached their inevitable crisis point and Toba explained everything—"This disgraceful outcome... this is how things stand"—the tangled logic of his account eluded Ikku’s comprehension entirely, leaving only a suffocating pressure in her chest.

When Toba bowed to Ikku and said, "I leave everything in your care"—whether it concerned himself or Gunji remaining unclear—she felt this was the man who had never once shown such vulnerability to others, and could not bring herself to look directly at his face.

Ikku felt anxious that something might happen and kept as close a watch on Toba as she could manage; yet whenever she recalled how, had she known that was his suicide note, she would have done anything to prevent his death, she dwelled on that thought and wept in conversations with Toshiko.

That morning too, Toba had said he was going to the house across the way for a bit and left.
Since it was agreed they would remain until the handover was completed, Ryūichi and Shōhei were still staying at the original house with relatives.
Over at Ikku’s new house, the sorting of furnishings and tidying up of each room had also descended into disarray.

Gunji came running in past noon; with childlike cheeks he gulped down his breath and said, "Father..." By some premonition, Ikku had already flinched, but—"What—what happened?" she asked, seizing Gunji’s hand. As she pulled him along and broke into a run in her geta, the words "He’s dead" and the scene itself crashed into her mind all at once. Along the riverside path where Gunji’s mother had once come and been seen off partway, Ikku and Gunji now ran headlong without understanding anything. The path was strewn with small stones, threatening to snatch away her geta. Even for a child, Gunji was faster. With his small Kurume kasuri-clad shoulders heaving sorrowfully up and down, Gunji ran ahead of Ikku. Desperate not to fall behind—desperate not to fall behind—this thought and the violent emotions surging up uncontrollably twisted Ikku’s face blue as she lurched forward.

Perhaps owing to the ferment of adolescence, from this time Gunji's mind began awakening with terrible clarity. Though no one properly explained the circumstances to him, the clamorous tangle of worldly affairs—simply by placing his small body within their midst—branded too harsh a mark upon him.

Countless times Gunji saw and heard it—his sister and relatives forming a circle, faces contorted and lips twisted as they cursed, "Hateful wretches! Those two were Father's enemies!" The informer's face and that of Father's portly colleague became seared into his mind, though he'd never consciously seen them at any specific time or place.

When they published the suicide note addressed to Father's close friend—the man who'd mediated between him and the bank—it laid bare how Father had despised those colleagues until his last breath.

The man had argued that since part of Father’s embezzled funds had been loaned to him on credit—and since there was little difference between fifty paces and a hundred once trouble arose—Father should shoulder the burden while he would later repay it as family relief; but when Father refused, he began evading responsibility until finally claiming the debt had already been settled.

It was Toshiko’s father-in-law Doi who read aloud the suicide note; the bereaved children surrounded him with bowed heads and craned necks as they listened.

The characters scrawled across the suicide note’s scroll seemed to burn through the listeners’ eyes—so illegible that Doi coughed repeatedly while reading—yet his voice alone rose fierce and shrill, Father’s bitter resentment coming through so vividly that all felt unable to remain seated.

The sisters and relatives occasionally sighed or exchanged glances, but the underage brothers—particularly eldest son Ryūichi—merely kept their faces deeply bowed.

Then there was a man who sent a postcard written in vermilion ink one week after Father’s death, demanding repayment of a trivial loan. This man had frequented their household for over a decade during Father’s lifetime—so much so that even Toshiko, the eldest sister, knew full well how he would bow his head low at the kitchen entrance while pleading with Father time and again. Though he had habitually claimed his current standing owed entirely to Father’s benevolence, he began keeping his distance around the time of Father’s disgrace, appearing only once at the funeral. Heartless wretch! Ingrate!—Fueled by lingering grief for Father and the suffocating anguish of their vanished household pressing in on them, they cursed these people with every vile epithet they could muster, venting but a sliver of their festering resentment.

Father’s grave stood atop a small hillock on the town’s outskirts, and across the path leading up to the cemetery at the hill’s base—in bitter irony—lay this man’s house.
It was a two-story house; if they turned their heads slightly while visiting the grave, they could see right into the second floor.
Carrying grave water in buckets up to the hilltop required considerable effort, yet though the man's well stood plainly visible before their eyes, the brothers and sisters would admonish one another each time—"No matter what happens, never take water from that wretch's house"—and renew their curses at his slightly plump, well-fed appearance.
It was said that around this time the man had begun practicing usury, but the second-floor shōji screens remained perpetually closed.
Once, when Gunji and Umejo were descending this path, they saw him conversing with someone on the second floor; his sister sharply told Gunji not to look and deliberately turned her face away.
He had indeed turned toward them, but with a face that seemed somewhat pale, he turned back to his interlocutor and assumed a posture as if deliberately sinking his body downward.

Once, he seemed to fix his gaze intently as if waiting for a greeting from their side, but when that happened, Gunji and the others would pass through with their faces turned away.
When encounters did occur, they seemed fated to happen, and from then on the animosity between the second floor and the grave path continued unabated. He would sometimes halt his contemptuous glaring, or on certain occasions—positioning himself directly facing the window—would await Gunji and the others descending from above.

Afterward, they had had no encounters for some time, but there were still those who relayed news about him—how he grew ever more rapacious, how his cruel debt-collection methods left many in tears, how he built rental houses one after another. Yet when his recently ventured ice plant failed and he developed epilepsy, people whispered it was retribution for accumulated misdeeds.
They had heard he’d been admitted to F City’s university hospital, but one day when Umejo, Ryūichi, and Gunji casually descended from the cemetery, the second-floor shōji screens—closed when they passed earlier—now stood open. A man so pale they almost didn’t recognize him leaned his upper body out the window and suddenly began shouting.
“How cruel can you be? Even I had a close relationship with your father—you could’ve at least greeted me once!” he shrieked in a hoarse, sharp voice, waving his hands and trembling lips as he spat out these words.
The sister paled and, with only a terse “Hah,” began walking briskly as if dragging Gunji along—but just then, a figure likely his wife moved on the second floor. What seemed like a scuffle ended with the shoji snapping shut. Though no voices followed, a frantic clatter arose; perhaps he’d suffered a seizure.

But all of this was only until the family estate was handed over to the bank; leaving aside the sisters who were already married and settled, the lives of the three brothers had since been utterly severed into their own separate paths.
Shōhei, the second son, was taken by his new adoptive father—said to be a mining engineer—to K City in the south.
For the eldest son Ryūichi, some money had been set aside for school expenses; though he had stubbornly insisted on quitting initially, he was eventually persuaded to leave for the school dormitory.
He no longer had a home to return to, and the ancestral tablets were entrusted to Ikku’s house under the agreement that they would remain there until he established his own household.

Gunji was repeatedly told by each departing relative and sister that Ikku was now "Mother," no longer "Auntie," to the point of weariness.
Having been told this too persistently, Gunji instead grew uneasy.
When he saw Ikku's face, that matter would rise in his mind, becoming oddly difficult to voice.
When he began to speak only to mumble incoherently, Ikku would stop whatever task she had started and turn toward him.
Whether this meant she was waiting to be called "Mother," Gunji couldn't determine.
Yet one time, when he carelessly shouted "Mother!" upon running inside from outdoors, Ikku's face showed such unmistakable delight that even Gunji could perceive it.
Like a muffled voice gradually clarifying through thick fog, something echoed responsively within Gunji.

There was a time when Ikku gave Gunji a new child-sized oil-paper umbrella.
It was customary for every elementary school child to write their full name on their umbrella in characters large enough to be read from afar.
When Gunji opened it, the jet-black characters spelling "Nakamura Gunji" stood out starkly fresh.
Even now townspeople still called him "Mr. Toba," making this strange new surname burn with shame.
At the doorway, Gunji kept muttering how embarrassing it was while compulsively opening and closing the umbrella.
Then Ikku—who had been watching with a smile—suddenly contorted her face frighteningly and demanded, "What exactly is embarrassing about it?"
With tears welling up, Gunji slung the umbrella over his shoulder and began walking while staring fixedly at the roadside edge, unbearably distressed by Ikku's inexplicable fury.

Though called an inn, it was a remodeled and expanded old-fashioned large house. Its exterior had lattice doors almost indistinguishable from a regular residence; upon entering, a long shining corridor stretched straight back from the genkan with a broad stepping-stone platform.
The corridor connected three two-story buildings. When one peered in from outside, light tinged with the green of trees from two courtyards along the way reflected into the corridor, and the white tabi socks of maidservants busily coming and going without making a sound moved vividly about—an interesting sight.

At first, Gunji—finding everything novel—would run down the long corridors and sometimes insist on helping the maidservants carry guest utensils.
Morning and evening saw streams of unfamiliar guests come and go; among them were regulars who recognized Gunji’s face and would call out “Come here, boy!” before taking him to guest rooms to give him sweets.
There was even a man who, drunk and swaying unsteadily down the corridor, made obscene finger gestures at Gunji as he watched curiously.
What humiliated and infuriated Gunji most was how Ikku—who constantly patrolled the house berating maidservants in the kitchen—would transform into someone else entirely when facing such guests, softening her expression and bowing low.

Ikku went to bed at one or two in the morning and rose before the maidservants at dawn; during idle daytime hours she would sprawl in a dark corner of the living room and promptly begin snoring.
By then Maki had grown thoroughly aged and hunched over; rustling about alone with noisy movements she pulled bedding from the closet and spread it over sleeping Ikku—only for them to find upon inspection that it was merely a mattress.

Mealtimes remained wholly irregular amid their busyness.
On mornings before school Gunji often sat alone before his meal tray.
In the adjacent kitchen echoed loud discordant sounds—maidservants clattering guest dishes into place, cooks shouting from workstations, Ikku’s brisk footsteps moving between accounts desk and guest rooms—all blending into ceaseless cacophony.
To simplify matters Gunji received identical meals to guests.
With each nearly identical day he grew disgusted even at meals like sashimi and clear soup.
Evening meals proved most frequently delayed.
When waiting grew unbearable he’d go play outside; entering groups of neighborhood friends and their brothers—their noses shining bath-fresh as they played leisurely—Gunji felt himself uniquely grimy and hunger-ravaged, tasting an abject loneliness he could share with none.
Even when returning mid-play to check if food was ready he’d find only Maki—her dim eyesight fumbling with his leftover dishes—and return to friends wearing feigned nonchalance.

Unable to forget those times gathered around the dining table with his brothers and sisters under cheerful lamplight—playing and laughing—Gunji waited for Ikku, yet when she came, the meal would be stone cold.
Around that time Ikku resumed evening drinking—a habit forgotten during her Toba household years—endlessly cornering Maki to lament business hardships while tearfully refilling her cup.
But when Ikku recounted Toba family stories from before Gunji's memory, he listened raptly.
Speaking of Father's difficult temperament—"Exactly like you"—she laughed while pointing at him.
Then she told of when Mother visited Ikku's house.
Mother loved cigarettes; despite coughing about her bad throat, she wouldn't relinquish them. When Ikku said this harmed her health, Mother laughed she was too addicted—though surely that smoking caused her lung troubles. As she spoke this, Ikku slightly lowered her face.
Gunji felt strange unease then.
His mind retained details of Mother's final days heard from his sister.
He'd heard there were matters involving Ikku that Mother worried over until death.
For Gunji—holding no Mother-memories, only Ikku's parental warmth—this hearsay now surged up striking him profoundly.
Though meaning escaped him, things in his head tore left and right, leaving him unable to feel secure.

One night when the inn was crowded and rooms were full, two men took seats in the living room where Gunji and the others waited until space became available.
The merchant guest and his companion—a townsman visiting another guest—drank and sang until their revelry gradually turned disorderly.
As it was late on a winter night, Gunji sat drowsily curled up by the corner kotatsu.
Maki lay asleep beside him.
Then one guest stared at the elderly woman's sleeping face and made a lewd remark.
Gunji had been pressing his cheek against the kotatsu in feigned sleep when sudden heat flared in his chest—he jerked upright to glare at the man.
But the drunken guest seemed oblivious to Gunji's presence, already laughing with his companion over some new amusement.
Unable to rise, Gunji gripped the kotatsu frame beneath the futon until his small body shook with violent tremors.

From around that time, Gunji had begun feeling hatred toward every arriving guest, yet he couldn’t fathom how to express this to Ikku.
Guests who squared their shoulders and stamped through corridors; guests who shamelessly berated maidservants—to all this, both the maidservants and Ikku herself merely obeyed and bustled about compliantly. For Gunji, witnessing this became torment.
Nowhere in the house remained that untroubled brightness where one might freely stretch out arms or sprawl legs.
Like a mouse, Gunji cowered from guests’ gazes, flinched at their presence, scurrying from parlor to maidservants’ quarters in search of respite.

Gunji grew more irritable by the day, muttering complaints to Ikku about every little thing—but when she snapped, “Do you think I have time for this?!” and walked away, only to see her moments later straightening her collar, composing her petite shoulders into a demure posture, and scurrying down the corridor toward the guest rooms with quick, small steps, he would suddenly hurl whatever dish was at hand into the garden, then fling himself backward in the living room to pound the tatami with his fists and kick at the shoji screens.

At such times, Maki would drag her unsteady legs closer, show the elderly creases on her forehead as she said, “What kind of child is this?”—whereupon Gunji would scream at the top of his lungs, hurl abuse at Maki, then rise again to fling whatever he could grab in all directions and stomp on things before bolting blindly past the dumbfounded maidservants out of the house, his mind tangled with anguish and regret, his chest filled with turmoil until he grew utterly dazed, and walked along the half-remembered riverside path.

He had meant to go to his sister’s place, but once he left town, the road stretched pale with dust into the distance, disappearing into the overlapping foothills. When the sound of rapids suddenly reached his ears, Gunji crouched by the roadside. Turning his head toward the path he’d walked and the unseen way ahead, he was torn apart by voiceless cries of *Mother! Mother!* that held no meaning.

When night fell and he returned pale with exhaustion, Ikku came running out from the back asking, “Where have you been? Where?” But when Gunji remained standing there in silence, she took his hand and led him into the living room.
When he looked, Ikku and Gunji’s meal trays were laid out with unusual neatness. Ikku had seated herself first and made Gunji sit at his tray, serving rice with a familiar gesture.
In the midst of his bittersweet emotions, Gunji gently picked up his chopsticks. The returning memories filled him with joy, yet he also felt as though he were testing Ikku’s heart.

Until then, he had lived without any particularly striking awareness of this, but when Gunji’s height began visibly increasing, something within him awakened with clarity. That was the still-vivid memory of his birth home—or rather, the very temperament of the Toba family.

By now, Maki had grown increasingly frail with age, her waist so severely bent that the front of her kimono would gape open, leaving her as disheveled as a child. As for Ikku herself, though a few white hairs had begun to show at her temples, she remained as impeccably composed as ever when seeing guests off and welcoming them—so much so that one might mistake her for someone else. Watching her bustling about, now behind the guests, now ahead of them, Gunji found himself wondering whether this was truly Ikku’s nature, or if she might actually be enjoying this business.

At some point, from someone or other, he had heard that Ikku’s former self had been a simmered-food shop at the edge of town where even strangers addressed her by her bare name.
He had heard this from his sister too—“Auntie was shrewd enough to know that if she came to our family, she wouldn’t be addressed so familiarly by strangers”—but similar implications had been voiced by a distant elderly relative, and even after coming to Ikku’s house, a talkative old woman doing menial work in the kitchen had volunteered unsolicited accounts of it.
At the time, these accounts had stirred no particular emotion in him, but now—as he sensed within himself a visceral discord toward Ikku and Maki’s behavior, a revulsion so intense it set his teeth grinding—those shards of understanding returned to Gunji’s mind with newfound weight.

The memory of being led by Ikku's hand and having her tend to his daily needs remained vividly clear even now. Yet when he looked at Ikku now with that same devoted care, he couldn't help but wonder—was this truly the same Ikku from before?
Over those years Ikku had grown wholly preoccupied with guests, leaving even Gunji's kimono care entirely to others. The measurements often went awry—newly tailored clothes would drag on the ground from excessive length or constrict his torso until they became unwearable.

When Gunji saw Ikku being yelled at by guests and apologizing profusely, and saw her busily rushing about as if to prevent even the slightest mistake, he felt himself being degraded.
As these instances piled up—Ikku sprawled asleep in her day clothes, pillow cast aside, limbs splayed, mouth agape with snoring—each detail struck Gunji as increasingly repulsive. *This isn't my mother*, he secretly told himself, yet simultaneously recognized he had nowhere else to turn but Ikku. After cringingly deferring to guests' whims in damp misery, his rage would erupt anew. Though never voicing the thought—*You're happy having me as your son, aren't you?*—he'd violently rattle shoji screens until their frames groaned, then corner Ikku as she tried retreating. He never raised a hand, but howled with frenzied abandon until Ikku, unable to endure it, pleaded, "The guests will hear." At this he'd turn ashen, stamping his feet—"Who matters more? Them or me?"—the question reverberating through the floorboards.

The relationship between Gunji and Ikku was neither that of a typical stepmother and child nor a biological mother and child—a peculiar state of mutual repulsion yet attraction that inflicted pain on Gunji just as it ceaselessly reverberated within Ikku.

When Toba told Gunji he would have him succeed as Ikku's heir, she felt her own path forward had suddenly opened up.
Similarly, Maki shed tears of joy over this development, and seeing that, Ikku thought her struggles had been worthwhile.
The joy of openly calling the Toba children her own and being addressed as Mother eased the bitterness of losing Toba and returning to her former trade.
When she became Gunji's mother, even Toba's relatives began regarding her with such noticeably different eyes that she could clearly perceive it.

However much she thought 'Mother, mother,' there existed no belated manner of treating Gunji now. That he remained Toba's child still occupied her mind, and her ingrained habit of excessive deference hadn't vanished—in the end, she frequently found herself indulging Gunji's willfulness. Once she grew accustomed to being called "Mother," the business's demands pursued her relentlessly; working to the point of having no time even for sleep brought both a taut alertness and reminders of the peculiar satisfaction in managing people. When things finally began taking shape, there came encouragement from being told face-to-face how remarkable she was as a woman operating alone, supplemented by the daily pleasure—inherent to trade—of handling cash through her own hands. At this rate, she thought, she could have Gunji receive as much education as possible and avoid feeling inferior before Toba's relatives.

That Gunji would sometimes fly into such unmanageable seizure-like fits of temper made her wonder—though aware it was mere grumbling—why she had ever taken in such a child. Even when he entered junior high school, she thought he might start acting more mature—but when he occasionally came home on vacation, he would grow sullen within two or three days at most, throwing tantrums over every little irritation. If she dismissed it as mere temperament, he would voice remarks like “It’d be better if no guests came—then we’d have peace.” When Ikku snapped back in frustration—“Who do you think I’m running this business for?”—Gunji glared back with venomous eyes and retorted, “It’s not like I’m doing this because I want to!” Ikku turned pale, muttered “I don’t know,” and stood up. Then Gunji abruptly hurled the fire tongs from the nearby long charcoal brazier at Ikku’s feet—one rebounded to strike her leg. Ikku fled straight to the engawa and began wailing aloud. Becoming aware of the maidservant rushing from the adjacent kitchen, she pressed both hands to her face while retreating to the living room, crying in fragmented bursts—“Which of us is at fault here? I’ll go have Umejo settle this!”—then suddenly seized the dresser handles. Hauling out clothes at random, she collapsed face-down upon them, shoulders quaking as she convulsed with sobs.

The next day, when Gunji approached her with an uncharacteristically softened gaze and said, “Couldn’t you stop this business?” Ikku frowned as if to mutter *Not again…*—but Gunji remained uncommonly solemn.
“This house isn’t a proper home—even when I occasionally return on holiday, day and night reversed in their clamor—this business where we must constantly cater to guests’ whims doesn’t suit my temperament. If you have any care for me at all, couldn’t you stop it?” As he spoke, Gunji’s chest tightened unbearably, and with his still-downy lips drawn taut, he pleaded.

When addressed this way, she couldn't help feeling there was truth to it, yet simultaneously an unfathomable anxiety welled up within her—as though being dragged from some deeply familiar place. Ikku grew flustered, her face clouding over, but compelled to respond, began uttering, "If that's how it is—"
Gunji looked up, a sudden brightness flashing across his face.
Ikku kept silent, eyes fixed on her hands. Yet sensing Gunji's gaze upon her, her distress only deepened until her entire body radiated anguish—and with that, she fell completely silent.

In truth, Ikku had grown accustomed to this sort of business since her girlhood days, and particularly now that age was age, even if she understood intellectually that quitting was an option, when the reality pressed upon her flesh, she found herself menaced by nothing but a hollow sense of dread.
The gradual emergence of Gunji’s Toba family temperament became both a burden and a source of resentment for her.

As for Gunji, from beneath his sense of wretchedness, he would scrutinize Ikku’s feelings from every angle, his very posture seeping with a chillingly cold demeanor as if to declare—If you’re truly resolved to this, then I too have my own plans.

When Gunji had one year remaining in junior high, he suddenly returned home just over a month after departing following summer vacation.
He explained that doctors had diagnosed him with apex catarrh and advised academic leave.
At mention of the word "lung," Ikku maintained her composure though inwardly startled.
This time through an altered lens, the realization that he was a Toba scion flashed through her mind.
Yet his complexion appeared deceptively robust as he surveyed the transformed household, his features sharpening with acrid bitterness when demanding where exactly he was meant to sleep.

At that time, as the shared taxi service—the sole means of transportation—expanded to two companies, the newly established company requested they provide rooms for drivers and conductors in exchange for securing customers. This vulnerability left them no choice but to consent. Unable to use guest rooms, Ikku offered their own living quarters instead, while she and Maki slept in the front desk area by the entrance—such was their state.

Ikku, fearing Gunji might confront her fiercely at any moment, hurriedly tidied and cleaned the maid’s room above the entrance. Throughout this, Gunji remained standing on the veranda facing the courtyard without removing his hakama, his shoulders rigid as though suppressing something—this being all he showed.
The maid’s room—formerly a storage space retrofitted with tatami mats and a stretched ceiling—revealed a soot-stained attic when one climbed the narrow wooden stairs. A low window faced the road, with long chests and tools pressed against walls in stacked piles.
At the dusty window where motes swirled, Gunji placed his desk; leaning against a long chest and stretching his legs, he gazed listlessly at the oppressively low ceiling that seemed to bear down on him.

After two or three days, Gunji suddenly said to Ikku, "Give me money."
A low voice—both pressing and threatening in equal measure.
When Ikku demanded sullenly, "What do you need the money for, suddenly asking like that?" Gunji retorted, "What's it to you?" his gaunt cheeks twisting into a sharp sneer.
While Ikku muttered to herself, Gunji threw out, "I'm going to Umejo's house!" and began preparing first.
Even so, as they were about to leave, Ikku said, "The air there must be good since it's in the mountains," at which Gunji turned back and nodded.

Yet after only about ten days, he came fluttering back.
This time, he cleaned the maid’s room himself.
He rarely spoke and would walk outdoors when the weather was fine, but there were times he silently carried a water bucket for grave visits.

Now that things reached this point, Ikku began worrying about Gunji.
She wondered what he had discussed during his visit to Umejo's house.
The Toba family essence lingering in Gunji now pained and burdened Ikku.
Maki had grown senile with age yet remained physically robust, persistently coming to the kitchen wanting to help cook.
Exasperated by how Maki's every move hindered the maidservants, Ikku would scold her and try driving her back to the living room—only for Maki to drag her kimono hem into the kitchen again.
When even this proved impossible, Maki would plant herself by the entrance brazier, bowing to each guest with misplaced courtesy.
If told "You're being disgraceful" and led away by hand, she'd cling to the brazier protesting "What have I done wrong?"—her mottled brown hands batting at Ikku's until their struggles turned physical.
Yet only Maki truly listened to Ikku's grievances, growing genuinely distraught with tears—and when Ikku contemplated how this mother alone shared her bloodline, fresh swarms of lonely dread would assail her as if newly realized.

When winter came, Gunji—who had been so anxious—had actually grown somewhat plump, but Maki took to her bed.
"The heart is sound," the doctor said.
That it was senility was plain for all to see.

Due to lack of space, they had the people from the car company relocate elsewhere, and the living room was designated as the sickroom.
The alcove remained, but due to the room’s narrow layout, closing the shoji left the living area dimly lit. At the corner kotatsu, Maki lay wrapped in a futon, her breath wheezing as she occasionally twitched.
Her mind had gone senile; she understood nothing said to her, let out delirious mutterings others couldn’t comprehend, then suddenly reached out as if gathering the air around her head.
Dust clung to the grease in her white hair that strayed from beneath the futon in disarray; just when she seemed to be sleeping peacefully, she would abruptly release a strained moan resembling stifled sobs.

Ikku had been managing the waste disposal unaided, but whether Maki understood this alone or not, she resisted by thrashing her body.
Once, Gunji could no longer bear watching and helped, but the strength of Maki's struggles—twisting to slip free from their arms—nearly brought them both down as they tried to hold her.
At times Maki would attempt to crawl out.
Not knowing where she meant to go, they would forcibly push her back into the futon; she would lie still momentarily before beginning to move again.
When no one was present, Maki had crawled from the veranda to the midpoint of the long corridor.
Excrement had smeared from the living room across the corridor floor.

Gunji had previously made no secret of grimacing at Maki’s somewhat squalid movements, but since her illness began, he found himself merely watching her condition in astonishment—strangely, no sense of disgust arose. Beside her, gazing at Maki’s completely transformed sleeping visage, he wondered how he would feel if this were his own blood grandmother. Suddenly, sadness welled up within him. It felt like being engulfed by a peculiar sort of affection.

It was a wind-bitten late night without snow when Gunji awoke to someone shouting loudly at the entrance. Finding Ikku absent from his side, he ventured out to investigate—only to discover an unfamiliar man cradling Maki in the earthen-floored entryway.
Because the large door was open, the wind blew in; water dripped from Maki’s lower body as her cheeks—purple and darkened—twitched rigidly all the while she breathed in rapid, ragged gasps.

While Ikku and Gunji were fast asleep, [Maki] had crawled out, wandered outside, and fallen into the drainage ditch running before the house—they realized. Ikku kept repeating "I'm sorry" over and over in apology as she stroked Maki's unconscious body through the night.

Then she developed acute pneumonia, and on the third day, Maki died.
Gunji was in the second-floor room at that time while Ikku was out greeting guests in the guest quarters, leaving only a single maidservant in the living room.
A terrified voice cried, "Someone come quick!" As it echoed through the air, Gunji leapt halfway down the steep wooden stairs and slid open the living room shoji. There lay Maki—her toothless lips like a twisted membrane opening and closing at intervals—but as the sound of breath passing through them gradually faded, those lips lost their elasticity and fell utterly still. Simultaneously, an expression emerged across her entire face that transcended mere calm—a soft yet cold composure so absolute it inexplicably pierced Gunji, twisting his chest with an ineffable pang of remorse.
Hearing the maidservants outside calling for Ikku and random footsteps rushing closer, Gunji gripped Maki’s still-warm wrist and pressed his ear against it to search for a pulse. But when Ikku came running in followed by maidservants and neighbors forming a hushed circle around them all, he found himself unable to lift his face from the now-lifeless wrist—overcome by sudden shame—and remained there indefinitely with his cheek pressed against her skin.

The funeral concluded, and night fell with the sudden calm that follows a storm's passing. In the living room, Gunji was talking with his sister Umejo, whom he hadn't seen in ages. Each time someone replaced the candles at the Buddhist altar, the ritual implements glinted, making his sister's profile appear starkly pale in the intermittent light. Having become the mother of three children, she no longer carried herself as she once had; with a worldly-wise manner, she even noticed when the incense sticks had burned out entirely. Ikku entered and asked Gunji if he wanted to take a bath. When he answered "I'll take one" yet remained seated, Ikku came to Umejo's side. The topic of Maki's final moments came up,

“Even he was crying then,” Ikku said to Umejo, looking at Gunji.
Gunji thought she meant how he’d pressed his face against Maki’s wrist; a chill ran through him even as he kept smiling.
After a brief pause, he stood and—turning his back in a show of heading to the bath—closed the shoji behind him as he left the living room.

At such moments, something exactly like the dead Toba would manifest around Gunji’s shoulders.

(March 1932)