Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the bridge, I rested.
It wasn’t that I was tired, but the straw-woven handle of the 1.8-liter milk bottle I carried dug into my palm until it hurt.
There was no need to hurry after all.
To the teahouse before the pasture—a one-and-a-half-kilometer path from home—I would make this round trip as if taking a stroll.
When September came, this plateau already breathed autumn’s essence.
Amidst riotous patrinia blooms, autumn grasses of every hue began unfurling their flowers.
Summer visitors dwindled; few now passed along the road.
The air hung crisp and lucid around me.

Along the way, there was a stream with a wooden bridge spanning it.
Peering into the stream from that bridge was such a delight.
The stream water was cold, so clear and cool it could be called pure, flowing deeply while swaying the waterweeds.
There must be beautiful fish too.
I wanted to find even one of them—at least a small shrimp or a dace fry—and peered in, but nothing was visible.
Even so, it was fascinating how dappled shadows sometimes fell between the algae and fleeting glimmers of light flowed over the pebbles.
The water was that clear.

At that moment too, I was so absorbed that I leaned out from the bridge railing and peered intently into the river below.
Then, suddenly, the sound of hooves reached my ears.
It was coming at a gallop.
Right beside me, close by, it came clattering at a gallop.
When I turned around, the horse had already reached the bridge and was heading straight toward me.
There was no time to dodge.
As I let out an “Ah,” I held my breath and leapt to the opposite side of the bridge—but the horse came that way, so I jumped back here—then, thinking “Danger!”, leapt there again.
In that instant, a gust of pitch-black wind grazed past me, and I clung to the railing as I crouched down.

When I opened my eyes—which I'd squeezed shut—the horse had come to a stop just beyond the bridge, and the man dismounted before tugging on the reins to turn back.
I felt somewhat awkward, stood up, and gave a meaningless polite bow.

"You weren't hurt, were you?"

I wordlessly shook my head.

“You should’ve just stayed still. You’re the one who suddenly jumped out into the middle of the road—that’s what startled me.”

That was quite a brusque way of speaking.

“Ah, this one’s no good.”

Only after he said it did I notice too. The 1.8-liter milk bottle I had placed upright on the ground, slightly away from the bridge railing as a precaution, had likely been kicked by the horse—split in two, its white contents now flowing across the earth. The man immediately picked up the straw-woven bottle holder, stared at it intently, plucked off the remaining lower part of the bottle, roughly threw it into the river, then used his foot to kick the bottle fragments on the ground into the river as well, and finally returned the holder to my hand.

“Made a mess of things. Sorry.”
“No, it’s quite alright.”

The man and the horse were both looking at me.
I looked back at them.

Though I couldn’t quite determine the man’s age, he appeared to be around thirty. His outfit—a hunting cap, woolen jumper, riding breeches, and red boots—all leaned toward brownish hues, giving him a sharply put-together appearance.
As for the horse’s age, I found it equally hard to gauge, though it seemed young. It wasn’t a thoroughbred but rather an ordinary, unremarkable creature—save for its splendid saddle.

“Where did you buy the milk?”

Since it wasn’t something worth concealing, I answered truthfully.

“Hoh—ordering from that teahouse over there…”

For some reason, he was staring intently at my face, so I started to walk away.

“Wait a moment.
I’ll gallop over on horseback and get you a replacement.
If they don’t have it at the teahouse, I’ll have them send it from the pasture.
Since this was my mistake, please let me make amends.
Wait right here.
I’m certainly no suspicious character.
Onoda Tatsuo…”
He fumbled through his pockets.
“I don’t have my card with me now, but I’m Onoda Tatsuo.
Please wait in this area.
I’ll return immediately.”

He snatched the straw-woven bottle holder from my hand, leaped onto his horse, and rode off without a backward glance.

I was stunned.
He didn't seem malicious, but he was awfully self-centered.
Should I wait, or should I leave?
As I pondered this and glanced down at the river, the glass fragments he had kicked into the water were glittering on the stream bed.
It felt strange.
Moreover, I still wanted the milk.
Since I had specifically requested extra-fresh milk from that teahouse and had been going every other day to pick up one 1.8-liter bottle each time, if I returned empty-handed, Mother—and especially my ill sister—would surely be disappointed.
I decided to wait.

I leaned against the bridge railing and peered into the river's depths. The glass glinted. Seeing that light, I thought perhaps small fish might come swimming. But no matter how long I waited, nothing appeared. It became oddly pointless. It was not that the fish couldn't be seen—it was because there were glass fragments and such things.

I left the bridge and tried walking along the riverbank.

It was fine weather; the sunlight warm, the river breeze cool.
I emerged into the field, stretched out my legs, and gazed at the mountains sharply outlined against the blue sky.

It felt as though a great deal of time had passed.
In the distance came the sound of horse hooves.
I pretended not to notice.

“Hey! Hey!” he called from horseback.

I resented that he couldn’t have found some other way to call out, but I returned to the bridge.

He dismounted from his horse, showed me the 1.8-liter milk bottle with a satisfied look, but did not hand it over.

"I'll accompany you part of the way."

This time, he was oddly polite.
I felt slightly perplexed.
I wandered aimlessly.
He walked alongside me, the horse following behind at the reins.
The occasional loud snorts were unsettling, forcing me to maintain a brave front.

“Your household goes by Miura, I take it?”

I was startled and looked back.

“I inquired at that teahouse.”
“So you’re Haruki Miura’s younger sister, then.”

“Oh, you knew my brother?”

"I met him several times before his passing."
"You’re called Akiko, aren’t you?"
"I must say, I thought there was a resemblance."

I remained silent.
I am not very much like my brother.
Or perhaps, from others' perspectives, there really are similarities after all?

“How is Natsuko-san doing?”

I met his gaze again.

“You know everyone’s names.”

“No—it’s just guesswork.”
“Haruki-san... Akiko-san... so between them would be Natsuko-san....”

He laughed as he said this, but there was something oddly vague about it.
I couldn’t tell whether he was serious or joking.
I didn’t feel like speaking much myself.
But it wasn’t that I was being guarded.
There was something in his words and actions that strayed from ordinary manners—whether born of arrogance or artless innocence remained unclear—yet he seemed to mean no harm.
And so, while giving careless replies, I later realized I had ended up revealing most of our family circumstances.
That my brother had been killed in China during the Second Sino-Japanese War; that after my sister contracted pleurisy, lung infiltration had persisted, leading Mother and me—the three of us—to come to this plateau villa combining summer retreat with convalescence; among other things.

Exchanging scattered words now and then, we finally ended up near the house.

“Since I’m here, I’ll pay your mother a brief visit.”
“There’s something I need to ask.”

I couldn't bring myself to say no.

He did not enter the house, citing that he had a horse.

Mother was always broad-minded and leisurely.
While he held the horse’s bit, Mother stood chatting with him at the gate, smiling constantly and occasionally letting out soft, suppressed chuckles.
He recounted the incident on the bridge earlier, mentioned that he had once been acquainted with my brother in China, explained that he had come here for summer retreat but his friends had returned to Tokyo, and out of boredom had been riding his horse incessantly; as a result, he had grown thoroughly weary of galloping the horse aimlessly, and so pressed insistently—would we perhaps entrust him with fetching the milk from the teahouse before the pasture?

“Please allow me to do so.
That way, the young lady will be relieved of her burden, I’ll find some diversion myself, the horse will have proper cause to gallop, and I’ll simply drink two gō measures of milk each time at that teahouse.
However, I would never presume to request payment for this service—nor would I dare offer to pay for your milk myself.
Would tomorrow be acceptable?
Then I shall commence operations from the day after tomorrow.”

At first, Mother had refused, but later she simply laughed without saying yes or no.

“Miss, could you lend me a scrap of paper and a pencil?”

When I brought those to him, he wrote down his address and name.

“There is no need for doubt.”
“This is who I am.”

His residence seemed to be about two kilometers from my house.
When he rode off on his horse, Mother remarked.

“Lately, quite a few peculiar people have been coming around, haven’t they? But if Haruki had lived, he might have turned out like that.”

Mother was smiling faintly, but I felt oddly uneasy.

He—or rather, since it would be cumbersome to keep calling him that from now on, let us say Mr. Onoda—Mr. Onoda kept his promise.
Every other day in the morning, he would gallop his horse to our house and deliver milk from the teahouse before the pasture.
Even when Mother pressed him repeatedly, he never once entered the house or drank so much as a cup of tea.
"Milk delivery on horseback," I quipped.

Yet strangely enough, through this very act of horseback milk delivery, the rhythm of our daily lives began gradually unraveling.

A few days later, I noticed that one of my pleasures had vanished. The teahouse before the pasture was a sturdy farmhouse-style structure, but as a shop it consisted merely of a bench and entryway frame—nothing more than a roadside stall. Ordinarily, the family members would be out working at the pasture, leaving only the grandmother to mind the place. There I would sip bitter tea while listening to her various stories—it had been enjoyable. The walks to and fro were pleasant too—gazing at autumn grasses, passing through small groves, peering into clear streambeds. Carrying a one-shō bottle about was no great burden. No, wandering empty-handed without purpose would have been duller still. Through Mr. Onoda's meddling, I found myself robbed of these pleasures and went out less often. Errands to the more distant town were entirely handled every fifth day by the caretaker of Mr. Yano's villa on the outskirts.

My complaints were limited to that extent, but Elder Sister’s feelings had begun to change slightly.

At first, Elder Sister had merely let talk of Mr. Onoda pass by unheeded, but before long she came to regard him with great concern.

There were times when, at the most ordinary moments, Elder Sister would suddenly let something slip.

“That man surely must have some important business with me.”

When I, startled, tried to ask her again, Elder Sister pursed her lips tightly.
I couldn't say anything.

There were times when, if Mr. Onoda did not come in the morning, Elder Sister would grow fretful and deliberately speak in an overloud voice.

“I wonder what has become of Mr. Onoda today.”

At times, timing her movements to Mr. Onoda’s expected arrival, Elder Sister would go out into the garden and sit perfectly still in the rattan chair.
Beyond the garden lawn stood a low hedge separating the inner garden from the outer grounds, through which one could see the path running from the gate to the kitchen entrance.
Once, I saw Elder Sister and Mr. Onoda exchange nods across that hedge.
Yet it appeared they had never once exchanged words.

But I was not keeping watch over Elder Sister. That’s absurd. Moreover, I was extremely busy. I had to prepare various milk-based dishes. They say butter dishes are best, but Elder Sister had grown thoroughly sick of butter’s taste, so only milk dishes could be served at most—and preparing these proved troublesome indeed. Beyond that, there were countless small tasks. Elder Sister’s tableware and such required disinfection as a precaution. Dr. Nojima came twice weekly to administer various injections to her. Sometimes visitors called. Mother, being rather stout, moved about little, so I became the one bustling around doing all the work.

While we were drinking milk at three o'clock，Elder Sister suddenly stilled her hands and said，

“Doesn’t this milk have a horsy smell?”

I chuckled softly．
However，Mother responded seriously．

“Hmm，” Elder Sister murmured pensively．“I wonder if it does smell like a horse．”

Elder Sister was also seriously considering it.

I suppressed a laugh and said.

"But he was carrying it on horseback, you see."
"If you dislike it, I can go fetch some more right away, you see."

“No, it’s fine.”
Elder Sister said in a strangely harsh tone.
“It’s just that I thought I caught a whiff of horse.”
“As for me, I don’t mind in the least.”

Various such things had occurred when something slightly unsettling began to happen.

Elder Sister would retire early after dinner.
Mother would usually roll balls of yarn and knit winter sweaters for Elder Sister.
For me, it was reading.
Though reading wasn’t good for Elder Sister, Uncle Kawai had sent two bulky sets of books—the complete translated works of Shakespeare and the World Fairy Tale Series—presumably thinking she might be bored.
I supposed it must have been the result of Uncle consulting someone, but I found such things uninteresting and had taken to buying literary magazines to read instead.
However, because the electric light was dim at night, there were times when I was made to read aloud from Shakespeare and such.
I would skip troublesome lines and read carelessly through them.
Mother remained completely unfazed, but Elder Sister seemed to be listening with great earnestness, for whenever I skipped even a few lines, she would interject with a quiet “That part feels off.”
I hunched my shoulders.

In that manner, one evening as I was reading *Macbeth*, Elder Sister said in a low voice.

“Wait.”

Though certain I hadn’t skipped any lines, when I looked toward Elder Sister, she had fixed her eyes on empty space and was listening intently to something. She remained like that indefinitely. Even Mother appeared to be straining to hear something.

Elder Sister suddenly coughed.

“I thought I heard the sound of a horse galloping...”
Her voice was like a whisper.

Mother had stopped her knitting and was still listening intently.

The night was deathly quiet, with only the sounds of insects.
I, too, felt somewhat unsettled and stopped reading.

Such things happened from time to time.
Elder Sister’s voice took on many forms.

“Wait.”

“Ah.”

“Listen.”

“Right?”

Suddenly，Elder Sister fixed her eyes on empty space and listened intently to the presence outside.
Even Mother tilted her head and listened intently.
I couldn’t hear anything at all.

When I later asked Elder Sister, she described horses galloping through the distant woods, horses walking around the house, a horse snorting its breath at the back door—it was all about horses.

Something felt slightly off.
Moreover, Elder Sister’s cheeks seemed redder than before; the depth of her dark eyes appeared more profound; her nose looked more sharply defined and her skin thinner; her beauty now carried an undeniably sickly cast.
Her cough had grown less frequent but more violent; while her average fever remained around 37.2 or 37.3 degrees, the fluctuations had intensified; her appetite appeared to be waning.
Dr. Nojima had long advised that she move to the seaside while temperatures stayed mild, and Uncle Kawai had just informed us he’d secured a room reservation at a sanatorium in Shonan.

Mother and Elder Sister seemed to be having some discussion.

"But I wonder if he would come, even though I'm this ill."

“If we invite him, he’ll certainly come,” Mother said. “It’s not as though we’ll be dining together.”

“I do believe he would come,” Natsuko replied, “but how mortifying if we were to invite him and be refused.”

When I asked what they meant, it turned out they wished to invite Mr. Onoda to a meal along with Mr. and Mrs. Kikuchi, who had been so kind to us before our relocation. I was appalled.

“In that case, I will make some discreet inquiries.”

I had ended up saying the opposite of what I felt. Mr. Onoda was—I had thought—an utterly ill-mannered man. He would selfishly fetch others’ milk, steal my small pleasure, never once use the front entrance—the man was beyond ignorant. Moreover, who could tell how much that horse business had been distressing Elder Sister and Mother’s nerves? Inviting him for a meal was absurd from the very start. I would go there myself and clearly inform him of our withdrawal from this arrangement. I would make only the formal notification according to proper etiquette. What expression would he make? And while at it, I’d inspect his residence too.

I resolved within my heart alone.

Dressed in an outrageously flamboyant dress, my hair streaming in the wind, I set out.

Mr. Onoda’s residence turned out to be the Kondo Villa, though this became apparent immediately. It was an imposing Western-style structure with plantings of white birch and larch trees, and even what appeared to be a car park. All windows were shut tight behind drawn curtains, while at the entrance in the center of a low earthen embankment enclosure stood a sturdy wooden lattice gate that had been closed. Since something seemed amiss, I circled around to the side and found two gateposts entwined with wild roses. Beyond them, visible all the way to the back, stood a single-story annex. After hesitating briefly, I went in. The road was rutted with horse hoof marks.

On the other side of that unnervingly quiet single-story annex, water was making sounds.
I abandoned seeking guidance and went toward where the water sounds came from.

When I looked, a shirtless man was washing a horse using water from a large horse basin.
It was the chestnut horse Mr. Onoda always rode.
I stood motionless in silence.
The man circled to the far side of the horse.
When our eyes met across its back, that figure proved to be Mr. Onoda.

“Well, Miss Akiko?”
“What brings you here?”

I felt ashamed.
The man was half-naked.
I merely smiled.

“This was unexpected.
You’ve come all the way here.”

“I just happened to be passing by…”
I had told a lie.

“Did you look around?
As you can see, I’m training as a stablehand.
Wait a moment—it’ll be done soon.”

Since Mr. Onoda didn’t seem bothered by his half-naked state at all, I too stopped feeling self-conscious and moved closer.
Still, the thick patch of long black hairs at the center of his pale chest drew my gaze, but I kept my eyes fixed on the horse.

He poured water from the basin over the horse’s back, belly, and legs, then scrubbed them vigorously with a large brush.
The chestnut coat took on such a glossy sheen that the horse became strikingly beautiful.
The horse remained tethered to the tree, lifting its upper lip and wrinkling its nose as it let out a soft, laugh-like snort.

“He remembers you and is laughing.”
“After all, you’re the brave young lady who jumped out in front of a galloping horse’s nose.”

“This really won’t do,” I thought.
If I let my guard down, I lose.
I took a deep breath and said.

“I merely stopped by while passing through, so please take your time washing.”
“I cannot enter the house either—just like you.”

Mr. Onoda looked at me sharply and tilted his head slightly.
Then he laughed.

“It’s certainly better outside than inside.”
“Especially someone like me—I don’t live in those Western rooms over there. I stay here as a lodger and share quarters with the horse.”

Mr. Onoda talked about the horse while meticulously washing it.
He explained that horses were more attached to humans than dogs or cats could ever be—that they understood human feelings and stayed loyal to people—citing examples from the battlefield.

“But there is a smell, isn’t there?” I retorted.
“The milk from before seemed to smell of horse too.”

“Oh, that’s splendid.”
“In that case, I would have loved to partake of such milk myself.”

“When I drink horse-smelling milk, I often dream of horses. Even when awake, I hear galloping sounds, horse snorts, horses coming to meet me...”

Mr. Onoda had stopped his hand on the horse’s back and was staring intently at me, so I broke off mid-sentence and bit my lip. Why I had started saying such things was a mystery even to myself.

“And then what happens?”

I had already fallen silent.

“Go on—tell me everything in detail.”

“No, that’s all.”
I said firmly.

Mr. Onoda looked up at the sky for a moment.

“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not you.”
“It might be Natsuko.”

I felt my cheek twitching.

Mr. Onoda became terribly serious and took on a tone as if he were angry.

“Don’t be absurd. If such illusions exist, I’ll smash them to pieces. In the battlefield, illusions might still be permitted. Horses pass through. In pitch-dark nights, forming single file—no sound—only their figures pass through like shadows. Endlessly forming long lines through the darkness. There are soldiers who claim to have seen such things. Such illusions might indeed be possible on the battlefield. But that too happens precisely because one doesn’t truly love horses. When I came here, I asked the villa’s caretaker farmer to borrow a horse for me. This house has a stable but no horse. This horse is one I’m borrowing while I’m here. Why did I do such a thing? To drive away illusions—every last illusion. Not only does it drive away illusions—new courage emerges. Horseback riding is dashing—masculine—direct and unhesitating—it eliminates twisted brooding. In other words—it charges straight ahead. This is important. Won’t you ride a horse too, Akiko? I’ll teach you.”

He didn’t seem angry either.
I faltered.

“I do want to ride, but…”

“In that case, there’s no need to hold back at all.”

“But there aren’t any days left now.”

Mr. Onoda made a strange face.

“The truth is—I’ll be withdrawing from here soon.”

“All of you…?”

“Yes.
“I’m returning to Tokyo.”

Mr. Onoda widened his eyes sharply, fell silent, then as if recalling something, resumed scrubbing the horse with his brush.

“I see.
“In that case, I’ll come visit tomorrow at my leisure.”

Things had taken an unexpected turn.
My initial resolve had already crumbled.
I thought it didn’t matter anymore.
I quickly took my leave.

The following day around two o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Onoda arrived—not on horseback, wearing a black suit with a flashy Hakata-ori tie and carrying a 1.8-liter milk bottle.
It had been arranged that he would always bring back the empty bottle from the previous delivery and return with it filled with milk.

Before Mr. Onoda arrived that morning, something odd had happened.
Since my sister again seemed concerned about Mr. Onoda’s delayed arrival, I declared that even if he were late he would surely come, and said that if he didn’t I’d produce a great thunderclap.
I had kept silent about having visited Mr. Onoda’s place the day before.
I hadn’t particularly meant to hide it, but finding everything had turned out completely contrary to my intentions made me feel wretched even to myself.

My sister had been staring intently at my face when she suddenly said something childish—that she wanted to stay here until the thunder sounded. There had been no thunder at all lately. "If thunder comes, Akiko, make sure it strikes the garden tree," she said with utmost seriousness. "When lightning strikes earth, they say it leaves a hole with a beautiful pearl at the bottom—so goes the old tale—but if that pearl gets found, my illness will heal; if not, this sickness will never be cured," she continued without a trace of jest.

Then, while I was away from my seat, Mother and Elder Sister were discussing at length whether Mr. Onoda’s horse had originally been a military horse—some trivial matter.
Mother remarked that it was probably not a military horse.
Elder Sister insisted it must have been one.
At dawn, she had seen that horse running endlessly all alone with no rider.
Passing through forests, crossing valleys, climbing mountains—it kept running on and on without cease.
When she saw it running so relentlessly, Elder Sister declared it could only be a military horse.
Truly, Elder Sister was acting rather strange.

Mr. Onoda came to the kitchen entrance as usual, handed me the milk bottle, and said with a laugh:

“This milk doesn’t smell like horse.”

I was at a loss for a reply.
He’s the sort to remember unnecessary things.
Mother came out and let out a sound like “Oh.”

“You haven’t come on horseback today, I see.”
“Won’t you please come in?”

Mr. Onoda immediately went around to the entrance and was shown into the parlor.
My silence being my punishment, I became busy.
Mother assigned various tasks.
First I served green tea and sweets, then added whiskey to black tea, peeled a pear, and eventually prepared clear soup and sushi.
Yano’s villa caretaker happened to come at just the right time and went on the errand by bicycle, which was a great help.

I didn’t know what sort of interaction Mother and Mr. Onoda had.

The atmosphere seemed sparse in conversation yet not strained. Later, Elder Sister’s sickroom too had been left open, and she had come out to the wide veranda where she sat on her futon leaning against an armrest. Mother must have spoken with Mr. Onoda as well. She was now silently staring at him, but her eyes—sharp like an awl, piercing yet somehow failing to reach beyond the immediate vicinity—gave me a peculiar impression.

Mr. Onoda was drinking whiskey while gazing at the garden.
He seemed fond of drink.
Already reddening around the rims of his eyes, he laughed from their corners and sharply furrowed his brows.

The conversation turned from how foggy this plateau was to stories of fog from various regions.
On battlefields, when advancing through dense fog, they would sometimes come face-to-face with enemy soldiers—the proximity and suddenness so extreme that both sides would forget to fight and instead slowly back away from each other; such incidents had occurred.
In those moments, they said, if you could instantly stab or capture the enemy, you were considered a true soldier.

Truly, Mr. Onoda’s stories felt dubious and evasive, as if he were laying down some sort of smokescreen.

Following the talk of fog, the subject of thunder also came up. There was an instance where about thirty men shouldering bayoneted rifles and marching in tight formation had a massive lightning bolt strike the tips of their bayonets, crushing them all to death. At other times, lightning would strike only one among them while sparing all those nearby—or so he recounted. When lightning struck a swamp's center, it made a sound louder than dynamite explosions, causing all fish to float belly-up on the surface, he said.

Recalling our conversation about thunder from earlier that morning, I smiled toward Elder Sister but caught my breath in surprise. Something cold as ice was felt in Elder Sister’s face. Receiving my gaze, Elder Sister uttered in a voice so clear it was cruel.

“Mother, Akiko, would you both please step away for a moment? I have something to ask Mr. Onoda.”

There was something irrefutable in her request. Mother must have sensed it too. We exchanged silent glances across the dim room. When we turned to look at Mr. Onoda, he sat biting his lip while staring defiantly at the garden beyond the veranda.

“Well, just for a little while then.”

Mother stood up in apparent fluster.
I followed her lead.
Elder Sister slumped heavily against the armrest, her eyes alone maintaining a piercing glare.

Mother and I retreated to the tea room. My body trembled strangely. I felt as though I couldn’t catch my breath. From the parlor came neither voice nor sound. Mother remained silent, and I too kept quiet.

I was watching the clock hands.
About fifteen minutes had passed.

“Someone! Quickly!”

It was a scream.
When I ran out, Elder Sister had collapsed on the veranda and lost consciousness.

Elder Sister had regained consciousness but seemed completely drained, unable to even lift her head on her own.
Dr. Nojima came, administered an injection, and stayed until evening.

Where Elder Sister had collapsed lay a small photograph torn to pieces and discarded.
It was Elder Sister’s own photograph.

When the commotion had temporarily subsided, Mr. Onoda called me to a corner of the garden as he prepared to leave and briefly explained the circumstances.

Mr. Onoda had been Takasu Masaharu’s comrade on the battlefield.
I had vaguely known that Mr. Takasu Masaharu had been Elder Sister’s lover.
Mr. Takasu, having prepared himself before his death in battle just before the war’s end, had asked Mr. Onoda to convey a message to Elder Sister in case he survived and returned to Japan.
It had been an earnest plea for her to wipe the slate clean of all love and romance and adopt an entirely new way of living.
Accordingly, he had stated that he would return the photograph he had kept close to his body.
Mr. Onoda stated that Mr. Takasu had apparently sensed Japan’s defeat and, first and foremost, was fundamentally unsuited for war.
Mr. Onoda had searched extensively for Elder Sister’s whereabouts after returning to fulfill his promise with Mr. Takasu.
It was after we had drifted from place to place due to evacuation and war damage.
And in this plateau, he located our whereabouts.
Mr. Onoda had never known about our elder brother who had died in battle, and all his various methods were merely to confirm Elder Sister’s identity.
However, because Elder Sister was ill, he had hesitated to convey Mr. Takasu’s request and had covered it up with milk deliveries.
Today, however, he had been cornered into conveying the truth and returning the photograph.
Elder Sister tore up her own photograph and collapsed.

I listened to that story in silence. I couldn't say anything. I felt no sadness—only an inexplicable, profound resentment.

Elder Sister developed a high fever, making relocation impossible. She entered Dr. Nojima's small hospital and passed away at October's end. Throughout that time, I tried to shield Elder Sister's life through my own resentment. That effort proved futile. Mr. Onoda was someone Elder Sister had no wish to meet, and I had no intention of letting them meet.

I seemed to have overlooked many things.
There was resentment about that too.
I hated Mr. Onoda.
That man was essentially still a soldier.
Military horse breed.
There was resentment about that too.
We—Mother, Elder Sister, and I—were still sweet, naive babies.
Milk people.
There was resentment about that too.
Oh, how furious I was.

Elder Sister.