Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Storehouse's Second Floor

Amid the scorched ruins stood a single earthen storehouse.
This earthen storehouse too, having been exposed to the flames of war, had sustained considerable damage.
The topcoat plaster had nearly all crumbled away, exposing the middle layer of red clay and binding ropes beneath; the roof tiles lay sparse and far from intact, while spindly weeds growing along the eaves swayed in the wind.
On the second-floor window were rusted and twisted iron bars, and with a small unpainted wooden eave affixed to their outer side, it appeared all the more dilapidated.
The interior seemed dimly lit; even during the day, a solitary light often remained on.
From the window's iron bars, the pale face of an old woman occasionally gazed absently outward.
The iron door at the first-floor entrance was indeed sturdy, and on fine days was left wide open; on the south-facing stone steps outside, two little boys would sometimes play quietly.
After the war, the interior of this earthen storehouse had been remodeled into a residence.

This area was originally a residential district, and its recovery was lagging.
Along the road stood a few newly built shops, while the remaining vacant lots had been cultivated.
There were vegetable fields, and there were wheat fields.
The earthen storehouse home appeared to have once been part of a large estate, with ample vacant land surrounding it, yet no trees had been planted nor fields cultivated—even the small bamboo thicket growing in one corner had likely sprouted after the wartime destruction.

The old woman who lived and slept alone on the second floor of the storehouse, Kayo, suddenly began uttering strange things.

"What's wrong with me? My ears have gone strange."

When she woke in the night and lay in bed wondering what time it might be, she would listen carefully for the pillar clock’s chimes—but the clock always struck just once.
The pillar clock was on the first floor, yet its chimes carried clearly to the second.
During the day, it would strike eleven times at eleven o'clock and three times at three o'clock without fail; yet when she listened from her futon at night, no matter how intently she strained her ears, she could only make out a single chime.
Whether she waited one hour or two, the clock would only strike once.
It was always either one o'clock or thirty minutes past—but that couldn't be right.
She had considered whether something was wrong with her hearing, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
She could even hear the sounds from the bamboo thicket out back.
The sound of wind through the bamboo thicket, the sound of a dog walking through the bamboo thicket—all could be heard.
Only the clock's chimes at midnight ever registered as a single strike.
There was no reason the clock would malfunction only at night—perhaps her hearing had indeed gone strange after all.

She probingly observed the other's expression.

Keisuke frowned but obediently provided an explanation.

“That’s just your imagination, Mother.”

When someone woke in the night claiming to be unable to sleep, they did not actually remain awake for long.
Some people claimed they hadn’t slept a wink all night due to insomnia, but according to doctors, they were actually getting considerable sleep.
Even if someone woke in the night intending to listen attentively to the clock’s chimes for an hour or two, in reality they likely dozed off during that time and missed hearing the sounds, only perceiving a single chime every thirty minutes.

“Even so, it’s strange that only the chimes exactly on the half-hour can be heard.”

If he found that strange, then the true first mystery was how she could clearly discern sounds from the bamboo thicket.
In an earthen storehouse, outdoor sounds generally shouldn’t carry through much at all.
Keisuke had experienced this himself.
When still a child during a fierce storm—the old house before its rebuilding creaking and groaning around him—terror had driven him to tears until his grandmother led him to take shelter inside the storehouse.
Stepping into that earthen space felt like entering a dream.
The raging storm outside faded into distant murmurs while within reigned a hushed stillness—another world entirely.
It defied imagination.
What normally stood as a dim, chillingly eerie space transformed during tempests into an oasis of tranquil isolation.
His mother too had sought refuge there during that long-ago storm; surely she remembered even now in her old age.
—This remained that very same storehouse.
War damage and residential modifications notwithstanding, its essential nature endured unchanged.
With the entrance door shut fast against the world, outdoor sounds grew faint.
The second floor would prove no different.
Could anyone truly detect something as subtle as canine footsteps in that bamboo thicket?

However, Keisuke kept such thoughts to himself and remained silent.

Hisako, unaware of such things, was the one who whispered to Keisuke.

“There’s something strange about Mother’s stories, don’t you think?”

When she said it was strange, she was being polite—in truth, she was actually feeling creeped out.

To Kayo, Hisako suggested that everyone sleep together on the first floor.

Kayo straightened her collar slightly and declared firmly.

“If I were to sleep downstairs, who would stay on the second floor? If the second floor were to be vacated, this house would be finished.”

That was her pet theory.
The notion that no one needed to sleep on the second floor seemed utterly unacceptable to her.
For her to sleep on the first floor would mean vacating the second floor for some outsider’s use, and she believed that should that happen, the Shirai family would face complete ruin.

During the war, when evacuation to the countryside became an issue, Kayo absolutely refused to leave her home.
Though a suitable room was found at an acquaintance’s house along the Tone River—not even that far from Tokyo—she refused to go there, and after much turmoil, only Hisako evacuated with the infant.
This too occurred after the Tokyo air raids had begun, by which time they could no longer transport much luggage.
After that, the number of disaster victims taking shelter in the house increased, and eventually even the house burned down.
It hadn’t been struck directly by incendiary bombs—that is to say, the fire had spread from elsewhere—but Keisuke struggled terribly to evacuate with his elderly mother.

When Kayo saw that their earthen storehouse still stood amidst the charred ruins of their home—damaged yet enduring—her eyes welled with tears of joy.

“The earthen storehouse remained. The earthen storehouse did.”

And when, after the war’s end, talk arose of perhaps building even a small house on the scorched ruins, Kayo vehemently opposed it, insisting they should simply live inside the earthen storehouse.
With their other buildings burned down and their assets precarious, Keisuke agreed to this proposal, remodeling the earthen storehouse’s interior so the entire family could live there.—From that moment onward, Kayo single-handedly occupied the second floor, settling firmly into that space.

Newly built houses were increasing here and there.
Kayo said pityingly.

“What do they think they’re doing, building such flimsy houses?”
“If another war breaks out, they won’t last a moment.”
“Compared to that, our house is safe, I tell you.”

She was convinced that war would break out again.
She believed that if war broke out, it would result in the same circumstances as before.
Therefore, the earthen storehouse was the safest.

Next door stood a house that dealt in iron pipes.
They would bring in long iron pipes about twenty centimeters in diameter—loaded onto trucks from some unknown origin—stack them in the vacant lot, then after some time reload the trucks and transport them elsewhere.
This household began constructing a new addition, demarcating their land right up against the Shirai family's property line.
Kayo paid close attention to this development.

“When building a house, you know, one should construct it three or four feet back from the property line.”
“We can’t know what building method the neighbors might employ, but to prevent them building right up to the property line, you should go caution them beforehand, I tell you.”

A matter of three or four feet didn’t matter one way or the other, Keisuke thought.

“Even three or four feet makes a crucial difference during a fire.”

Kayo was considering the scenario of a neighboring fire.
Even if they didn’t intend to build anything new here, it still related to their current residence in the earthen storehouse.
“If that’s the case,” said Keisuke, “since chinquapin trees are said to be highly effective for fire prevention, we should plant them along the boundary.”

“What use are chinquapin trees?”
“Didn’t even the great chinquapin of Ichi-joji Temple burn down?”
“When fire comes, standing trees only draw flames closer.”

The conflagration from the air raids remained etched deep in Kayo’s mind.

Because he couldn't go negotiate with the neighbors over such trivial matters, Keisuke abandoned the idea.
However, Kayo herself inquired with the carpenters working on the construction and discovered that the building was designed to be set back about six feet from the boundary, with plans to construct a low lattice fence along the property line.

“After all, it seems the neighbors are also thinking about fire prevention.”

Kayo relaxed her furrowed brow with visible relief.

However, such consideration for her surroundings was exceptional for Kayo; she would usually shut herself away in the second-floor room.
It was like a snail’s shell; she carried that room on her back and lived within it.

On the first floor lived Keisuke and his wife along with their two children, and due to the cramped space, all furniture and household items aside from daily necessities were stored within a space partitioned with wooden doors in a corner of the second floor. Those items too were merely remnants after being distributed to disaster victims or sold off long ago—nothing of particular value—yet there was Kayo, standing guard over them as if they were precious heirlooms. Moreover, she herself carefully preserved various trivial items.

First, there were rags of various sizes filling about two wicker trunks. Comprised of silk cloth, cotton cloth, dress fabric, blankets, and other such scraps, when stirred, they bloomed like a paint box overturned—a riot of colors. Accumulating those rags seemed to be her pleasure. There was no intended use for them, but could they perhaps be symbols of various garments? Then there were many wrapping cloths stored in paulownia boxes and paper boxes.

Next, she collected a great many coins. Beside a small Buddhist altar sat an unpainted wooden box into which she tossed every coin that came into her possession. Since it wasn’t a hobby of collecting antique coins, there were hardly any rare specimens; she simply amassed whatever cheap coins she came across—often those that occasionally turned up among small-denomination bills—with most having been received from Keisuke and Hisako. There were a few silver and copper coins from the Meiji era, but most were recent ones—likely just a collecting habit of sorts. When times grew hard, she would sell off whatever stock certificates remained without hesitation. Judging from this as well, her coin collection did not stem from stinginess. Could it be that she simply delighted in the heft of metal? Several useless, rusted short swords and daggers were also carefully preserved.

What was curious was the hanging bell measuring about two shaku in height.
It was an uninscribed piece embossed solely with rivet patterns—even Kayo herself didn’t understand why such an object existed in their house.
It hung from the ceiling beside the stairway wall.

After settling on the second floor, no matter what errand arose, Kayo never called to those downstairs but descended the stairs herself each time.
Even when carrying trivial items, she would go up and down the stairs herself.
However often Hisako said, "If you call, I'll come," she moved under her own power.
Consequently, her trips up and down grew frequent.
Then one day she missed her footing midway down, tumbled to the bottom, and spent three days immobilized with a twisted ankle.
At this point, concerned for what might follow, Keisuke and Hisako consulted together and hung the bell—which had lain prostrate in a room corner—beside the stairway entrance.
Since creating too loud a noise would disturb the neighbors, they left a small wooden mallet beside it.
When someone struck two clanging knocks—Kaan! Kaan!—another person would ascend from below.
The bell's tone rang clear and pure.
It found favor with Kayo.
Though she still sometimes descended herself, her use of the bell gradually increased.

And she would usually shut herself away in her room all day long. She hardly did any household tasks. When Hisako went to collect rations or went out on other errands, she would only house-sit and did not assist with household chores. The only household task she took on exclusively was mending the children’s socks. In other words, she had clearly demarcated the aspects of her work. When she finished mending socks, she sewed and unstitched her old kimonos or fiddled with rags.

What took the most time was copying sutras.
This was sacred work: first she washed her hands, sat formally before the rosewood desk, and began grinding ink with deliberate care.
Then she unrolled the Chinese-style paper scrolls for sutra copying.
What she copied were the four chapters of the Lotus Sutra considered essential: Expedient Means, Peaceful Practices, Life Span, and Universal Gateway.
She meticulously copied that difficult classical Chinese text character by character.
No matter how much time it took, she didn’t mind.
As long as there were no mistakes, that was sufficient.
For this sutra copying, she wore reading glasses and always turned on the electric light even in broad daylight.
No—it was strictly limited to daylight hours, and she never did sutra copying at night.

When people began copying sutras—or when they completed them—they did not have long to live.
Hisako had picked up such ominous talk from somewhere.
Keisuke laughed it off as superstition but could not help feeling somewhat concerned upon observing Kayo’s living conditions.
Secretly watching how the sutra copying progressed slowly and haltingly, the two of them were actually relieved.

Kayo’s sole luxury was drinking a nightcap.
Owing both to the chill of the earthen storehouse and reasoning about cold prevention, it had gradually become a nightly habit.
She would carry up about one go and five shō of egg sake to the second floor, settle into the kotatsu, and while either lost in thought or leafing through entertainment magazines, slowly savor it before finally retiring to bed.
She disliked the radio; though Keisuke had once installed it on the second floor for her, since she never listened to it at all, he moved it down to the first floor.
She preferred a quiet environment.

The nightly egg sake caused financial strain for Keisuke and his wife.
It wasn’t just the sake—the ritual required eggs and sugar too, and as these needs piled up, it became no simple matter on Keisuke’s income.
But Kayo paid almost no heed to such concerns.
When household finances tightened, she would have them sell off stock certificates or goods without reservation.
She never asked for luxurious foods and ate whatever was served.
And the pre-bedtime egg sake alone seemed to be her daily pleasure.
Not merely a pleasure—it also resembled some lingering dream of her former affluent life.

There was a kitten in the house.
Or rather, it was Kayo who kept it.
She had gotten it from the house next to Ichijō-ji Temple, which she visited about once every ten days.
Its entire body was pure white without a single strand of differently colored fur, its eyes were pale blue, and its somewhat short tail thickened slightly at the tip.
Kayo doted on this kitten immensely, rarely letting the children play with it roughly, always keeping it by her side during the day and holding it to sleep at night.
In the corner of the second floor, she placed a litter box and always cleaned it herself.
The cat too had grown completely attached to her, and when she went out, it would follow at her heels like a dog.
If it was something she ate, it would generally eat it too.
It ate sweets and even boiled spinach.
Even the egg yolk dissolved in the egg sake—if you squeezed out the alcohol content, it would eat that too.

One evening, there was a terrible commotion of the cat thrashing about violently on the second floor; then, it came out to the stairs, racing down, dashing up, pausing midway to hide itself.
It seemed mad yet playful.
Kayo chased after it and grabbed the cat.

“Be quiet now.
What’s the matter? Have you gotten a little drunk on the sake?”

She had given the cat egg sake.

As for the cat’s toys—there were marbles and spools and such—but it seemed least likely to tire of newspaper cut into small pieces and rolled into balls.
When she threw the paper pellets for it, the cat would roll them around and scamper about playfully.
When a paper pellet rolled into a corner, the cat would pick it up in its mouth, bring it back to the center of the room, play with it a while longer, and then tear the pellet apart.
When she threw another new paper pellet, the cat would play in the same manner.
In the end, torn newspaper fragments would scatter across the room.
Kayo would meticulously sweep them clean.
The cat, already exhausted, would end up sleeping on the kotatsu quilt.
Kayo would embark on the sacred work of sutra copying.

One night, a bell sounded on the second floor.
The tolls were louder than usual and more frequent.
Moreover, it was midnight.
Hisako, startled, threw a haori coat over her nightclothes and rushed upstairs.
Kayo sat on her bedding clutching the kitten.
The kitten had seemed unwell for days—eating little and vomiting foamy matter.
Kayo said its condition had suddenly worsened and its limbs turned cold.
Hisako struggled to comprehend as Keisuke arrived upstairs.
The cat lay limp.
In any case, they administered Kibyōsan.

After such commotion, the cat took the deworming medicine, and though it remained unclear whether any parasites had actually been expelled, it soon recovered. And it began climbing onto Kayo’s shoulders as well. The cat loved perching on shoulders—whether she sat or stood, it would swiftly scramble up, then if she remained still, curl up at the nape of her neck beneath her collar and even fall asleep. Kayo did not dye her hair, and though the white strands had become quite noticeable by now, the sight of a pure white kitten perched behind her salt-and-pepper bun—tinged reddish from age—presented a somewhat uncanny spectacle.

“Lately, Mother has been acting rather odd.”
“What do you suppose is the matter?” Hisako said to Keisuke.

In the vacant lot beside the house—which could hardly be called a garden—there stood a large stone lantern and several sizable garden rocks remaining.
In early spring, on warm days, Kayo would go out there, sit down on a rock, bask in the sun, and sink deep into thought.
On her shoulder rode a kitten.
The cat did not attempt to scamper about the area, remaining perched there as it too basked in the sun, occasionally turning its head to gaze around.
Kayo and the cat were one entity—Kayo seemed to be deep in thought while the cat appeared to be exploring its surroundings.

Kayo had started saying there was something suspicious happening.
It was after she began complaining about her ears acting up.
As for her ears—even if the clock only ever struck once at night, that could be dismissed as illusion; even if she heard faint sounds from the bamboo thicket out back, that too could be written off as illusion.
But following her ears, her eyes too began acting strangely.

On the second-floor windows, inside the iron bars, new glass doors had been installed.
From outside those glass doors, there were times when someone would peer intently into the room.
Startled into focus, she would find the suspicious figure vanished—leaving only a dim reflection of herself visible in the glass.
Obscured by her own image, the shadow's true nature grew harder to discern.

It was merely her imagination, nothing but an illusion—Keisuke tried to convince himself.

“No, it isn’t just that,” Kayo insisted.

In the evening gloom, from the dimness near the entranceway, she had clearly seen someone peering into the house.
The kitchen area especially saw frequent strange happenings.

Though they had remodeled the storehouse interior into living quarters, that alone proved inadequate.
They carved out part of the side wall to install a low crawl-through door, attaching an external structure that housed a kitchen space, storage shed, and toilet—all under a simple corrugated iron roof.
As burglary prevention, they reinforced the crawl door meticulously while keeping nothing valuable in the kitchen area.
Glass doors dominated the space.
Figures would often cast shadows across those glass panes.
Naturally, this occurred from dusk through night.
Her own reflection always lingered faintly, but the suspicious silhouettes appeared startlingly vivid yet fleeting.

"It was indeed an illusion," Keisuke concluded.
When not only darkness but all dimly lit surroundings served as the backdrop, the glass functioned as a mirror depending on how the light fell.
Due to slight differences in viewing angle, it could reflect vividly or appear blurred.
The images were extremely unstable.
Kayo likely perceived her own unstable image as a foreign object in certain moments.
And due to a startled movement altering the viewing angle, the reflection might vanish entirely, or only what was recognized as one’s own image might remain.

At his workplace and at home, Keisuke tested reflecting his figure in the glass.
The clarity varied—sometimes a whole body would emerge distinctly, other times only a dim, faint shadow would appear.
There were times when only a face appeared, times when only a forehead appeared, and times when only a hand appeared.
As he toyed half in amusement with those unstable images—often fragmented ones—he began to feel an eerie sensation creeping over him.
It was a repulsive sensation, as if something sinister were seeping into his very flesh.
He said to mother.

“If you keep getting distracted by such trivial things, my presence will fade into the background.”

“That’s right.”
“My presence has been fading.”
“My ears are acting up, and my eyes too…”

Kayo shook her head ambiguously.

In truth, it was somehow odd.
When Hisako paid attention, Kayo increasingly went outside holding the cat.
It didn’t seem to be solely due to the spring warmth.
She sat on a rock contemplating things, while the cat explored its surroundings.

Kayo was not yet so bent at the waist as to be called hunched over, but she seemed to have grown markedly shorter. She was generally petite. Her flesh hung loosely, the sagging meat of her puffy lower cheeks. Her attire was always properly arranged, never presenting a slovenly appearance. She no longer wore makeup on her face, yet her fair-skinned complexion remained smooth. When one looked closely at her—this refined, petite woman—and the white cat perched on her shoulder, there was something undeniably strange and unsettling about the pair. That she hardly ever chanted sutras and fixated solely on copying them—this too struck Hisako as peculiar.

Keisuke and Hisako discussed whether Kayo’s reclusive lifestyle in the storehouse’s second floor might not be good for her.
But the solution had already been put in place.
It was to build a new house.

Building a new house was not an easy matter even from a financial standpoint.
However, from Kimura Matataro—a close friend of her late father Masaaki who had become a Diet member—came some welcome news.
The message had come less from Kimura himself and more from his wife, Mrs. Mitsuko.
They had purchased lumber for constructing a new mansion, but when it turned out that proceeding with the planned house would violate building ordinances, it became risky, leaving them with a considerable surplus of materials.
It was a sufficient quantity to build a house with two or three rooms.
Living in this earthen storehouse must be hard on your elderly mother—why not take decisive action and build anew? That was their proposal.
They also stated they could dispatch carpenters from their side.
Their sole condition was that if payment for the lumber and labor costs couldn’t be received immediately, they wanted a promissory note drawn up.

After discussing it, Keisuke and Hisako resolved to build a new house.
The company where Keisuke worked was the headquarters of Ceramics Industry and had ample prospects for future development.
In time, they would be able to arrange the necessary funds.
For now, they would borrow from Kimura.
The only problem was convincing Mother Kayo.

Kayo’s life in the earthen storehouse was far from ideal from any perspective.
The earthen storehouse didn’t seem good for the children either.
A dark shadow seemed to loom.

If they moved to the bright new house, Kayo's mood would change as well.
Even two rooms would suffice.
They would make one room Kayo's living quarters and another the children's.

Kayo did not dislike the children.
She prohibited playing on the second floor but took charge of mending all their socks.
When Keiichi developed a fever from influenza, she tended to him diligently, coming down from the second floor multiple times even at night.
She went so far as to muffle her footsteps when descending the stairs.
When Hisako stirred awake abruptly, Kayo sat like a wooden statue at Keiichi's bedside.
In the dimness beneath a two-candlepower bulb further shaded by a cover—her half-white head tilted forward, her faintly pale face gone cold—she kept vigil over Keiichi's sleeping breaths.
Still not fully conscious, Hisako felt as if doused with icy water and bolted upright.

“Be quiet,” Kayo said without turning around, motioning with her hand to restrain.
“At this rate, he’ll recover soon.”

Kayo ascended the stairs, muffling her footsteps.

Such occurrences made Hisako wonder whether she had been dreaming.
It hadn't been a pleasant dream—it felt more like a nightmare.
Could it have been due to the earthen storehouse's atmosphere?
Yet Keiichi's illness soon cleared up exactly as she had predicted.

They had to convince Kayo about building the new house.
This proved difficult.
Things like auditory illusions, visual illusions, the storehouse's atmosphere, or misconceptions about war—such reasons seemed unlikely to sway her.
After much deliberation, Keisuke came up with an idea.
They would construct a white-walled house.
The veranda and storm shutters would be tolerated.
For the most part, all three sides would feature white walls instead of wooden siding.
Then it wouldn't differ much from the earthen storehouse.
Even if a fire broke out, it should remain safe enough.
As for construction costs—given the modest square footage—it likely wouldn't amount to much anyway, and Kayo wasn't one to nitpick over such details.

As Keisuke sporadically hinted about the white-walled house, Kayo gradually grew more receptive.

“Such houses no longer exist today, but they were common in the past.”

Moreover, they had been common among old, distinguished families.
Kayo approved of the white-walled construction.
Approving of white-walled construction was, in other words, approving of building anew.
Even so, she sat holding her white cat, lost in thought.
Even if you looked at her face, or at the cat’s face, you couldn’t begin to guess what they were thinking.

Mrs. Mitsuko widened her eyes in astonishment upon hearing about the white-walled construction.

“My, what a notion to have in this day and age!”

She herself came to visit Kayo.

She did not permit even guests into the second-floor room at all.
The two conversed familiarly on the first floor.
Hisako made tea, joined in the small talk for a while, then took the children and went to buy sweets.
When she returned, the two women’s expressions had changed.
Mitsuko left without touching the sweets, making a hasty exit.

What was unusual was that Kayo was genuinely furious.

“Such a shameless, ungrateful upstart must no longer be allowed into this house.”

Hisako found it difficult to ask what she was so angry about, and Kayo clammed up and retreated to the second floor.

Meals were had together on the first floor.
When Keisuke returned home, during dinner, Kayo said.

“Since losing the war, everyone has turned rotten.
“In the past, those who dabbled in politics suffered losses, but now they profit.”
“Mr. Kimura is proof of that.”
“You mustn’t associate with such people.”

Keisuke didn’t fully grasp her meaning.
He knew his late father Masaaki had squandered much of the family fortune through political entanglements in his final years.
Having the house and grounds registered in Kayo’s name was likely precaution against unforeseen circumstances.
But what connection did that have to Kimura Matataro?

Kayo seemed less angry now than genuinely worried.
When Keisuke pressed her about it, she disclosed why she had severed ties with Mitsuko.
The white-walled construction plan had apparently never even come up in their discussion.
Though Mr. Kimura offered to temporarily cover lumber costs and construction fees, he demanded a promissory note for the full estimated amount—and despite their longstanding acquaintance—insisted on establishing a mortgage over the Shirai family's storehouse and land as collateral for security's sake, though waiving interest. These terms had infuriated Kayo.
In short, she found the very notion of a mortgage unacceptable.
That land—particularly the earthen storehouse—served as her sole sanctuary and embodied the Shirai family legacy.
To mortgage it was unthinkable!

Keisuke was taken aback.
He had heard about the mortgage conditions from Mitsuko but dismissed them as a temporary matter, not giving it much thought.
He hadn’t even recalled that the house and land were registered in Kayo’s name.
Did she believe that once mortgaged, it would simply be swindled away as is?

“I will never press the family seal ever again.
There’s nothing else left to use it for anyway, and since it’s only this house now, I’ll throw the family seal away somewhere.”

Back when there were still stock certificates registered in her name, she had entrusted Keisuke with the family seal without hesitation to sell them off.
But when it came to the storehouse matter, she began resisting with ironclad resolve.
It was not logic but emotion.

Keisuke and Hisako could no longer say anything.
The plans for the new house vanished like a dream.

Kayo spent her days largely in silence, neither bathing nor venturing out, but then suddenly announced she was going to visit Fukagawa's Fudō-sama and left.

Generally speaking, Kayo's faith was not particularly deep.
When Hisako was giving birth, she had received an amulet from Suitengū-sama Shrine, but that was merely a conventional custom.
In the past, she had hardly ever gone out of her way to visit shrines or temples.
Lately, she occasionally went out to Ichijō-ji Temple, but this didn't mean she had embraced Buddhism.
Even her recent obsession with sutra copying did not stem from any special religious devotion.
All of it carried the air of external, formal props.
It was merely that there seemed to be something within her clinging so desperately that it required such props.
If that which was within became a hindrance to itself, she might instead tear up and discard the sutra scrolls.

It seemed that visiting Fukagawa’s Fudō-sama had not been her true purpose either.

Having returned, Kayo said.

“I went to see the Ōkawa River from Ryōgoku Bridge for the first time in ages.”

And she told a story that Hisako seemed to be hearing for the first time.
Kayo’s grandmother—the long-lived matriarch of the Shiraki family—had been a devout worshipper of the Togenuki Jizo in Sugamo, once releasing ten thousand inscribed amulets into the Ōkawa River from Ryōgoku Bridge as an act of memorial.
On the amulets was stamped an image of Jizō-sama.
The stamping block and ink had been kept in the house.
Stamping ten thousand amulets with the block had been an arduous task.
After having prayers performed over them, they were released into the Ōkawa River.
As for what became of the Jizō-sama stamping block—no matter how much they searched, it couldn’t be found—but perhaps someone had taken it when marrying into another family.

After telling such a story, Kayo said quietly.

“From there, I threw my family seal into the Ōkawa River.”
“Now I can rest easy.”

The tone of her words held not a trace of falsehood.
Both Fudō-sama and Togenuki Jizō-sama had served to lend weight to the family seal incident.
Even so, how had Kayo sunk the family seal into the river?
Did she stand rigidly on the bridge, raise her hand, and throw it in?
Or did she lean against the railing, peer down at the water, and let it drop with a plop?
It was probably the latter.
It was a small amethyst seal.

When Keisuke heard about this from Hisako, he frowned.
When he pressed Kayo further, she nodded mockingly.

“No matter who targets it, this house alone is now safe.”

Even so, Kayo went out less often to bask in the sun while holding the white cat.
Even though the young buds on the trees were already beginning to sprout, she increasingly secluded herself in the dim second-floor room.

However, one day, she ransacked the kitchen, called Hisako, and asked if this was all the salt they had.
Only a little was left in a small bottle.
Hisako brought out the salt bottle.
That was all there was.
Kayo poured all the salt in the house into a basket and, without a word, headed out toward the bamboo thicket in the back.
Hisako also followed.

At the edge of the thicket where small bamboos stood sparsely, two vines grew among the decaying leaves. Their stems were spindly and elongated, their leaves thin and large, the entire plant tinged yellow. They were out-of-season, unfamiliar vines. Kayo trampled the vines with her geta, scattered salt all around, then flipped the basket over and shook it out briskly. Appearing deeply displeased, she glared at Hisako but departed without saying a word.

Hisako felt an ominous sensation and recalled something unexpected.
Kayo would occasionally tell Keiichi stories.
They were short old tales, but some were strange and incomprehensible.

Once upon a time, there was a haunted house in a certain place.
In the overgrown garden, large vines grew thickly.
Those were the monster.
To exterminate the monster, strong warriors and skilled martial artists ventured forth one after another, but upon entering the garden, they would be smothered beneath the vines' great canopy, which would then steadily shrink until they perished.

None could prevail.
Yet there came a wise soul who carried abundant salt, and when they scattered it over the vines, the growths withered.
Thus did they successfully vanquish the vine monster.

Hisako recalled that story she had overheard from the sidelines.
What kind of charm was the salt supposed to be?
She felt an ominous and deeply unpleasant sensation.

Kayo washed her hands and murmured as if to herself.

"If vines are sprouting here, this house has become perilous."

Then she asked Hisako to prepare egg sake.

Kayo had never drunk sake during daylight hours before.
It must have been something extraordinary—perhaps because of those vines.

When the second floor stayed silent too long, Hisako quietly climbed the stairs and peered inside.
Kayo had drunk the egg sake, shoved the tray toward the stairwell, unfurled a sutra scroll across the desk, placed both hands upon it with her face lowered, and fallen asleep.
Her seated form appeared shrunken, cheeks bloodless, strands of rust-red and white hair disarrayed yet utterly motionless.
The cat was nowhere visible.
Hisako feared even glancing about for it and retreated downstairs clutching the tray.

That evening, Kayo came down for dinner and sat at the table but did not take up her chopsticks.
When Keisuke—who had heard about the vines from Hisako—kept stealing glances at Kayo’s expression, Kayo proposed repainting the house walls white.

“Leaving the earthen storehouse walls as they are—since they’re peeling like that—it’s rather unsightly.
In that state, even vines will sprout.
Let’s repaint them white.”

She decided alone and kept it to herself.
Keisuke was listening half-heartedly.
With no objections voiced, Kayo seemed to take this as agreement and nodded repeatedly to herself.
Then, declaring she wanted egg sake instead of supper, she climbed to the second floor cradling the cat.

When Hisako prepared egg sake and brought it upstairs, the second floor was littered with newspaper scraps as Kayo played with the white cat.
Kayo made paper pellets and threw them; the cat pounced on them, tore them apart, and scampered around.
Hisako tried to pick up the scraps, but Kayo stopped her.

When Hisako came downstairs, Keisuke was drinking cold sake from a cup.
“Repainting the house with white walls must be quite an undertaking?” Hisako asked.

“Don’t worry—we won’t repaint it. We can just let it go.”

He pondered for a while, then suddenly raised his face and spoke.

“If Mother weren’t here—if she weren’t Mother—I’d tear this earthen storehouse to pieces.”

Hisako stared at his face, then suddenly filled her eyes with tears.

Both fell silent.
On the second floor, perhaps having tired itself out from play, the white cat fell completely silent, not a sound to be heard.