Pathway to Japanese Literature

Since Reikichi himself had no woman to think of, he had made the woman from the stories he read—the one who released the Red Bird and walked away—his own object of contemplation. Though this absence of a woman in his life served only to deepen his gloom, since there was nothing else for him, he still found himself unable to stop thinking of her. It was a novel he had bought for its cover—a collection of translated works found in some book. Reikichi had developed a habit of always envisioning the passage where the woman would escape her house, go out, then return to lower the birdcage from the window.

Since the book had been discovered by Mother and promptly taken away, all he remembered about the novel’s author was that it had been some long, unfamiliar foreign name. But to Reikichi, such things had never mattered from the start. Any book—so long as it dealt with love—he would devour eagerly, even if there were parts he didn’t understand.

The woman of love was a woman called Gretchen. It was an old Dutch town—some such place—with many historical ruins from times long past. The young French painter had come to this town from France and stayed to capture her elegant figure—her moist-looking blue eyes, her amber-colored silk-like lush hair, and her pure white, full-length robe. And before finding a woman suitable for such a model, he had fallen in love with a Magdalene depicted in an old temple’s mural—a Magdalene lowering Christ from the cross to secretly bury Him in the earth—who embodied the form of the woman he had been seeking. He would go daily to see her as though she were a living woman. Then one evening, while paying homage before this same painting, he was astonished to find that the gaze, complexion, and slender form in white robes of a woman descending into the already dimming shadow of a pillar resembled that Magdalene more than if she herself had stepped out from the mural. In that moment, his affections shifted entirely to this woman who vanished without a trace.

From then on, the young man wandered the town every day in search of her figure. Then, after several pages of the story’s account, there came an evening when Gretchen—who was to become his sorrowful wife—unexpectedly passed before this man’s yearning eyes in a light rain at an old town corner.

The young man hurriedly followed after her. However, as if it had been entirely his own eyes' deception, before he knew it he had lost sight of that woman’s figure, and found himself vainly brought to a standstill on the quiet town street where only the rain’s steady fall continued ceaselessly like a spider’s thread. Thus returning once more to his long-standing futile pursuit, as he plodded through the twilight-cloaked streets, he noticed at the window of a quiet house a pale reddish birdcage hanging dampened by the light rain—and just as he approached below, the hand of its owner—a woman who seemed to have forgotten to bring it in—drew back the curtain to retrieve it. There she was—the Magdalene woman he had lost sight of.

The man would thereafter come out time and again to pass beneath this window, yet despite his efforts, he never managed to catch even a glimpse of the woman he loved. Each day, he would slip a scrap of paper into the birdcage placed at that same window— "O woman who resembles my beloved Magdalene," he would write, inserting them time and again. Each time the woman retrieved her bird at sunset, she accumulated more scraps of paper—each bearing identical handwriting from the same hand—until at last she understood a man loved her. With that realization, her small chest quivered day and night as she loved this man whose very identity remained unknown to her. The man had loved the Magdalene in the painting before that. For the woman, this was the first love of her life.

And so, the day finally arrived when the man whispered his ardent feelings to the woman. Before long, he planned to take her and elope to a beautiful realm of day and night unseen by human eyes. Bewildered like a startled sparrow yet wishing to obey him in all things, she agreed without a moment's reflection, her small chest trembling alone.

The following evening, the man had the carriage wait at the street corner and stood beneath the window. The woman who had been waiting in secret slipped out as if dissolving into air, descended the shadowed stone steps of twilight, and threw herself into the man's arms. “Are you ready?” the man whispered, quivering with excitement. Trembling all over, the woman was led away and broke into a half-run, yet even as she fled, something nagged at her heart. A feeling that she must return once more to the doorway tugged at her from behind.

“Please wait—just a moment,” she finally implored the man before running back alone.

That bird. That bird she had forgotten to release. The woman stretched up, stealthily lowered the birdcage from the window, then frantically opened the wire mesh door, took out the bird, and released it. The bird flapped its wings, brushing past the dimming light of dusk as it rose up. The woman, without even a moment to ascertain where that red form—which she had long kept and tamed—had flown, immediately ran and boarded the carriage. Though the woman had thus become his and left home, the man—after accompanying her for a time—gradually turned into a cold, plaster-like figure toward her. The man forgot the value of his own woman and began seeking the Magdalene in the painting anew. For the woman, the reason why she had been loved by this man until now gradually became clear. The man had not loved her after all. The fact that he had sought me was that he had sought to obtain, through me, the Magdalene in the painting by implication. He had loved me—who resembled Magdalene—only to obtain living whispers and kisses from the woman in the painting. For the man, ultimately, nothing could exist outside of that painted woman.

In the end, the man had the woman don Magdalene’s exact attire from the painting, positioned her before the canvas, and attempted to recreate his beloved Magdalene through her with his own hands. The woman said to the man while being painted: “Before you, I was merely a doll of that woman in the painting. But even this mere doll loves you like this.” “Please,” she implored through bitter sobs, tears streaming down her face as the man continued to paint her, “even after the portrait is finished, I beg you to keep me by your side forever.”

At this final part, Reikichi found tears welling up in him just like the woman’s. The more pitiable the woman’s heart became, the more sorrowful grew the red hue of the bird she had earlier released from its cage—until he could no longer think of her as anything but his own woman.

Reikichi, whose head ached daily, found everything repugnant. With a gray and desolate heart, he idled about thinking only of this bird woman. Yet remaining at home meant enduring his grandfather’s incomprehensible harangues all day long—the ceaseless scolding became so intolerable that he desperately wanted to flee somewhere utterly isolated where he could stay perfectly still and do exactly as he pleased. Even Mother, for all her fretting over my moods, never grasped the true extent of my headaches—so her efforts amounted to nothing. Reikichi begged Mother to let him stay at an inn—any inn—for a short while. Since this coincided with her recent quarrel with Grandfather, Mother tried every means to dissuade him, insisting she’d face trouble if people misinterpreted his departure as storming out over their dispute. But when she finally relented with “Do as you please,” he seized this permission and promptly left.

Reikichi had missed his train. Leaning against a grimy bench in the drenched afternoon rain, he cradled his frazzled head and waited out the interminable hours until the next departure. That gloomy mood at the time—as if he somehow regretted having left like that—when he later reflected on it, carried an uncanny quality, as though it had presaged some preposterous, inescapable calamity.

The destination was a familiar seaside inn that his family had frequented since his father’s time. Since he had come alone so suddenly during this season just after winter had passed, the innkeeper’s wife, unprepared for such a visit, asked if something was wrong with his health. Reikichi truthfully explained that he had left home by telling his mother his head hurt and he was feeling irritable.

Given the time of year, there were no other guests staying there. In the room next to the entrance, cushions, tobacco trays, low dining tables and such had been haphazardly stacked. In the hushed front desk area, the innkeeper’s wife and an elderly maid who seemed inexperienced were the only two there, occupied with mending tasks. The large two-winged building had all its gray storm shutters latched both upstairs and downstairs except for the single ground-floor room where Reikichi stayed, and corridors connecting to rooms remained as dim as evening. Moreover, since his arrival there had been nothing but overcast days, and despite it being March, the chilly sea breeze kept the latched paper screens gloomy and shadowed throughout the day. Even when he went outside and tried searching, there was no sunny spot to be found.

Yet when he thought of being at home where Grandfather did nothing but endlessly nag him, it felt like escaping a loathsome cage. Reikichi shuffled about alone like a lonely bird accustomed to shaded places. And so, to fill his darkening heart as his head throbbed with pain, he thought of nothing but that Red Bird woman. Being in such a desolate, peeling place while pondering various things felt fitting for his own loneliness—a loneliness he sought but could never attain. He felt as though he were ceaselessly lost in thought about things, yet paradoxically found himself adrift at times, contemplating nothing in particular.

When his head grew weary, Reikichi would stand vacantly beyond the gate and gaze at the vast ocean—its damp chill stretching endlessly. Even interacting with people had become loathsome. In this regard, the innkeeper’s wife took care of everything without being overbearing—unlike some kept woman who’d clawed her way up from the gutters, she was composed and never said anything unnecessary, which made things pleasantly hassle-free.

And so Reikichi would sometimes walk aimlessly along gloomy lanes—sunless passages lined with peeling blackened houses radiating desolation—through the back alleys of this antiquated town where no one knew him, enveloped in a mood of wandering search for that vanished Magdalene-like woman. He did not go out to the main streets of the town because he disliked them. In a certain section of those town streets, beneath similarly tattered thatched roofs, stood many houses with faded curtains dyed in garish colors one could scarcely imagine. From behind them emerged women with fox-like faces—their heads alone gleaming from thickly plastered white powder—who carelessly exposed their knees through threadbare, slightly soiled kimonos as they wantonly teased passersby without discretion.

“Hey there~” “Looking good there, you.” “Hmph – prancing off all high and mighty. What a prick.” “Disgusting.”

“Well now—what’s this? You’re still just a kid of sixteen or seventeen?”

In such hoarse, rasping voices, the whole group roared with laughter. Reikichi found the wretched sight of these fallen women unbearable, making his passage through here deeply unpleasant.

It was on the sixth dark night after his arrival that Reikichi encountered an unforeseen calamity in this town's streets.

Reikichi had no choice but to pass through this town street to mail a letter to his mother when, at one of those dubious establishments where someone was clumsily plucking a shamisen that sounded nearly broken, two or three sailor-like filthy men in tattered dark-brown workman's jackets sprawled across the wooden floor, roughhousing with each other reeking of cup-sake. As Reikichi passed by them and walked barely a short distance further, a man came running up from behind—panting heavily as if fleeing some mischief—and stumbled past. While glancing back repeatedly like someone expecting pursuit, the man suddenly veered into a narrow side alley and vanished into the shadows. Then another man, apparently having been taunted by the first one, came chasing after him in a rage, shouting his name while brandishing an extinguished lantern. He appeared quite drunk, his footing unsteady as he staggered.

“Damn it!” “Where the hell did you go?” Shouting something unintelligible, he staggered past Reikichi and continued onward. Then, the man who had been hiding smoothly outwitted his opponent and stealthily retraced his steps back the way he had come. The ditched man, oblivious to having been outwitted, stood abruptly in the middle of the road while sputtering incoherent gibberish, appearing to be hatching some plan. Later, upon reflection, it turned out he had been retying his undone heko-obi.

Reikichi had merely thought—since earlier—that these men were likely the same group who’d been making rowdy noises at the shop he passed; with no particular concern, he passed by the stationary man. In the dim light, he inadvertently stepped on the dragging end of the man’s belt without seeing it. “What the hell?” The man yanked back his belt from under Reikichi’s geta. “I’m terribly sorry.” “Hey, wait! What’d you say?”

“Forgive me.” “It was dark,” he said edging away as if to flee when— “Wait you bastard!” came endless harassment. “What?” Reikichi had no choice but to stop.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” he said in a tone deliberately exaggerating drunkenness, staggering forward and grabbing Reikichi’s shoulder with a stiffened hand.

“What are you doing? I’ve already apologized that much—you should’ve just let it go, shouldn’t you?” “What for?” he said, giving a hard shove.

“Then what am I supposed to do? Isn’t this violence, acting like that?” Reikichi snapped, his irritation flaring. “What’s ‘violence’? You’re the brat here—stepping on a man’s belt and spouting your damn lectures? What’s your problem?” “You’re just loafing around—wh-where you staying anyway, some student dive?” he persisted, not loosening his grip.

Reikichi, thinking the man was deliberately trying to harass him, seized an opportunity to smoothly shake free and attempt to flee when— “Wait, you bastard!” he said as he swung up the lantern and struck a sharp blow across his brow. Realizing that lingering would only worsen his plight, Reikichi fled before taking further blows, hurrying off as he was. But then he noticed something cold and wet streaming from his brow down to his cheek. When he wiped it and examined his palm under the dim light of a nearby shop, he found sticky blood clinging thickly to his skin.

“Oh my! What happened?” the innkeeper’s wife exclaimed, rushing over in alarm. "What an outrageous act of violence," Reikichi thought, his resentment twisting like something he wanted to wrench apart. “You mustn’t recklessly aggravate it like that.” “Press down firmly with a handkerchief or something.” “……Oh... It’s the eye, isn’t it.” “Is the blood coming from your eye?” “What on earth happened?” The innkeeper’s wife bustled about in a fluster. But it wasn’t his eye. He had sustained a wound above his right eye. When Reikichi closed that eye and pressed on the wound, he found it strange—his left eye, which should have been unharmed, was pitch-black and saw nothing.

Eventually, Reikichi resentfully received treatment from a doctor for the wound above his eye and immediately went to the police. Outside, there was a clamorous crowd of people. "But you must’ve said some kind of insult or something, right? If there wasn’t anything else, there’s no reason someone would do such an outrageous thing over just that little matter you’re talking about," the police officer responded in a manner that disbelieved Reikichi’s account, stating they would locate and question the perpetrator themselves while treating it like some trivial incident. As Reikichi was being slowly questioned about his registered domicile and other details, there came a commotion—the innkeeper’s wife arrived in a flustered panic, gasping for breath as she pushed through the crowd peering at the entrance while repeating, “Please step aside. Just step aside for a moment.”

“What happened to you?” “Who did this to you?” “Where did it happen?”

The innkeeper’s wife stood there in shock, flustered and panicking.

Early the next morning, another police officer came to the inn and once again investigated the circumstances. The perpetrator had been caught immediately last night and detained overnight, but had been temporarily released that morning—so the police officer informed the innkeeper’s wife. “You insist you threw your geta at him first and refuse to back down—but surely that isn’t true? If so,” he pressed needlessly hard on this point, “you’d best tell everything exactly as it happened now—it’ll go worse for you later if we find discrepancies.”

Reikichi found the police’s utter ineptitude grating on his nerves, to the point where he no longer cared which side was in the right. Even if the perpetrator were convicted, this wound wouldn’t heal. More than that, what pained my heart most was knowing this clumsy injury would inevitably become known to Mother and the others later on. Even if this wound heals, it will definitely leave a scar. If the day comes when I must return home and it still hasn't healed, how pitiful to think I would go back like this with bandages applied and everything left as is. What should I say to Grandfather and Mother and the others when I return? Though the innkeeper’s wife had said that, I couldn’t shake my suspicion that she might still have secretly notified Mother, leaving me unable to settle.

Reikichi, more consumed by these anxieties than by the critical matter of what would become of his unseen left eye, felt as though he were hiding from Mother and the others' gaze. Unpleasantly, he remained burrowed into the futon, cooling his wound again and again.

When I turned it over in my mind time and again, that bastard I'd crossed became unbearably loathsome.

The innkeeper’s wife had sent a telegram straight to the main house last night, instructing the owner here to come rushing over, so he was likely already on his way. She kept saying they would soon have that boatman thrown into a dark cell, fretting incessantly as if she had broken something precious entrusted to her and could offer no excuse, staying by his side to nurse him. But come afternoon, her resolve hardened—insisting they must go into town without fail, just to be safe, and have a proper ophthalmologist examine him—she accompanied him out.

On their way, they stopped by the attending physician’s office to explain the situation. The doctor, declaring that neither the wound nor eyes should be exposed to wind, applied bandages and sealed both eyes shut. Reikichi was then placed aboard the train in this state. Though this physician had casually asserted that even the left eye merely suffered contusion-induced congestion in the eyeball, upon later consideration, he proved to be an utterly incompetent quack who understood nothing. During the journey to the hospital, while Reikichi recognized the futility of dwelling on regrets, he strove to fix his thoughts on other matters. Yet whenever it struck him that all this constituted punishment for having defied his mother’s wishes and left home, he found himself tormented by reproaches over his habitual selfishness—so thoroughly that he could no longer muster thoughts of that woman with the bird.

According to the examination results at the hospital, there had ultimately been no choice but for him to be admitted there as he was. The diagnosis stated that in his left eye, the interior of the yellowish-brown part of the eyeball had decayed and seemed to have collapsed backward; they said it might be necessary to completely gouge out the eyeball. Both eyes had again been sealed with bandages. "Oh dear, what explanation should I give your household?" said the innkeeper’s wife, who until coming here had only worried about whether the scar would remain. Now she fretted over this as if it were a new concern—though what was done could no longer be undone. Having been told by Reikichi that lingering here like this wouldn’t resolve anything, the innkeeper’s wife, still flustered, went to complete the admission procedures at reception.

“Please stay strong.” “I’ll just hurry to the post office and come right back.” “I can’t keep this from your household any longer,” she said, entrusting Reikichi to the nurse before hurrying off. In this state, there would be no way to keep hiding him at home. Reikichi, envisioning Mother and the others’ bewildered shock, was led by the nurse’s hand toward the hospital room. The nurse, having been cautioned by the director, guided him in silence as though leading something fragile on the verge of collapse, moving with ginger care—

“Here we are at the ladder-like stairs,” she said, then had him place one hand on the stair rail. Reikichi, sinking into dark sorrow at the thought—what would become of him if he were to end up irreversibly blind like this?—gingerly felt his way up the stairs, the loosened thongs of his wooden sandals precarious underfoot. Even with someone beside him, an anxious feeling lingered—as though he might stumble into some corner at any moment or something might come crashing down from above.

When they reached the second floor, the nurse opened a glass door to what seemed like an examination room and said, “Please wait here for a moment while I prepare that room over there,” then temporarily let him inside. The floor was covered with tatami mats. Reikichi groped around his surroundings and sat down near where he had just entered. He listened intently to the slow dragging sound of the nurse’s slippers descending the stairs—as if she were preoccupied with other matters—with a lonely sense of abandonment, waiting dejectedly with his knees drawn together. The next day, when changing his shirt, it was noticed by the person accompanying him—but whether the blood that had thickly smeared one of the shirt’s cuffs was still vividly damp at that time remains unclear.

He had the vague sense that he’d been placed in a room with peeling walls and grime-caked floors, but with his eyes covered, he naturally had no way of knowing the actual state. He didn’t even know what town he had come down to, nor what sort of hospital in what kind of place he now found himself. Even if the bandages were removed here and now, there would still be no vision in his left eye. Earlier, when he’d been placed in the darkroom and a lamp was lit before his eyes, only what seemed to be the flame’s core—appearing like eyes opening in murky water struck by sunlight—had shown as a hazily swelling light. The right eye was merely congested from minor bruising and apparently unharmed, but sealed shut with applied gauze secured by adhesive tape. When the Director removed the dressing, directing the lamp’s beam through a convex lens while peering through a square metal plate’s aperture to examine his eye, Reikichi caught only a fleeting glimpse: the Director’s swarthy face beneath close-cropped chestnut-burr hair, his khaki surgical cap, and how the cellar-like room’s blackened walls were draped from ceiling edge with fabric matching that hue—before fresh bandages promptly sealed his eyes again.

Since it was a private ophthalmology hospital in a provincial city, one couldn't consider it particularly large or splendid. In the rooms near where Reikichi now sat, there showed no indication that anyone had entered. After what appeared to be a rickety omnibus had violently clattered past the thoroughfare just outside, the surroundings reverted to a valley-bottom silence, leaving only the lonesome sound of a pillar clock—likely hung on the staircase wall—ticking laboriously like an aged man. It already seemed to be that dim hour when daylight grew shadowed. Somehow, he felt evening's gloom encroaching with a dusky blackness. Reikichi wondered how long he would have to keep waiting like this.

Then, soon came the clattering sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Reikichi waited in anticipation, thinking it might be the nurse from earlier, but it seemed not to be—someone passed before where he sat and went elsewhere. Reikichi felt the throbbing pain beneath his bandages growing increasingly intense, and his weary, sunken mood festered with irritation. I didn’t care where anymore—I just wanted to collapse onto the futon as soon as possible.

Reikichi tried to suppress the urge to lie down here even briefly until the nurse arrived, each second growing excruciatingly dreary until he was utterly weary of waiting. When I thought about it, I had met with such a wretched fate. It was loathsome—this felt like a punishment I had brought upon myself. Reikichi envisioned how when he had left town, the townspeople had come flapping their sandals to their doorways, whispering among themselves while seeing him off. The children trailed around the carriage in a cluster, both before and behind me with my eyes covered. I had become a peerless spectacle. The townspeople had already forgotten everything as if it were all settled. I alone—how many days and nights would I now have to endure in this hospital?—

From below, someone came clattering hurriedly up the stairs.

Reikichi was laid down on the futon and immediately closed his eyes, falling into an exhausted sleep as though comatose. Abruptly, he awoke with an unpleasant feeling of having overslept, his entire body drenched in sweat. For a while he assessed his despondent state while trying to push back the futon’s collar, when someone who had apparently been sitting silently by his pillow since earlier immediately offered assistance—thinking it must still be the innkeeper’s wife,

“Is it already night?” he asked,

“Reikichi, are you awake?” It was his mother. “I’ve been here since earlier.” “Look here, Reikichi—this happened because you wouldn’t listen to what I told you.” “This is all your own doing.” “Do you have any idea what Grandfather said when he scolded me into coming here?” “None of us—not even Grandfather or I—could have imagined such a terrible injury would come of this.”

With each reproachful look, tears of helpless frustration welling in her eyes, Mother said this and began her scolding. Even if she blamed herself like that, there was nothing to be done—after all, I hadn’t known we’d encounter such violence when we came out. If I was going to be scolded like this, I should have hidden myself away more thoroughly. Reikichi, finding no way to respond, “And what about the Innkeeper’s Wife?” he said, changing the subject, but Mother did not respond and merely stifled her tears.

“Reikichi, let this be the end of your willfulness now.” “Haven’t you gone and ruined your precious eye over nothing?” “That ends up being entirely my fault in Grandfather’s eyes, you see.” “At least try to understand how I feel for once!” As she said this, Mother trailed off, seemingly sinking into sorrowful thought, but then as if changing her mood—

"But if I were to say it plainly, it was still my fault." "In truth, no matter how much you insisted, if I had just refused to let you go from the start, there would have been nothing to say—but really, what a disaster we’ve met with." "To end up a cripple not even born that way..." she said with a sigh, now reproaching herself. Reikichi found himself feeling more sorry for Mother than himself, and before he knew it, tears welled up beneath his bandages. To hear from his own mother’s lips that he had become a cripple—even that word "cripple" seeped sorrowfully into his and Mother’s hearts. Reikichi lay motionless as though incapable of movement, remaining silent in his reclined position.

Eventually, Mother—

“Reikichi, you mustn’t catch a chill—put this futon on now,” she said, draping just one layer over him. “And you—you must be hungry if you haven’t eaten anything? Didn’t you say you didn’t touch a single bite when dinner came?—There’s milk bought and waiting over there. Shall I mix some for you? Hmm?” As she said this, she pressed down on the futon’s edge.

Just then, the innkeeper’s wife slid the door open quietly and returned from somewhere.

“It appears the messenger I had sent has indeed returned.” “He must have arrived on exactly the same train as you,” said the innkeeper’s wife in a hushed, deferential tone to the patient. “In any case, they first submitted the incident report I mentioned earlier to the police as a formality before returning home. But it seems they arrived just as we were leaving here—passing each other by—and immediately rushed over to launch a harsh confrontation.” “When my messenger came, three or four of their associates had apparently gathered on their side, earnestly pleading something or other. I suppose they’re maneuvering for a settlement now that they can’t escape blame—but really now, do you think such a self-serving arrangement could ever exist?” “Truly, no matter what suffering we make them endure, it would never suffice.” “And considering that man’s usual conduct, the police shouldn’t be taking such half-hearted measures in the first place.” “What in the world could the police possibly intend to do?”

“But no matter what anyone says anymore, it’s something that can’t be undone,” she said. “So that matter is of no consequence now.” “It’s all a punishment for this child’s usual willfulness.”

Mother said this as if casting it aside—as though lamenting further would be pointless now that things had come to this pass.

“But no matter how one considers it, isn’t this just unbearable?” “Oh no—not at all, you.” “If I may presume to understand Madam’s feelings, no matter what hardships I might endure, I could never offer proper justification.” “—Oh—are you awake?”

The innkeeper’s wife appeared to be pouring medicine into the earthenware cooling pot, “I should have given this earlier, but you were sleeping so deeply.” “Then he must take this medicine again.”

“Oh, this can has been neatly opened here.” “Then afterwards, would you kindly heat the water more?” “But Madam, since there’s no alternative with the milk, perhaps I should prepare some porridge instead.” “With that intention, I’ve bought a small amount of rice and brought it there.” “And water now flows in that corridor as well, you see.”

The two of them were talking about such things.

After a while,

“Is this for toothpaste and toothpicks, and this potato starch?” Mother asked. “I got so flustered I forgot to buy the sugar.” “Oh now, you—it wasn’t such a great amount after all.” “Having taken care of everything so thoroughly like this, it’s truly all thanks to you.” “Well now, there are still various things missing, but for those we can manage without today and tomorrow, I’ll bring them all from my home soon.”

Reikichi lay covered by the futon, listening to these hushed whispers exchanged between the two women in the corner, when a tingling sensation—as if cracks were spreading—began in his left eye, making him darkly dread what might become of it hereafter. “Reikichi, sit up a bit and press that thing on your eye,” Mother said. The innkeeper’s wife came to his side and assisted in removing the bandages. Mother remained silent, seemingly scrutinizing how the wound was covered.

Reikichi sat up keeping his right eye closed while only opening his left, but naturally, beyond the hazy light resembling that at a water's bottom—a murky glow—he could see nothing at all. "Is this electric light?" he said while bending his face over the lowered earthenware pot, using chopsticks to pick up medicine-soaked gauze and dab it against his eye.

A clock struck two out in the corridor.

“Has it already come to that? Innkeeper’s Wife, you should prepare to retire at a suitable hour. I’ll handle matters from here,” said Mother, taking out paper to wipe the water droplets Reikichi had spilled.

The Innkeeper’s Wife seemed to be carrying something out when— "Oh, a shooting star," she murmured to herself in a hushed voice, gently closing the door before stealing down the corridor with muted footsteps. "Reikichi—can you truly see nothing at all with this eye?" Mother asked bitterly, as if she had waited for the pitied innkeeper’s wife to briefly depart before posing the question.

Two o'clock meant midnight. Outside lay a death-like silence, save for a sparse wind rustling through the trees.

“Is someone in the next room?” Reikichi asked while cooling his eyes. “Why do you ask?” “Because I hear something rustling.” “—Well.” “It seems someone’s there.” “All that commotion of people coming and going here must have woken you.” “Keep your voice down.—Is that enough now?” When the nine o’clock examination bell rang, Reikichi was soon accompanied by his mother and slipped quietly out of the hospital room. With his mother having come to stay this way—unlike when he had arrived yesterday—he now felt something taking root, as though he had already settled into living here long-term, as if this were an ordinary place.

Downstairs, it seemed a great many outpatients had come, and the voices of women speaking in hushed, muddled accents could be heard. While sitting on a bench waiting, what seemed to be a four- or five-year-old boy came right beside Reikichi, climbing onto and off the bench so relentlessly it was dizzying. The maid-like person accompanying them only offered half-hearted scoldings meant for appearances, so the boy kept rustling about restlessly, scraping at the area with some wood fragment in grating motions.

From the examination room, yesterday’s nurse called out the patients’ names one after another in a voice like that of a lonely woman. Some, apparently having had medicine administered, went out toward the exit while soothing babies who wailed uncontrollably—as if frightened by something—screaming as though turned inside out. “Excuse me, is this a 5-sen copper coin?” “Heh heh... Excuse me for that.” “I can’t see a thing at all, you see.”

At the reception desk, an elderly-looking person was paying money in a shrill voice.

Everything about the place, no matter how one looked at it, seemed like a dingy, peeling and worn-out small hospital.

Reikichi was soon placed in yesterday’s darkroom and examined. “See there—it’s trembling, isn’t it? There—visible even to the naked eye.” The Director had the assistant physician look through the aperture in that square metal plate. Mother had come to stand beside him unnoticed. “This appears to be a rather complex case,” said the Director in a cautionary tone as he removed the gauze from the right side. “My word—they’ve done something truly terrible here,” Mother uttered heavily upon first seeing the wound, her voice thick with pained dismay.

“Can you see clearly now? This way. Please look at this.” “It’s cloudy.” “But this one’s already fine.” “Your nerves are fatigued, so it’s probably a bit blurry.” “It’s nothing to worry about now.” “This will inevitably leave some mark, I’m afraid.” “Does it hurt?” Then the Director pressed near the wound area with his finger to check. After returning to the examination room, he had eye drops administered to both eyes, was made to press the inner corners with his index fingers, leaned back on the sofa, and had to remain perfectly still in that position for a short while. The reason he had to press there—which he later understood after hearing it from the nurse—was that the area beneath served as an opening for tears to emerge, and unless that opening was blocked, the tears would flow and wash away the administered medicine, or so he was told. The medicine seeped into his eyes with a stinging sharpness, like the acrid bite of smoke.

As he remained like that, a woman with a feminine air came to the vacant spot on Reikichi’s left and quietly sat down. Reikichi became aware of his kimono sleeve’s edge being pinned beneath her weight, so he raised his elbow and gently tugged at it. “Oh, do excuse me,” the woman apologized in a small voice, her words carrying composed dignity. She appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years old. As she spoke, even the faint rustling sound of her kimono when she stood to adjust her sitting posture suggested a woman wearing fine silk garments.

Patients came and went in turns. About five minutes had passed when Reikichi had medicine administered once more to his left eye. When told, "You no longer need to press here," he lowered his hand, but feeling an urge to open his eyes and look around, he endured the pulsing pain from his wound and slightly cracked them open to survey the room.

Before the Director sat a woman with a hand towel over her head who resembled a rustic innkeeper’s wife. The Director wore a head covering speckled with stains—from his brusque manner of speaking onward, he seemed an unceremonious yet approachable doctor. Across the table cluttered with small medicine bottles, the young physician who appeared freshly graduated let his watch chain peek from his white coat as he scribbled swiftly. Beside him stood the nurse—her gaunt frame matching the lonely voice Reikichi had imagined—tearing cotton wool while her sleeves, conspicuously tied with something resembling torn red ribbon, fluttered at the cuffs.

On the side facing Reikichi, beneath a soiled white cotton curtain, four or five patients sat on a sofa, pressing their eyes in the same manner. Most appeared to be country men wearing old hand-woven striped kimonos, their sashes tied carelessly, some with their garments' collars twisted into shabby disarray. As his wound throbbed like something being tugged, Reikichi closed and opened his eyes repeatedly, then cautiously looked around to comprehend his surroundings. On the wall above the doorframe hung charts resembling lunar diagrams printed in a blood-like hue. He supposed they must be specimen illustrations related to ocular anatomy.

When he looked again toward the Director, he noticed that behind him, the handle of the sliding door used for coming and going into the back had come off leaving a hole, and different paper was firmly pasted over a tear near the hem area. Every scene within the room gave off a modest feeling, as if admonishing him for his usual extravagance. Because there was not a trace of arrogance or unpleasantness there, for Reikichi—whose eyes, when slightly opened, would quickly grow weary and cloud over—through those eyes that cast a dim mood, it somehow gave him a familial sense that everyone was intimately familiar.

Reikichi felt as though he had been coming here day after day like this for some time now. The woman next to him was having medicine administered for the second time at this point.

“Does it sting so severely?” asked the Director. “Yes. A little,” the woman replied quietly, like a gentle, composed lady.

Reikichi felt a desire to see what sort of woman she might be, but since he was seated on the side where he pressed his eye, turning his face to look proved impossible.

“Reikichi, I’m just going upstairs for a moment,” said Mother, who had come to his side from somewhere. Reikichi forgot about the woman and turned his mind to other matters. Before long, he was bandaged again until nothing could be seen. Then he went upstairs and sank into a murky sleep. The innkeeper’s wife had bought and brought various things that were still needed, then returned home before noon. Thus Reikichi could discern neither color nor form through eyes perpetually shrouded—save during his twice-daily examinations—oblivious to day or night. In the hospital room they would undo his bandages to apply compresses, but by then his seeing eye remained shut beneath gauze. Moreover, forbidden from moving even slightly except to descend for examinations, he had to lie still on his futon all day.

Perhaps due to mental fatigue, whenever Reikichi remained still, he would immediately fall asleep and could sleep endlessly.

“But you really shouldn’t sleep so much.” “Here, eat this up.” Concerned, Mother would rouse him from sleep from time to time, giving him wafers and such or engaging him in conversation to distract him.

One time, Mother,

“Reikichi, there’s another warm sunny spot here—come out and sit down,” she said, gently coaxing him from his futon. On the side facing the outer street stood two glass windows; black curtains hung over them, it was said. If one opened the right-hand window and stepped through, they could reach a small balcony outside, so it was told. Mother drew back those curtains, created a sunlit space on the tatami, seated Reikichi there, and herself appeared to gaze outward from that spot.

“This area has nothing but small houses stretching on and on,” she said. “Behind them are fields right away. Must be wheat—already grown quite green. Exactly like Tenma-chō.” Mother muttered this comparison to the one-sided town at the edge of that city across the way. She no longer spoke a word about recent events. “Can you see all the way to the distance?” Reikichi asked. “Ah, I can see quite far ahead,” she replied. “There’s a fire watchtower over there—only just noticed it. Looks small as a toy. I wonder which direction the sea lies.”

“It’s this direction, right?” “No.” “How come?” “But that’s how it feels.” “You’re wrong.” Mother laughed sadly, as if straining sightless eyes.

Like a small child wanting to try everything, Reikichi gingerly opened the glass window while remaining seated. The enclosed sunny spot where they sat was warm, but outside it was a day of skin-pricklingly cold winds that whistled through. Somehow he imagined yellow dust beneath the gray old town streets, whirling up wood shavings caked with mud and sporadically rising in low swirls.

“You should close it now. The hibachi ashes will scatter,” Mother admonished. She placed a tray on her lap and cut vegetables for the evening meal with a small knife. Though called first-class fare, the meals were plain and unpalatable, so Mother would go out to buy provisions from nearby to prepare three daily meals—what was served at the hospital would mostly be sent back untouched. Because the rice often turned cold or hard, she made porridge for Reikichi each time.

Reikichi soon grew bored even with this and crawled back into his futon to sleep until evening. Yet despite such days, there were nights when he would unexpectedly awaken and find himself utterly unable to fall back asleep. At such times, lying in the unfathomable depths of night, Reikichi would ponder various matters with intense focus until loneliness overwhelmed him—then he would call out to his mother who had fallen asleep. Mother kept her eyes open even after lying down as if maintaining watch; the moment she was called, she would immediately awaken, light the candle by his pillow, and inquire about his needs. Reikichi and his mother would sometimes hold hushed conversations in this manner.

Even so, the director instructed that it was better to rest quietly for a while after receiving treatment.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the innkeeper came and consulted with Mother regarding the perpetrator’s disposition.

To Reikichi, such matters now felt like unworn old geta—things that didn’t matter either way. Because it was precisely time for the afternoon examination, Reikichi was taken downstairs. Mother went back upstairs and talked. For Reikichi, going down to the examination room was the greatest change of the day. In the afternoons, there were two or three children who seemed to come after returning from school, darting about the hospital as though familiar with the place. While he waited on the bench in the outer room, there was also a girl at his feet on the tatami floor, bouncing a handball while counting in a small voice. An old man sitting nearby said that these children mostly just had minor trachoma and didn’t consider it an illness at all, so they were bouncing around without a care. Because that person kept saying "trachoma this, trachoma that," Reikichi found it amusing.

The right eye could now see objects clearly. Since the external wound had also begun to heal, it was said that in four or five days, the bandage on one side could be removed.

“I’m afraid we still can’t properly assess this one.” “In any case, it’s not an easy condition.” With this final remark, the director stated cautiously.

While pressing the corner of his eye as usual, Reikichi gingerly cracked open his right eye a bit and looked around. Among them were patients like a plain, rustic-looking female student who might have belonged to the Normal School's girls' division—after their examinations, they would get the director to stamp what appeared to be notebooks containing their return times. She struck him as someone long accustomed to hardship, radiating an air of pitiable resignation.

Reikichi had come to exchange words with one of the inpatients, sitting side by side with him from time to time before he knew it. The man had just entered and started to sit down opposite, but upon seeing Reikichi, he came over and sat down beside him. “Here, try to guess what’s inside,” he said, extending a clenched hand. This man said he had poked his eye on a nail. Despite next year’s inspection, he was a thoroughly childlike, good-natured country farmer. What he held in his hand was a small toy clock made of lead, looking as though it would collapse if pressed. He said he’d just gone out to the small Yakushi temple fair happening outside and, with a one-sen coin, blew a blowgun to win this. He had bought a cheap-looking blue wallet and was carrying it in his pocket.

“Ha, they’re stuffing rice husks inside to puff them up. Heh heh,” he said in a small voice, pleased with himself. Since the man kept offering him the clock, Reikichi thought it absurd but reluctantly accepted it. This man told him everything about the hospital.

“Try teasing the retired receptionist.” “It’s hilarious, I tell you,” he added. Though he seemed somewhat simple-minded, Reikichi found himself drawn to his guileless cheerfulness. He took paper from his sleeve, deliberately twisted it into strings, fastened the long connected strands to a nurse’s back, then feigned innocence to make people laugh. It was said there were five male inpatients downstairs. He said they were all crammed into one room.

“In the women’s room, that person is the only one,” the man said, pointing. When Reikichi looked, he saw a somewhat grubby woman who resembled a maid—her hair disheveled and a red obi wound tightly around her waist. The woman who had sat next to him the other day—the one who had given off the air of a refined person—had not been seen even once since then. Perhaps he had glimpsed her, but at least he couldn’t spot a single woman who seemed to be that person.

There was a man in an apron who appeared to be a merchant’s clerk—both eyes bandaged—yet moving without guidance, feeling his way along the wall with practiced ease as he briskly returned alone to the hospital room. "That one’s eyes were destroyed by syphilis," the man explained. That afternoon, as Reikichi sat on his futon applying a compress, the toothless receptionist Mr. Ohki came upstairs,

“He says it’s something like this, but I can’t quite make out what exactly he’s saying. In any case, he says he’d like to meet you for a moment.” “And then he said this is just a mere token,” she relayed, pursing her lips in that characteristic way.

“Who could it be?” “I can’t recall anyone like that on my end. Ah—could it be that man who looked like a boatman?” Mother asked. “That does seem to be the case.” “If you say so—yes, that’s exactly what he said.” “Then—I apologize for the inconvenience—but if he persists with these...considerations, it troubles us here. Would you kindly tell him quietly and return this?” “All matters have been arranged through Tsunaurakan—Tsunaurakan—so direct any inquiries there.” “I absolutely will not meet with your people—you must convey this clearly.” “He likely came from some quarter that would understand being told as much.”

“Right away, right away,” said Mr. Ohki as he went downstairs. It seemed the perpetrator in question had shown up.

“Did that guy come alone?”

“Who knows.” “He might have come to make his excuses.” “That might be so.” “What did he bring?”

“I didn’t even look at it properly,” said Mother, as if forced to contemplate some detestable matter she’d rather not think about, her voice tinged with evident displeasure. “I’ve already told you—it doesn’t matter anymore—and I’ve said as much to Tsunaurakan’s owner too. It’s a nuisance, so I’ll just leave it be.” “Do you think the master there will give his approval?” “That doesn’t matter at all.” Reikichi cooled his eyes while recalling that night—the first time in his life he had entered a police room—as if it were a matter from the distant past.

Before long, Mr. Ohki returned once more.

“The one from earlier has indeed left just as he came,” said Mr. Ohki. “He claimed he only wanted to exchange a brief greeting before departing, but ended up loitering about for some time.” “I see,” Mother replied. “Thank you for handling this.” She paused. “Just a moment—” Then, as if suddenly remembering something trivial, she added, “It’s nothing really,” while appearing to press something into Mr. Ohki’s palm.

“Oh no, no—this is truly too much. Oh, really, this is more than sufficient.” “No, no—truly, this is too much each time,” said Mr. Ohki with pursed lips as he expressed his thanks.

Reikichi had grown thoroughly weary of spending all day long doing nothing but lying on the same futon. “I’ve had enough of being here. I might as well just go back home and be done with it,” Reikichi said while turning over toward the wall.

“But there’s nothing to be done about it, is there? If you could just go back so easily without any reason, even I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this either, but…” “It’s still nowhere near nightfall, is it?”

“You say such things.” “The afternoon examination hasn’t even come yet.” “Oh my, you’ve cut it again.” “Stop that, Reikichi.” “What’s with this childish behavior?” “But I didn’t even cut them.”

“I saw it, clear as day.”

Having nothing to do, Reikichi would occasionally extend his hand to feel around and snip the futon’s stitching threads one by one.

Mother had been writing a letter to Grandfather since earlier.

Reikichi could no longer cut through any more stitching threads and instead picked at flakes of his slightly chapped lips while imagining home’s daily rhythms unfold without them—how his younger brother must be reveling in their absence now, gathering neighborhood children to scrub around what had been his desk space back home. Grandfather never scolded that brother no matter what mischief he made yet snapped at him like some sworn enemy over every little thing.

When he thought this way, he felt like striking his younger brother from afar—yet imagining how, come night after Grandfather retired early to bed, his brother would be left alone with Yoshi in that single room: Yoshi scribbling in clumsy kana into that familiar horizontally bound notebook, jotting down every daytime errand he could recall, while his brother rubbed his sleepy eyes nearby, legs stretched out as he gazed forlornly at the lamp’s glow—Reikichi couldn’t help but pity him, wanting to hurry home with Mother for his sake.

Between Reikichi and this younger brother, there had been two more boys, but both had passed away while still young. As for the next ones, he couldn’t even properly remember their faces. The second youngest brother had been alive until three years ago, so when he thought of him, his image still floated before his eyes as if he were still here. Reikichi also thought of that sickly younger brother of his who had always been moping about like a shadow. Eventually growing bored even with that, he lifted his head and shifted aside the buckwheat chaff pillow Mother had prepared yesterday—its sack half-empty compared to its size, lumpy from the greengrocer having only this much leftover—and gripped the excess fabric edge. Through his darkened, bandaged eye, he watched the midday light filtering through his eyelids form hazy black shadows, when suddenly his attention was caught by what seemed like a small bird chirping sharply as it passed just outside the window. It chirped again. Reikichi, while half-doubting his own ears,

“Was that a bird just now?” he suddenly asked his mother. “Is that so?” said Mother, as if she hadn’t noticed, and went on writing her letter as before.

“It already flew away. A bird, right?” Reikichi asked the hired maid who appeared to be sitting idly in the corner behind Mother, fidgeting with her hands for lack of anything to do. This was the girl whom Mother—needing someone to send on daytime errands and such—had arranged through the provisioner’s old woman to hire from the neighborhood. Whether out of shame for not knowing how to speak properly, when Mother gave her tasks,

“Huh? Uh...” was all she said before lapsing into silence again. He hadn’t yet properly seen what sort of girl she was, but she must have been some vulgar child from a filthy household nearby—one who knew nothing of manners or decorum. When this woman walked across the tatami, a harsh, grating sound like dried shark skin being rubbed caught his ear. Yet seeing her sit there in stiff, awkward silence made him feel a pang of pity. “Hey. You there,” said Reikichi, prompting her to rise quietly and approach the window, where she seemed to draw back the curtain and peer outside.

“Yes, it’s right there,” Mother said in a small voice, as though wary of disturbing her letter-writing.

“Where?” “It shall be placed there shortly.” “Is that shadow there a birdcage? That thing...” said Mother while rustling and rolling up her letter.

"I've been wondering what that was since earlier," said Mother. "Is it the person next door who keeps it?" "Yes," replied the innkeeper's wife. Neither Mother nor Reikichi had noticed it until now, but since it had always hung on a nail in the far window, it must have been there all along. This young maid knew about it because she had once been hired by someone in the hospital before. She explained that roofers had come today to repair the rain gutter near the plank wall where they usually hung the birdcage, which was why it had likely been moved here.

Now that she mentioned it, the sound of roofers hammering tinplate from the far side had indeed been audible all along, as if coming from somewhere outside. If the bird were kept here, it would be dangerous—a black cat had once come from somewhere and overturned the cage before—yet this was something the woman knew all too well, despite her habit of remaining silent. Reikichi was so unaware that he didn’t even know what sort of person occupied the adjacent room. Mother and the maid discussed the person who kept the bird.

"I see." "Like some young lady from a good family," Mother said with an affected chuckle. The woman, "Yes," was all she replied. "She's remarkably quiet. One can hardly tell whether she stays in all day or not." "The people occasionally coming and going around there—is that a maid who accompanied her from home?" "I couldn't say for certain." "That must be the case."

Mother ended the conversation there. By nature, she wasn't one to pry into unnecessary matters or anything of the sort, so she didn't press further with her questions. Moreover, she showed no particular interest in the fact that a bird was being kept in such a hospital room, and seemed to be continuing to write her letter as before. Reikichi wondered to himself what kind of bird there might be. And then he wondered—what kind of woman was she who might be there, feeding that bird? However, precisely because it was a woman, he felt an inexplicable awkwardness—asking merely what kind of person she was felt unbearably improper. Reikichi recalled the woman who had sat beside him—the one with the nostalgic way of speaking—on the morning of his first examination here, the day after he had arrived.

If that person were next door, it would be good—he thought without any particular reason. If only it were that woman. But he hadn't seen that person come for examinations since that time. So even if the neighbor wasn't her, as long as he didn't know who it really was, persisting in thinking of her as that woman felt nostalgically comforting. And she kept a bird. What had been wrong with her eyes that required hospitalization? If she were a woman who had long suffered from dimly shadowed eyes—not quite sorrowful but melancholic—keeping watch over somber days and nights, then she would match the image he had imagined from her voice during their encounter.

―― As Reikichi followed these thoughts, it suddenly struck him that the bird kept there by such a woman must be that red bird—like a token of tragic love—from the story. He couldn’t know whether this was actually true. Thinking this, Reikichi recalled the bird woman from the story—one he had temporarily forgotten since coming to this hospital.

“Hey,” said Reikichi, trying to ask the young maid. “Huh?” responded the woman. “Isn’t that so?” Somehow—if he asked and it turned out not to be a red bird—there’d be no point—Reikichi remained silent as he was. Soon,

“Reikichi... Reikichi?” called Mother, snapping him back to awareness—he realized he had again been envisioning that scene of releasing the bird and watching it fly away. “The examination will begin shortly.” “Stay awake now,” said Mother. But I wasn’t asleep to begin with. “Now then—after you take Reikichi downstairs later, please mail this letter on your way back.” “Oh, there’s no need to do it immediately,” Mother told the woman.

“If that’s done, then you may go home today. The shopping was already completely taken care of earlier, you see,” Mother said.

The bird on the balcony was no longer singing. Reikichi was eventually led by the hand of this young maid and, as usual when descending the ladder-like stairs with care, “That bird—hey,” he finally said to the woman about the bird.

That evening, a letter arrived from his grandfather to his mother. “Whatever happens, it says I should come back for a bit, but...” Mother said. “Even if we intended to write everything in detail and send it off, a letter can’t fully convey circumstances—so he must be worrying himself over all sorts of things. If I could just go back and explain the situation, I could stay here with peace of mind, but...” “But didn’t you just send a letter earlier?” “And besides, you—since I’ve practically come here in the clothes I’m wearing, I really must return briefly to fetch various things I need to bring back. Also because if we’re to stay away longer, there are arrangements to be made about the house as though we’d left properly. Today makes six days since I came here, I suppose.”

“Who can say?”

"I've been unsettled, but now it's nearly month-end," she said, clearly preoccupied with household matters. "Then wouldn't it be best to go back and return again?" "But even if I say I'll go back, there's no managing what follows afterward. During that time, we'd need someone to tend to things," she replied with visible distress.

Reikichi thought that even if he were alone for a day or two, it wouldn’t matter. Since each day passed without any change—just continuing like this—the mere fact that his mother, who had been staying with him, would no longer be there began to feel like a sort of change itself. Let them manage it however they saw fit. But more than that—since the woman next door wasn’t that lady—when he thought about it, everything became utterly pointless. Today, he did not ask the young maid about something trivial. If the daytime bird had been the red one, then that woman would have been her—but since they said it wasn’t red (though he didn’t know what kind of bird it was), she wasn’t that person. Moreover, she hadn’t been around daily since that incident anyway—he simply couldn’t reconcile her with being that person.

“Oh, could there be such a thing as a red bird?” “I have never seen one,” she said.

What an idiotic woman. Since I'm covering my eyes, it's still bearable—but if I could see, what a dirty little maid she'd be. ――

Reikichi thought about such things alone.

The next morning, Mother decided she would return home briefly no matter what.

“It’s just for a little while, Reikichi. I’ll come back right away on the night train, so…” Mother said apologetically. “You don’t have to keep saying that. I’m fine.”

Since the young maid couldn’t handle matters during her absence, the nurse had apparently agreed to take care of him as much as possible.

When the nine o'clock examination was over, Mother finished preparing and left. The nurse came up at that moment, “Madam, I’m afraid there are no provisions to be found anywhere,” she said to Mother in the hallway. Mother descended just like that. As if to demonstrate that there was no need to worry since she would take over and handle things properly, the nurse entered the room just as Mother left and began to speak. Reikichi was pretending to be asleep. “You’re asleep,” she said in that same melancholic voice, murmuring softly as she quietly left. Reikichi thought she needed to hurry back downstairs to the examination room—since there was only one nurse.

After applying a compress once and remaining listless for some time—before he knew it—it had become noon. The nurse came for the third time, brought the meal, and attended to serving it.

“You must feel lonely now that you’re suddenly alone,” she said. “Once they remove that bandage from your wound soon enough, it might help take your mind off things.” “Oh—do you not care for meat?” “What should I do then?” “In that case, there’s nothing left for you to eat.” How could anyone eat this leathery stuff? You could tell just by poking it with chopsticks. She ought to serve in silence. She wasn’t exactly disagreeable, but knowing Mother must have squeezed out more money somewhere—making her parrot whatever the family wanted said—left an unpleasant aftertaste.

Reikichi was unable to sleep that afternoon. While his mother had been present, he couldn't bring himself to dwell on women and had nearly forgotten them—but now that she was gone, finding himself with nothing else to occupy his mind, he resumed obsessing over those women. Then yesterday's bird chirped again softly. Outside hung a warm day steeped in thick yellow sunlight. The bird still appeared confined there today too. It was no use. What good was a bird that wasn't red? And even if some woman other than that lady occupied the adjacent room now, it would mean nothing. She surely wasn't a proper woman anyway. Just some grubby country wench most likely—

Reikichi went on thinking in this way, continuing the train of thought he’d been following until now. Why don’t I have a woman who loves me? If there were a woman I loved but couldn’t meet, and I could just lie here in the dark like this—how nice that would be, I found myself thinking. But no matter how much I thought about it, since there was no woman for me, it was pointless. Somehow, I had grown weary of being alone. After all, I thought Mother must be here.

The nurse came to tend to cooling his eyes. Then came the time for the second examination.

As he waited on the bench, the usual children were making their noisy chatter again today. Someone had sat down beside him and kept fidgeting with something alone, so Reikichi tried striking up a conversation to relieve his boredom, but they left without even replying. This left him feeling somehow unsatisfied, as if nothing would engage with him. Even while pressing a hand to his troublesome eye—had that farmer who gave him the toy clock gone out somewhere again today without returning?—the man wasn't there either. I wonder where that clock ended up.

Reikichi was led back upstairs by the nurse in a listless daze. Then a long, wearisome stretch of time passed gloomily until dinner arrived.

After finishing the meal, when he sat motionless like that, he began to feel as though it was gradually growing darker. At least the sun seemed to have set early, for the room’s interior no longer felt like daytime but rather coolly detached. Outside, footsteps passed by, sounding like someone dragging worn-down geta. This time, something like a cart passed by. After that, there was no sound at all, and just as he had felt on that first evening when he arrived here, a small loneliness crept in—as though abandoned alone in the dark.

“Oh, is that so?” came an amused whisper from the adjacent room, followed by what sounded like an older woman’s laugh. Somehow this loneliness felt uniquely mine—and that realization burned. Abruptly, I revisited my harsh dismissal of the maid who had come earlier. When rustling prompted my brusque “Who’s there?”, her meek “It’s me” had answered. “I came this morning,” she’d explained, “but since Nurse said today wasn’t needed...” Before she could finish, I’d snapped “Enough—leave,” sending her away silent and slump-shouldered like a scolded child. I’d chased off that grubby creature for disturbing my thoughts—yet imagining how wretched she must have felt being so despised made me pity her poverty-stricken self.

Reikichi sat forlornly, thinking of such things. Since I slept quite a bit during the day today, I probably won’t be able to fall asleep right away now.

Eventually, Reikichi stood up aimlessly, felt his way along the wall to the exit door, and tested the latch by stroking it. Having never ventured out alone before, even groping his way into the outer corridor felt like introducing some variation to his routine. He stepped outside and shuffled forward while feeling along the wall, but upon emerging, found the outside still forlorn—no change whatsoever in his mood. He wondered if it was perhaps because there was no one to talk to.

Then, below, four or five people could be seen tiptoeing noisily down the corridor, appearing to silently roughhouse with each other. The one stifling muffled laughter was none other than that farmer fellow. Wondering what they were doing, he felt like removing his eye covering and going down to see. Thinking this repeatedly, Reikichi—with nothing else to do—shuffled step by step along the handrail toward the stairs. When he passed by the neighboring room, there immediately was the top of the steep staircase.

Suddenly, the neighboring door opened, and someone came out.

“Where might you be going?” she said. “Me?” After a pause, Reikichi asked, as though confirming it was indeed him being addressed. “If you’re going somewhere, I could guide you by the hand.” “It seems your honored mother has returned home today—you’re alone now.” The neighboring attendant old woman said this as if she knew everything. “No, that’s fine.” “I’m just staying here like this,” Reikichi said. Since they were strangers, there was nothing more to say.

“It must be lonely for you here all alone,” she said with genuine concern, like a kindly old woman, as she made her way down the stairs. She didn’t seem to be a local country woman either. Down below, it sounded like someone was still sneaking around furtively. Reikichi, feeling both a desire to join them and an urge drawing him forward, gradually edged closer to the staircase.

Then, down below,

“Oh no, oh no! You’re hiding in such a place,” said one person in a sweaty voice, sounding displeased.

Giggling like a countrywoman, someone—who could say who—furtively descended the ladder-like stairs.

“Oh, come now, stop that. “That hurts, you know.””

“No fair!” “This time you’re the one who covers your eyes.”

"That's right—it's your punishment," "I've been thinking since earlier—it was strange how this one wasn't getting caught," said the clock farmer. They all clattered off in that direction.

It appeared that the group gathered in the third-class ward were playing blind man's bluff in the dimly lit evening corridor. Even though most of them had bandages over half their eyes, they goofed around like that. The woman from earlier appeared to be a patient of the maid-like sort whom he had observed for some time. When he thought she seemed like a poor, lonely-hearted woman, the fact that she mingled with this group like that made her appear all the more poignantly forlorn.

Reikichi remained standing there for a while, just as he was.

Night had fully fallen.

Reikichi lay in the futon, his thoughts wandering aimlessly. After the nurse administered the poultice and left, until the next eleven o'clock treatment time arrived, he would once again remain buried alone in the dark night like this. When would Mother return? Somehow it felt as though days had passed since Mother left—as if no matter how long he waited, she would never easily come back here again—leaving him desolate with loneliness. Unable to sleep despite his efforts, after pursuing nothing but delusions, his thoughts inevitably turned to wondering what would ultimately become of his eye.

I can't see at all with both eyes—it would be better if I went completely blind. Were that to happen, how melancholy I would become. And so I imagine myself being tended by some girl resembling that Magdalene-like Gretchen. No matter how much time passes, my eyes remain sightless. The face of this woman I love—who loves me too—I can never gaze upon forever. Standing on the sunset balcony, I keep dwelling on these damp-dark sorrows.

“Let’s put the bird to bed now.” “Let’s have it sleep in darkness until sunrise again,” the woman said melancholically, lowering the cage that hung from the pillar there. The bird lay still as if dead, making no sound, huddled small in the cage’s dimness. Just by hearing about the Red Bird—no matter how much time passed—I could not see its crimson form. I had developed a habit of asking the woman about the bird being red—with vague unease, as though hearing it for the first time each occasion. “A pale crimson hue, like that of the kimono I wear”—the woman would answer as though hearing it for the first time, just as always.

Therefore, the woman had to be sorrowfully wrapped in pale, faint crimson silk—akin to yearning for those irretrievable days when her eyes could still see.

“Like the color I’m wearing,” she answered this evening as always while lowering the birdcage, then sat down there as though rooted to the spot, motionlessly absorbed in some thought.

"What’s wrong?" I asked gloomily. The woman—having thought of something—was weeping softly. She wept like Gretchen after becoming a sorrowful,dark wife. I asked why she was crying and what she had been thinking of. The woman said nothing and simply sobbed quietly. He too began to sob without knowing why—overcome by sadness he couldn’t name. As she shook her drifting hair and bowed low,dark tears fell from him drop by drop onto her disheveled locks.

“O my sorrowful love. You sorrowful, shadowed soul,” she wept. — Reikichi wanted that kind of woman. And so I want to love sorrowfully. I want to love and see my sorrowful self. To achieve that, I must henceforth reside in a house with a small balcony. When he stepped out onto that balcony and sank into thought, a young woman carrying a cage with a Red Bird passed below. The woman gazed upon my unseeing self and loved. And so, at the hour when I went out there to think, the woman passed by carrying her bird and gazed at me. Upon hearing of the woman with the red bird, I loved that woman.—

Reikichi thus continued to think about the woman. In the end, he grew frustrated as usual. His head grew hazy as if feverish, and his body felt misty as though heat were rising. I must forget now. If I don’t forget, it becomes oppressive.

Reikichi wearily peeled off the futon as if he'd slept his fill. Somehow I want to go out into what seems like the cold outside and forget—distract myself from this mood.

Reikichi stood up as though he could no longer endure it and quietly pulled the curtain on the right side. Then, finding the latch, he slid both glass doors open. Was it dark outside? Somehow—perhaps due to his own mind—though it was night, it felt warm.

Reikichi left the room, wanting to stand on the balcony, and quietly felt his way out.

Whether it was a starry night or a dark one, Reikichi had no way of knowing. I merely thought of myself standing in the midst of some night at the end of March. Outside, not a breath of wind brushed against the skin. Reikichi, feeling as if he had come out seeking and waiting for something, once again found himself thinking of the woman and the Red Bird. And so, in the end, he thought of wanting to keep at least a Red Bird. What kind of bird it was—though that novel hadn't written its name—if he searched, it couldn't be that there wasn't one somewhere. It didn't seem to be such a small bird after all. It needed to be larger than a canary or such—otherwise it wouldn't do. But it mustn't be as large as a pigeon. It needed to be a smaller bird—otherwise it wouldn't do. First, while pondering what kind of bird it could possibly be, he groped along the handrail and began edging forward as far as he could—when,

“You mustn’t go there—it’s dangerous. Please stop.” A voice—likely from the neighboring window—suddenly spoke up to halt him. Reikichi doubted his own ears as he shuffled forward. That was the voice of that woman—the one who should have long since ceased coming to this hospital, the one he had associated with the Red Bird.

“Because that handrail’s rotten and hanging loose,” she said with restraint. It was unmistakably that woman. She must have come out here before Reikichi arrived. She seemed to be standing right beside him. Reikichi wondered whether this might be an extension of his own fantasy.

“There’s a chair here—please have a seat.” “What a quiet, lovely evening.” Her words were hushed as if murmuring secrets, yet spoken with a serene tenderness that suggested she might be a woman who would stay by his side. “I’m all right. Yours would be left without,” Reikichi said, forcing out the words while suppressing his fidgeting unease. “I’ve already sat here quite enough. You must take it.” She spoke like the woman from his imaginings. Reikichi reasoned that if he behaved like an unknowing child—innocent and ordinary—there would be nothing strange about approaching her side. He went where directed, just as told.

“A bit more this way—will you?” As he groped around, his hand touched the rattan chair’s shoulder. “Since you can’t see anything at all, it must be terribly inconvenient—when will your mother return?” The woman spoke with an air of intimacy, as though they’d been acquainted for some time. “When? —Tomorrow, perhaps.” Reikichi replied awkwardly, sitting in silence while his fingertips worried at the coarse weave of the unseen armrest. He shifted restlessly as if to speak, but found no words to say.

“Don’t you feel lonely without your mother here? Have you been keeping your eyes closed like that all along since the beginning?” “Yes,” Reikichi replied softly. “Then you don’t know what any of the people coming here look like, do you?” “No.”

“Me?” “……” “Do you… recognize me?” “No,” Reikichi said, though what he truly wanted was to ask about the woman’s bird. She fell silent then, her youthful eyes gazing emptily at the night stretched before her. Reikichi gradually forgot his awkwardness and listened to the clatter of geta fading down the lonely nighttime street below. That must be some dutiful maid going shopping with a lantern, he thought.

Then the woman who had stood silent until now shifted her demeanor as if—

“Won’t you come in here?” “Let’s have our talk at my place.” “Won’t that be nice?” she said, as if already weary of being outside.

“Please come in,” the woman said, leading the way. Though he had no idea who she was and had only just exchanged words with her, Reikichi felt as though they had been acquainted for ages, and groped his way forward as instructed.

“Wait before you come in. “I’ll move the chair out of the way first.” “This way,” the woman said as she assisted him. Reikichi stepped over the entrance and went inside.

“Are you all right?” The woman entered as well. “Is the electric light on in your room as well?” Reikichi said, and not knowing the layout, he remained standing right where he had entered.

“And the bird?” The woman drew the curtain behind her as she entered, “My bird?” she said. By the time Reikichi returned to his room and slipped into his futon, it was already late—the nurse soon came up to administer the final compress, and everyone downstairs had already gone to bed. Reikichi had been pretending as though continuing the deep sleep he’d supposedly fallen into earlier. After that, he truly tried to sleep, but somehow he couldn’t fall asleep no matter how long he lay there, and he thought about various things.

In time, a car arrived at the entrance below. Reikichi, not particularly thinking anything of it, continued pondering other matters as he tossed restlessly in the stifling heat, but that car was his mother returning on the last train. The one who quietly opened the room door, left what appeared to be his mother’s luggage, and went out seemed to be Mr. Omaki from the front desk. Reikichi burrowed into the futon up to his head and lay perfectly still.

“Reikichi. “Reikichi. Come out and wash your mouth now. What time do you think it is? —What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you answering? Why are you staying silent?” “But my head hurts and I feel awful,” he mumbled, offering a vague excuse.

“Then you must have caught a cold and have a fever?” “You left the window wide open like that while you slept.” “You must have caught a cold from that.” Mother said these things. Reikichi felt self-conscious about having to pass in front of the neighboring room as he was being taken to rinse his mouth. He couldn’t help suspecting that even Mother had noticed what happened last night, leaving him strangely unsettled. As he was drinking milk in place of breakfast, the examination bell had already rung that morning. Reikichi was soon accompanied by his mother and went downstairs.

The woman hadn’t already come, had she? And when he wondered whether she might speak to him after all, his heart raced. At the same time, like some recounted tale, last night’s events kept replaying through his mind. As he dwelled on them intently, he began feeling as though submerged in a sweet sunlit patch where red flowers bloomed endlessly. Somehow the scent of her hair still seemed to envelop him completely—he couldn’t shake the sensation of being caught there still, suspended in last night’s continuation.

Reikichi was called by the nurse and entered the darkroom when he suddenly grew anxious that last night’s events might have caused some change in his eye. Then, as though cruelly meant to assail this anxiety, the director abruptly entered. He wondered what would become of him now. Perhaps it was his nerves, but he felt as though his eyes had grown blurry.

“How does this feel?” the director said as he unwound the bandage and held Reikichi’s left eyelid open to the lamp the nurse had lit. Reikichi held his breath and remained motionless, as though hiding from being examined.

“Hmm... “Still no change...” “However, there’s been considerable improvement.” “I thought your vision might show some recovery by now.” “Look at this finger, please.” “Can you see it?” ―“I can’t.” “Now look this way—toward the light.” “Even if we say it remains hazy, doesn’t the light’s glow seem slightly brighter than before?” “Wouldn’t you agree?” “It feels somewhat different from the initial state, but compared to yesterday—no change.”

“Turn this way once again, please.” “Your pupil still trembles slightly, but no one is as fortunate as you.” “How strange.” “I was certain we’d have to remove this one, but...” “In any case, the crystalline lens”—he interjected an explanation—“the yellow part inside the eye—it’s certain this hasn’t detached. Though initially I was convinced it must have been damaged.” “How strange.” “Well, we’ll need to monitor the progress a bit longer. Hmm.” The wound had mostly healed. “Well, perhaps tomorrow we’ll be able to open this eye,” said the director as he concluded the examination and left. Reikichi felt relieved, as though he had narrowly escaped the examination.

After that, while sitting on that familiar chair, he furtively opened his right eye a crack to look around. The woman did not seem to have arrived yet. Did she always come down when she found an opportune moment at closing time, when fewer people remained? That might be why until yesterday she hadn't realized she was still in this hospital after all. Reikichi felt the woman's current absence here might actually prove convenient for him. Yet craving to see what she looked like, each time someone entered his chest would thunder as he opened his eyes to look.

And then Mother stood off to the side out of people's way and kept watch over him. After his examination concluded, Reikichi returned to his futon and tried to lie still, but found himself unable to sleep as the events of last night drifted hazily through his mind. He wondered what the woman next door was doing. The bird wasn't singing today. He wondered if it had already been hung by that window. Reikichi then began reconstructing each word the woman had spoken since stepping onto the balcony the previous night. He remembered every single word without omitting a single one. He remembered everything—the words she had spoken to him when they first sat side by side in the examination room, and those she had said to the director as well. Reikichi methodically went through everything from the beginning, reviewing each detail one by one. And then, when he grew somewhat weary of that sweet mood, he soon became indifferent.

Suddenly, when he returned to clear consciousness, the nurse had come and was talking with his mother. Reikichi paid no heed to this and tried to pursue the matters he ought to be contemplating, but when the word "next door" reached his ears, he found himself unable to avoid focusing on what the two were discussing. “Moreover, the tatami mats over there are newer, and you can get a better view from this direction, so please move right away.”

"That’s true. But I’d be imposing on you again."

“Not at all, such a thing is no trouble whatsoever.” And they were saying such things.

After the nurse left, Reikichi asked his mother.

“Mother. Are we changing rooms?”

“It doesn’t matter.” “It’s all the same anyway.” “Where are we moving?” “Then let’s move.”

“Well, the nurse mentioned we might move since the room next door became available.” “Next door…? When?” “My, why that startled look?” “When was it vacated?” “My, suddenly whispering like that.” “Just now, I suppose.” “Then it must have been while I was asleep?” “Who can say?” Mother replied indifferently, having no knowledge of the circumstances. Reikichi fell silent. Why had she left so abruptly, as if deceiving him? He couldn’t suppress this hollow disappointment—like being outmaneuvered without warning. What could have happened? Though they’d spoken so much last night, there’d been no hint she would leave come morning. He felt fox-bewitched somehow. Like a bird kept but a single day escaping unseen.

Reikichi peered vainly into the empty cage, gripped by frustration, lingering attachment, and a restless-and-irritated mood. So she wouldn't come back? No. I just can't accept this. Reikichi sat up sharply on his futon as if something precious had vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Mother asked.

“Why?” “Do you want something to eat? You must be bored.” “That’s not it,” Reikichi muttered under his breath, tracing the fading contours of last night’s encounter like one groping through dream fragments. When afternoon came and the nurse arrived bearing a letter, Reikichi— “Tell me, Ms. Murai,” he pressed, “Had they settled days ago on her leaving today?” “How was this determined?” “I hadn’t any inkling myself, but it did seem terribly abrupt.”

“And is the old maid servant also gone now?” “Yes. The patient had departed early this morning, and the old maid servant stayed until noon rustling about to clean up after her, but—” “And what about the bird?” “Hmm, why must you ask about every little thing?” Mother said.

“What about the bird? The old maid servant must have taken it back with her, I suppose.” “No good.” “Do you like birds?” "But you were the one who said just the other day that you wouldn’t keep such a bird," Mother interjected. Reikichi fell silent after that. Why was that bird a red bird, he wondered, and why hadn’t the woman released it from its cage when she left this place?

Reikichi eventually stepped out onto the balcony as though searching for something lost. “You there, it’s dangerous—don’t go out there,” Mother called from inside.

Reikichi wandered while retracing his thoughts from the beginning of last night. He wondered whether it had truly been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Though it was a day of hazy warmth in the sunlit outdoors, for Reikichi—standing motionless as he dwelled on that woman who had fled like a bird—this very sunlight seemed to seep into his clothes and evoke a strangely mournful sentiment. It seemed to him that somewhere a red bird was chirping plaintively in pity for his abandoned state, its call carried to him through the sunlit warmth.

Why hadn't the woman told him this was their first night together, that tomorrow she would vanish like poppy petals scattering? What filled her heart now that she had gone? For Reikichi, last night had been his first contact with a woman's breath since birth. She who had taught him this longing was the first woman he had ever possessed. He knew neither the face behind those shadowed eyes nor her name. If sudden parting had been their prearranged fate, how maddening that he hadn't even asked her name. Was this feeling not akin to that man who wandered daily through town seeking the Magdalene?

I want to see her. I want to see her again. If this were truly the last time we could ever speak—what a cold-hearted woman she must be. Having poured this longing into me, does she not hold it in her heart? The woman was older than I. From her perspective, might I have been merely someone capriciously chosen for that single night?

Yet even now, it seemed he could still hear what the woman had said. The lingering sensation of her words—spoken during their time together—now rising through this sunlight made him feel as though she whispered somewhere: "We will meet again. The day must come when we meet again." We must meet. We absolutely must meet. As one might glimpse her figure retrieving the Red Bird's cage from a window in some drizzling town, that day had to arrive when they would reunite.

“Reikichi,” Mother called. Reikichi—persisting in his conviction that the day would assuredly come, as though it were preordained—continued dwelling on this alone, “What is it?” he responded to Mother. And until that day arrived, he had clung to the belief that somewhere, the woman kept a red bird.

From then on, Reikichi spent each day thinking only of that woman—the one he wished would keep a red bird somewhere, the one who had vanished like a story—and continued dwelling on her. And so, clinging to the expectation that something concerning that woman might be discovered, he immersed himself in those longing days and nights—but even after ten days had passed, the departed woman never returned again. In time, one eye had already healed enough to be opened. While both eyes were bandaged, he had eagerly anticipated how refreshing it would be if one were to open soon—waiting impatiently—but upon opening it, having just one eye still felt like borrowing someone else’s, leaving him unsettled. The sense of incompleteness remained unchanged.

Reikichi found himself wanting to enter the sunlit, vacant adjacent room—now perpetually empty since then—at every possible opportunity. When reflecting alone on that woman, he felt it would be more fitting to remain forever with both eyes bandaged, dwelling in dark days and nights. To dwell on such a solitary night—detached from all context—through darkened eyes felt more fitting for endless remembrance.

Where was she now—how was she faring—what thoughts occupied her mind? A woman he had encountered like a shadow in darkness, never knowing who she truly was or what circumstances shaped her. By the following day she had already vanished. She disappeared forever without granting him any opportunity to understand her nature. Even were they to meet again somewhere, he would eternally lack any means to recognize her as that same woman. It felt too meager an affair to merit being called love. To name this experience his own romance seemed too much like clinging to a dream. He still wanted to imagine it all as a story from his reading—like the Magdalene woman's tale. He wanted to believe she had kept a red bird. Wanted to believe that even after departing, somewhere she still kept that crimson bird.

As each day passed, all those events had truly come to feel like a story Reikichi had read long ago. Reikichi pictured in his mind the shadow of the woman bringing in a chair through the window, just as he envisioned Gretchen approaching the window at dusk to release a bird. Since he had never seen the woman’s face, he could picture her however he wished without constraint. Reikichi, as if committing it to printed memory, retraced every word he had managed to hear from the woman while gathering the large camellia flowers plopping down beneath the hospital room window below—ascending to the balcony and arranging them along the edge of the window where she had stayed. Since the window’s glass was shut with a black curtain drawn from inside, the flowers he had arranged appeared reflected in the glass as though existing within that darkness beyond. His own face—one eye bandaged, a wound running from eyebrow to eyelid, with long lashes and emaciated—was also reflected there. Then, having gathered the remaining flowers beneath the balcony’s worn handrail and lost in thought about that woman, yellow butterflies fluttered about his back as he faced the sunlight that felt both sweet and sorrowful.

It was now permissible for him to venture outside a little, but he had no desire to set foot in the unfamiliar, grimy town streets. This balcony sufficed amply. Beyond the rows of houses in the distance, blue wheat fields stretched far into the heat-hazed shimmer where rapeseed flowers burned yellow like smoke. April was a month when both day and night seemed fashioned for dwelling upon women.

It was the afternoon of the twenty-second day since his hospitalization. As this would inevitably be a prolonged affair with no clear endpoint, Mother had repeatedly petitioned the Director that if only they might be permitted to board the train, she wished to return home as soon as possible to continue treatment there at their leisure—and thus they were granted leave on this day. However, this permission came with the condition that it remained too risky for them to ride the train in one uninterrupted journey. The luggage had already been completely taken downstairs, and they were waiting for the car to arrive. Mr. Oki, the nurse, and the farmer who had given him the watch all stood at the entrance. Reikichi found himself somehow regretting—now that matters had reached this stage—being compelled to leave the hospital in such haste.

Reikichi turned back once more, entered the adjacent room, opened the window from there, and stood on the balcony. On the balcony with handrails beginning to peel, a single vermilion-yellow nasturtium flower still remained in its pot—one that he and his mother had bought at a nearby night market five or six days prior.

“Reikichi.” “Reikichi, Reikichi,” Mother called from below. “Huh?” Reikichi responded from above. “Where?” Mother called as she emerged into view below,

“Oh my! What are you doing climbing up there again? Just come down and go inside for a moment, will you?” “Hey, Mother. When we get home, let’s keep birds, okay?” “That doesn’t matter—just come down quickly. There’s something I need to take care of.” “And a red bird,” Reikichi murmured to himself as he reluctantly left the balcony he wished never to abandon. I must buy a red bird without fail—keep it forever caged as a memorial to that woman. Somehow it felt regrettable that my eyes were no longer shrouded in darkness. I wanted my vision to darken again. I wanted to contemplate her through sightless eyes that perceived nothing. And I wanted to keep the Red Bird forever—

While thinking such thoughts, Reikichi deliberately dawdled his way down the staircase. (March 1911 (Meiji 44))