Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was mid-April when my wife, Motoko, was discharged from the hospital and returned to our home for the first time in two months.
It was a cloudy day; the Yoshino cherry blossoms before our gate had completely fallen, leaving red calyxes scattered across the bare branches.
Motoko looked toward the cherry branches before entering the gate.
At the entrance, my mother—now eighty-two—hunched her back and welcomed my wife.
I carried the luggage from the car with the driver.

Motoko had developed breast cancer.
Moreover, because the cancer had been detected late, it had metastasized from her armpit to her neck region, and she had undergone two surgeries along with radiation therapy.
However, since the radiation dosage had reached the maximum tolerable limit for the human body, she had merely been permitted to leave the hospital for the time being.
It was only natural that no particular joy showed on Motoko's face.

In modern medicine, when it comes to cancer, perhaps we should not even entertain the notion of complete recovery. Several years prior, I too had developed a maxillary tumor, been hospitalized, and undergone radiation therapy. Over two years had passed since then. Yet I remained forbidden from ceasing my hospital visits. My wife had barely managed to flee back from that ghastly cancer hospital, having only just escaped the immediate crisis. That terrifying entity might simply be biding its time within her body. There was no guarantee it wouldn't erupt again at any moment.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling glad.
Tonight, in the place where my wife should sit, my wife was sitting.
The elderly mother was also there.
The three children, called by my wife, were sitting at the table.
Into the cup I held out, my wife poured beer, then tried to pour into her own cup as well.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have beer.”

“Just one little cup.”

Even my resilient wife would try to celebrate her own discharge after all?
It was pitiable.

“Well, just one cup then.”

The two clinked glasses.
To parched throats it felt supremely refreshing.
But in that next instant, the act struck me as utterly absurd.
Without warning, violent desolation surged upward.

It was strange.
In February, on that first night when my wife's presence vanished from her seat at the table, I too found myself suddenly overcome by a similar emotion and lay facedown upon the dining table after the children had left.
I was already someone who had lost a former wife.
But that emotion, though it sometimes surged and receded, had eventually vanished.
Or perhaps it hadn't vanished but had settled into stillness instead.
That emotion had erupted with unexpected freshness under alcohol's influence.
However—if I may call it such—it was love for my wife that made me reconsider.
In the tearoom's composition where my wife was absent, I had not since permitted my own form to collapse.

But in the seat where her figure had long been absent, there now sat her figure.
My wife was laughing.
From time to time, she moved her mouth.
Around that figure of my wife, those emotions of mine flowed constantly like mountain mist, clinging as they went.
Suddenly, as if doused with water, I felt terror.
That terror resembled exactly the terror a person with acrophobia feels when standing on a cliff's edge.
My entire body shuddered; cold sweat gushed forth.

What should someday vanish is absent.
This desolation is severe, yet there is no terror.
But what should have vanished persists.
My terror seems to arise from the anxiety of this existence.

Despite two months of battling illness, Motoko's body showed no signs of decline.
Her build was large; if anything, she was overweight.
But when I imagined the process of my wife's seemingly healthy body disintegrating from within, I was overcome with despairing terror.

However, the drunkenness made my thinking feeble.
Furthermore, it dulled emotional sensitivity too.
I had my wife sit close by and continued drinking.
At least compared to how things had been up until last night, it was markedly different.
Aided by pleasant drunkenness, I gradually came to feel—carefree and for the moment—that I might be considered happy.
Moreover, even if I were to dwell on such thoughts, it began to seem they would make no difference at all.

It was a warm evening.
It was a serene evening.
There was no wind, and not a sound could be heard outside.
Perhaps there were no stars in the sky either.
But it was an evening when, in the darkness, the secret pollination of flowers seemed to be taking place.

“In any case, that hospital isn’t good for mental hygiene.”

“That’s right, such a terrifying place.”

“However, I had no idea there were so many people with upper jaw conditions.”

“Moreover, it seems to metastasize quickly.”
“That’s a relief, isn’t it, Papa?”

“Well then, we should count ourselves fortunate for now.”
“Tonight, the sake tastes especially good.”

The elderly mother had already gone to bed, and the children seemed to be gathered before the television.
Occasionally came the unguarded laughter of Ayako—the youngest maid—drifting through the air.

“Drinking alone here like I did until last night makes for a desolate affair.”
“Though when boredom struck, I’d immediately fly off to Yamagata.”

“You mean you flew there?”

“No—when I get drunk, scenes from Yamagata like Tenzan Mountain and Taishido immediately come to mind. But still, being alone like that... It’s so dreary. I know—this summer, let’s go to Yamagata together.”

“Let’s go, the two of us.”

Motoko’s hometown was situated on the mountainside of Mount Ryū, a peak in the Zaō Mountains of Yamagata, offering a grand panoramic view.
However, I felt as though I had had a similar conversation with my wife somewhere, sometime.
But my drunken head paid no mind whatsoever to such matters.

“We’re not just going for a visit.
It’ll be a bother to my colleagues at work anyway.
Let’s spend this whole summer in Yamagata.”

“That long?”

“Going on a trip to Yamagata would be dull.
You won’t understand its pleasures unless you live amidst that wind and light.”

I placed my hand on my wife’s knee as if to verify her presence.
At that moment came the sudden clatter of corrugated iron eaves.
A cat perhaps.
But it must have been rather large.
The heavy, dull footfalls pressing down on the tin roofing likely vanished into the darkness soon enough.
Yet in my drink-fogged mind, those footsteps seemed to reverberate without end.

Motoko went to the hospital every day.
On Sundays, changing the gauze on her wound was my responsibility.

On Motoko’s shoulder, near the nape of her neck, a wound had opened—approximately 2.5 centimeters in diameter and 1.5 centimeters deep. This occurred because they administered radiation before the surgical wound could fully heal.

Where her breast had been removed on the left chest, almost no surgical scar remained, though the area had been singed dark gray by radiation. From armpit to left arm, radiation-seared scars created an ugly topography of ridges and depressions. The sight resembled nothing so much as catastrophe’s aftermath—a vision of pure wretchedness. Yet now that time had passed, it instead evoked a desolate landscape.

From under the shirt slipped off one shoulder，the right breast occasionally peeked out。Like a solitary house spared by fire，it evoked an intense sense of isolation。However，the beauty of a woman’s breasts must lie in the symmetrical balance between left and right。It may stem from preconceived notions，but even if positioned centrally，wouldn’t a single plump protrusion appear grotesque？All the more so for the white protrusion of her right breast，now missing its left counterpart。Instead，it threw her whole body off balance，creating a sense of lopsidedness。I had no choice but to hurriedly avert my eyes from my wife’s breast。

I wiped my fingertips with Oxyful, took the tweezers, and extracted the gauze from my wife's wound. The red wound gaped open. The gauze sometimes had lymph fluid mucus adhering to it. Motoko furrowed her brows and said, "Ugh, having it all ragged like this again... I can't stand it." I applied Mercurochrome around the wound. There was no pain in the wound itself. However, clumsy as I was, I sometimes spilled Mercurochrome onto my wife's skin and soiled her underwear. Sometimes I stuck an adhesive bandage on her hair and made her grimace. Since it was Sunday, our daughter was also present. Young Ayako was probably more dexterous than I was. But for my wife's sake, I didn't want to expose that unsightly skin before our daughters. And also for our daughters' sake, I didn't want their eyes to see the pitiful state of a woman of their own sex. This duty could likely be fulfilled by me alone. To me, my wife's pitiful state did not appear the slightest bit ugly.

Finally, I picked out the Rivanol gauze with tweezers.
However, for my presbyopic eyes, grasping even a single piece with tweezers was considerably difficult.
I finally managed to insert three pieces of Rivanol gauze.
Then I placed a white gauze pad over them and secured it with adhesive bandages.
Next I scrubbed my wife's chest and shoulders with benzine-soaked absorbent cotton.
The radiation-burned grime couldn't be easily removed by such measures.
Yet between the itching from the adhesive bandages and everything else, my wife seemed to find it pleasant.
Seeing the faintly darkened cotton, I didn't mind imagining that my wife's skin had perhaps become slightly lighter.

“That’s all for today.”

When Motoko was in good spirits,

“Thanks,” she said, trying to slip her bare arm into the sleeve.
However, Motoko’s left hand could not be raised more than one-third of a right angle.
I had to go around behind her and help thread the sleeve onto her left arm.

“Mr. Yamazaki has passed away after all.”

One day, Motoko returned from the hospital and said this.
My wife's sickbed was laid out beside my desk in the study.
Yet on the face of my wife sitting there, there was no particularly agitated expression.

“Mr. Yamazaki was the one who later shared the room, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. They performed surgery and opened him up, but apparently there was nothing they could do, so they just closed him back up.”
“It happened right after that.”
“He was discharged.”

“I see.”
“So that’s how it was.”

“Today, his son came by the hospital to pay his respects.”

“I see.”

It was a splendidly fine day.
The blue sky hung deeply hazed, its thin silk veil seeming to overflow with golden spring light.
Upon the leaves of trees in the small garden, soft sunlight poured down, and within that green shade, the reflected light from a single rigid leaf catching dappled rays emitted a glow closer to white than anything else.
The young maple branch adorned with small red fruits resembling bamboo propellers swayed faintly, making evident the presence of a gentle breeze.

The camellia in the garden had a long flowering season, and its lower branches still bore a considerable number of flowers. The large crimson flowers, bathed in such abundant light, seemed to have scattered their very color instead. On the ground lay flowers that had already turned brown. Among them were fallen flowers still bearing colors so vivid it pained the eye. One lay prostrate, two turned their yellow stamens upward. The Hanakōgata too had passed their peak, scattering small purple-red flowers beneath the tree.

It was quiet.
Unusually, the radio had stopped too.
The stillness felt as though everything had gone limp.
Moreover, perhaps because the temperature was so perfectly moderate, his senses grew dull—so much so that he might even lose awareness of his own existence.
To prevent that, it was so quiet—so quiet that he felt compelled to let out a cry, even a completely meaningless one.

Motoko was lying on the floor beside me, reading a magazine.
I had been worried that the strong-willed Motoko might overexert herself after being discharged to make up for work delays during her hospitalization, but that fear appeared to be unfounded.
From my own experience as well, the reaction to radiation was extremely strong.
Even if she appeared healthy outwardly, her stamina had likely diminished considerably.
Even when it came to reading, she had no energy to tackle substantial works.

Was the elderly mother dozing in the neighboring room?
Mother had stubbornly guarded her hometown home for many years, but last year, having fallen ill with neuralgia, she finally came to Tokyo.
Yet her hometown home with its Buddhist altar never seemed to leave Mother’s thoughts for even a moment.
Every day, Mother went out for walks, secretly training her legs all the while.

In the cage on the veranda, the Java sparrows began singing loudly.
It was the male's call when seeking the female.
The male, having puffed up his white feathers like a self-righting daruma doll, was likely closing in on the female.
The female appeared to lightly avoid the male, but once again the male began singing, accompanied by the rough flapping of wings.

At some point, Motoko appeared to have fallen asleep.
The magazine remained open, having slipped from her hand.
Motoko was breathing lightly in her sleep.

The oral surgery clinic was on the third floor where a constant refreshing breeze blew in against my slightly feverish cheeks.
Near the window rustled young plane tree leaves while willow branches swayed.
The sky stood intensely blue as a lone seagull flew past with leisurely wingbeats.

Beyond the road and moat stretched the JNR platform.
Upon it swarmed passengers frozen in varied postures.
Moments earlier I too had stood among them.
Someone must have watched that version of me from this examination table now.
A peculiar sensation crept through me.

Part of the row of houses beyond the station was visible. Countless laundry items hung at every back window. Perhaps because of the blue sky, I recalled the elementary school song titled "Today Is a Blue Sky." And then, while basking in the May sun, I imagined the figure of an extremely healthy woman doing laundry.

"Hasn't the fever gone down yet?"

When the treatment ended, Dr. Yanagida said.

"Ah."

"Well then, why don't you go to internal medicine just to be safe?"

The other day, as if joking, I tried using the thermometer by my wife's bedside. Surprisingly, my temperature read 37.4 degrees. The fever remained unchanged the next day as well. The following morning it was 36.8°C, rising to 37.5°C in the afternoon. I had informed Dr. Yanagida, my attending physician, of that fact.

I had been visiting the oral surgery department for nearly three years.
I was even on familiar terms with the janitor.
But for my inept self, this first internal medicine appointment felt daunting.
Finally, I was called by name and entered the examination room.
Through this referral system from oral surgery to internal medicine—the transfer letter apparently detailing my medical history—I could immediately discern the internal medicine physician’s exceedingly cautious attitude.
The physician inquired in detail about my previous condition, particularly regarding the radiation therapy administered.
After hearing about my current symptoms and recording them in the chart, the physician said.

“Now then, let me examine your abdomen.”

In oral surgery examinations, you didn’t undo your belt. A childlike shame surged through me. Since my boyhood—to put it bluntly—I had disliked exposing my skin to the air. Moreover, right at the center, each person bore a navel of unique shape. Exposing my abdomen to others’ eyes wasn’t a pleasant sight. I recalled my boyhood self on the black linoleum-covered examination table at my hometown clinic, made to bare my white abdomen with its persimmon flower-like navel, squirming in shame. But if I, at my age, were to say such things, it would be rather unbecoming. On the examination table, I lay supine.

“Please bend your knees.”
“Oh, you’re trembling quite severely.”
“Is it alcohol?”
“Is it cigarettes?”
“Or is it both?”

“Alcohol.”

“Every night? How much do you drink?”

“One bottle of beer and about four go of sake.”

“That’s quite a lot you drink.”

Strangely enough, as the shame faded, the trembling lessened too.
The physician pressed down on my abdomen with unexpected force.

“Does it hurt?”

“Ah, it doesn’t hurt.”

Furthermore, having me turn my body slightly sideways, the physician palpated near my flank with strong pressure.
But perhaps modern medicine didn’t place much importance on stethoscopes nowadays—there was no chest examination, only blood being drawn in the treatment room followed by weight and blood pressure measurements.
Finally, after having my chest X-ray taken, I exited the hospital entrance after one o'clock.

Outside, the early summer sunlight shone dazzlingly bright.
In the lawn garden, azaleas in red, purple, white, and variegated hues layered the same colors, blooming as if aflame.

The next day, when I entered the internal medicine ward's entrance, Kaneko Kagawa stood right before me.
Kaneko was Motoko's senior at Yamagata Girls' High School, and before the war, Motoko had lodged at Kaneko's house.
Looking closer, white gauze was affixed to Kaneko's neck as well.

"What on earth happened here?"

“Mine also seems questionable.”
“That’s why I checked into the hospital here and am having them run tests, you see.”

“You’re hospitalized?”
“That’s serious.”

“So you’re coming to internal medicine too?”

“Well, this low-grade fever hasn’t subsided since last week.”
“Given my medical history—or should I say criminal record—the doctors are taking excessive precautions.”
“How utterly wretched for us both.”

Kaneko inquired about Motoko’s condition, and the two parted ways.
That day too, after the examination, I had blood drawn from my ear and arm, and for the urine test, gave urine into a glass container labeled with my name.
When I returned from the hospital, Motoko was already sitting on the futon, and upon seeing my face, she spoke.

“Dad, I was scared.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It seems something else has formed again. They took some mucous membrane from inside my wound.”

“I see. But moping about it won't get you anywhere.”

“But I’m scared.”

“Anyway, I ran into Ms. Kaneko at the hospital.”

I recounted everything about Kaneko.

“This is truly awful.”
“Our whole world is just cancer now, isn’t it?”

The results of Motoko's cell test were negative.

My elder brother, who had inherited the main family line, lived in Nagoya.
He said that since he was holding a memorial service for our late uncle, he’d like Mother to attend if possible.
We could not go.
However, my younger brother in Tokyo said he would attend.
The late uncle was my mother’s biological elder brother.
Furthermore, thinking it would serve as a good rest for Mother, I decided to have my younger brother accompany her.
Inwardly, Mother seemed intent on returning to her hometown home as well.
But when I thought of that spacious house—the high veranda, the well with its heavy pulley—I found myself unable to agree.

One day, Mother handed a large furoshiki-wrapped bundle to my younger brother who had come for a meeting.
I inadvertently caught sight of it.

“What do you plan to do with that furoshiki-wrapped bundle?”

“This here? This’s just old stuff.”

“If they’re old things, we’ll have Ayako dispose of them.”

“This here’s too far gone for anyone to handle—I’ll be takin’ care of it myself, bit by bit.”

“So you do intend to return to Goshu after all?”

Mother's shoulders were terribly hunched.
In that posture, Mother raised her face and blinked wordlessly for some time.
But she suddenly said with great dissatisfaction:

“But this is quite different from last year's promise.
Last year it was only supposed to be during the cold months.”

"You may call it a promise, but last year we never dreamed Motoko would fall so ill."

“Besides, I need to go fetch the summer things too.”

“I do understand how you feel.”
“However, if something were to happen, given the current state of the house, there would be nothing we could do about it.”

“That’ll be just fine, I tell you.”

“That might hold true in itself. That’s precisely why I keep saying ‘should anything happen’.”

Today was quite muggy.
Outside, a dull sunlight was shining.
The sky seemed thick with clouds, and the sun kept abruptly dimming.

Through the glass door, I gazed at the red flowers of the pine-leaved begonia.
The other day, I had bought them, chosen a sunny spot, and planted them.
Yesterday, the first blooms opened.
Each blossom lasts but a day—today three stood fresh.
Delicate things.

“Let me put it this way—if Brother says it’s alright for me to go back, wouldn’t that be just fine?”

“Since Brother is taking responsibility, I have nothing to say.”
“But that’s strictly between you and Brother.”

“There now, see? I told you so.”
“Why don’t you try asking Brother?”

That night, Motoko said in a tone of resentment.

“You have absolutely no understanding of what state we’re in right now.”

“From start to finish, you’re exactly right.”
“But there’s no getting through to Grandma now, no matter what you say.”
“It all comes down to her single-minded desire to return home.”

“That’s utterly absurd.”
“Even for Grandma, this is beyond self-indulgence.”

“But that house holds eighty-two years of Grandma’s life.”
“And it exists nowhere else but there.”
“I suppose it might be understandable.”

“But even our own entrance requires squeezing through.”
“What would we do if something happened?”
“Especially now during peak farming season.”
“We couldn’t even get Mr. Osuma to come.”

“I completely agree. However, it’s possible Grandma has resolved that house in Goshu with the family altar is precisely where she means to die.”

“Altars are nonsense—that’s why I hate religion.”

“Now now, Madam—isn’t that rather a leap in logic?”

The next day, I saw Mother off to Tokyo Station.
It was precisely the day of the strike against the Japan-US Security Treaty.
However, we arrived at Tokyo Station immediately after the strike had ended.
The train would soon start moving.
Moreover, because of the strike, the train was surprisingly empty.
Mother and my younger brother were able to sit facing each other by the window.

“This really is paradise,” Mother kept saying.
Soon the train would depart; she waved incessantly from the window.
Amidst all this social turmoil, Mother had finally boarded and left—and I couldn’t help feeling somehow mocked by it.
Yet she too appeared pitifully forlorn.

Some time after that, I lay on the bed with my chest exposed, lying supine to receive a sternal bone marrow aspiration.

“It’s nothing serious, but the machine feels somewhat unpleasant.”

With those words, I was blindfolded.
But on the bed, I maintained a solemn composure.
Having had previous hospitalizations, I had grown accustomed to abandoning myself.
For example, I do not speculate whether it would hurt or not.
When it's painful, I think it's okay to show that it hurts.

The anesthetic injection was administered.
It hurt terribly.
But the anesthesia took effect immediately.
Next, a needle seemed to have been inserted.
The anesthesia prevented any pain, but I felt intense pressure.

“It will hurt a little, but by the time you feel the pain, it will already be over.”

This doctor was exceptionally kind.
In an instant, I involuntarily felt an intense pain that made my body arch backward.
Apparently, anesthesia doesn’t reach inside the bone.
But the needle seemed to have been pulled out immediately.
Just as the doctor had said, the pain lasted only an instant.
I had my blindfold removed and, following the nurse’s instructions, rested on the bed for a while.

The younger brother who had returned from Nagoya came to report that a priest had been invited from Goshu for the memorial service and that Mother had been like a fish returned to water.

Around this time, whenever Motoko lay down, her neck would hurt, preventing her from remaining recumbent for long. She seemed unable to sleep well at night either—when I awoke each morning, I would find her reading newspapers under a lamp shaded with furoshiki cloth.

"I wonder what's wrong."

"They say radiation damaged the nerves in my neck," she said. "But when I tell the doctor about it, they hardly pay attention."

“I see. Then it seems we don’t need to worry too much.”

“Yesterday, I was scolded—they said if I don’t move my left hand more, ‘it’ll cause problems later on.’”

I suddenly felt that at least the immediate future seemed brighter. Involuntarily, my face lit up with joy. But Motoko made a strange expression, as if trying to touch something that must not be touched, and said:

“But who knows if even I have a future?”

“Well, it looks like there is one after all, doesn’t there? Since it’d cause trouble later, from now on I’ll have to pass on helping you with your outerwear.”

One such day came a letter from my elder brother in Nagoya saying Mother had fallen in the corridor of his house and broken her left arm, so they'd hospitalized her at a nearby clinic.
I stood dumbstruck, momentarily speechless.
Motoko had barely started reading the letter when she abruptly spoke.

"This is exactly why I told you."
"But I feel bad for your brother, though it’s better it happened in Nagoya."
"If this had been in Goshu, what would we have done?"
"Absolutely."
"We would literally have been at the point where all was lost."

It seemed Mother had been intent on somehow persuading my elder brother and returning to Goshu.
Mother's face came to mind—straining to stifle her delight yet as cheerful as a child's.
Just as she was about to achieve her objective, the plan crumbled away.
I understood Mother’s frustration.

“It seems to be a Catholic hospital, but Granny, what face do you suppose she’s making now?”

“And it appears to be full nursing care too. Everything handled by black-robed angels. Must be quite a shock, don’t you think? Starting to feel rather sorry for Granny.”

“This is her first hospitalization since birth, you know. But given the circumstances, I can’t very well say ‘Well now, you really must strive to live long,’ can I?”

I wrote letters of thanks to my elder brother and his wife, and a get-well letter to Mother.
The X-ray results showed my chest was healthy.
The blood tests also revealed no abnormalities.
They particularly noted my liver remained remarkably robust—unexpected for someone who drinks.
I couldn't help but smile.
The recent bone marrow aspiration confirmed my marrow blood was clean.
Though the low-grade fever persisted, an official report had been drafted.
I handed it to Dr. Yanagida in oral surgery.

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” Dr. Yanagida said with a hearty laugh.

The pain in Motoko’s neck region grew more intense with the heat, day by day.
By now, without painkillers, she could hardly lie down.
At night, she used painkillers and barely managed to snatch two or three hours of sleep.
In the morning, when I woke up, Motoko sat on the futon, both hands placed on the desk, her face resting upon them.

Motoko was aware that the pain in her neck region had no direct connection to, or effect on, the primary disease.
But constant physical pain must transcend all reason.
With the pain, sleep deprivation, and sweltering heat, even Motoko—who had never complained through a second surgery—finally let out a scream.

"What will I do if it recurs in this state?"
"I'm so frustrated."

“Let’s stop with the hypotheticals.”
“It might recur.”
“Or it might not.”
“That’s something even Buddha wouldn’t know.”

Every day, the severe heat persisted.
Today too, the sky was a clear cobalt blue, and the fierce sun beat down.
Sweat beaded on my hands as I sat at my desk, threatening to smudge the characters on the manuscript paper.
Because continually wiping away sweat would be too bothersome, I lay scrap paper over the manuscript paper.
Cicadas droned.

Motoko was sitting on the futon, leaning against the desk and reading a sports magazine. Her left hand had swollen up like a log. Perhaps because her skin's resistance had weakened, heat rash had broken out all the way up to the back of her left hand. In the basket hanging under the eaves, a cricket had been chirping incessantly since earlier. In my mind, I kept vividly picturing the scenery of my wife's hometown where summer grasses had grown thick. But this summer too, I would have to abandon visiting my wife's hometown.

Motoko let go of the magazine, pressed her right hand against the futon, and lay down as if collapsing.
But she seemed to be suddenly struck by severe pain and immediately sat up again.
It had been clear from the start that this wouldn’t work.
Even so, she must desperately want to lie down.

The instructions on the painkiller packet read "Take when experiencing pain."
However, its abuse was of course strictly prohibited.
Motoko too was strictly restraining herself.
But I could no longer bear to watch.

“Mom, isn’t it about time for your pain medication?”

When I looked, a single tear was trailing down Motoko’s face.
Motoko says in a somber tone.

"I just can't lie down. I don't recall having done anything so terribly wrong, so why must I endure such awful things?"

"Listen, Mom—if everyone who never did wrong was guaranteed happiness, there'd be no problems at all. But human destiny doesn't work that simply. If anything, it's bewilderingly complex—something beyond human hands to manage."

"Truly, humans are such fragile creatures. I used to boast about my robust health, but without you here... what would have become of me?"

“That’s not true. You really do endure so well.”

I barely held back my tears, stood up, and went to fill a glass with water.

“Come on，time for your painkillers，time for your painkillers.”

For Motoko now, this painkiller appeared to be her only treasured possession.
With evident delight, Motoko took out the medicine, took water into her mouth, and swallowed the pills.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

“I wish at least an evening shower would come. I might find some relief then.”
“No, doesn’t look likely. But Nagoya seems exceptionally hot—how is Grandma coping, I wonder?”

“Has the cast been removed yet?”

“It seems it’s still on. At her age, her bones must be brittle too.”

“It must be so hard for her.”
“Grandma’s having a hard time too.”

I turned back to my desk.
Motoko cautiously lay down.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye, restless with anxiety.
Perhaps the medicine had taken effect, as there was no sign of Motoko sitting up; for the first time, I relaxed and picked up my pen again.
It wasn’t long before Motoko’s light snoring reached my ears.

After bathing, I put on a stiffly starched yukata and sat down facing the garden.
Because I had sprinkled water before bathing, though the garden was narrow, it looked somewhat cooler now.

Last summer, I had bought a pot of evening glory and taken great pleasure in watching its flowers bloom, but this year there was no time for such things. In the garden, the yellow hollyhocks that my daughter had sown had grown quite large. But the buds were still small. Red hollyhocks may be midsummer flowers, but yellow hollyhocks might be more suited to early autumn. Suddenly, a cicada let out a shrill cry. It seemed to be perched on the cherry tree at the gate. Taking that as my cue, I stood up, took off my yukata, and changed into that familiar front-split shirt and my striped undershorts. This was to wash the back of my wife, whose left hand was disabled.

I opened the bathroom door.
The western sky blazed deep red with sunset.
Against that crimson expanse, golden streaks soared in radiant lines.
When I bent down, my wife’s naked body seemed enveloped in a glow of gold and crimson, and I involuntarily held my breath.

“I’m sorry.”

Motoko’s body showed not the slightest decline at this point.

"This damn cancer lump."

I placed my left hand on my wife’s right shoulder and rubbed her back.
Black grime came out in twisted clumps.
The window was open, but due to the steam in the bathroom, sweat seeped into my skin.

“Ah, this feels good.
“Daddy, thanks.”

“Ochan” was the affectionate nickname my children used for “Daddy” when they were little.
It was still used during moments of endearment.
My wife must have been in remarkably good spirits.

The evening cicadas sang incessantly.
The western sky changed its hues moment by moment.
Now even the golden radiance had vanished, leaving only a faint red stain above the neighboring roof where amber and aqua skies melded together.
A profound stillness permeated everything.

Under the lingering effects of the typhoon, dark clouds hung heavy.
A rather strong wind lashed the branches of the trees, and from time to time, fierce rain fell.
However, the heat seemed to have abated somewhat.

“It’s fearsome how the heat rash has receded a little,” Motoko had said, but whether from the paralytic drug she took or not, she now lay on the floor and seemed to be asleep.

A high-pitched sound of something falling was heard.
I involuntarily looked toward my wife.
But Motoko remained asleep, breathing faintly.
Now that I thought of it, while Motoko paid little heed to outside noises, she seemed acutely sensitive to sounds within the house—even to the creak of the front door opening.

Branches of crape myrtle adorned with white flower clusters thrashed wildly in the wind.
It felt distinctly like utter disarray.
The ground was also strewn with many fallen flowers.
Again the rain came driving down.
The wind instantly blew away the water droplets that had accumulated on the leaves.
The droplets would glint brightly and vanish instantly.
But the rain stopped again.

Motoko slowly sat up.
She was looking around her surroundings with an intensely puzzled expression.

“You slept quite well today.”

“Oh? Did I sleep that long?”

“It must be nearly five now.”

“I see.
So I’ve slept quite a while then.”
“That’s good.”
“Come to think of it, when I woke up, my body felt slightly different than usual.”

From the next day onward, the hot days continued again. However, the start of autumn had already passed. It might have been mere fancy, but there was an indefinable sense of autumn flowing through the air. The fallen leaves from the cherry tree at our gate markedly increased in number. In the garden, the pale yellow flowers of hollyhocks—quintessential autumn blooms—continued to blossom. The begonias too swelled pale pink buds like cherry blossom shells.

Since that typhoon day, Motoko's neck pain had been diminishing mysteriously with each passing day. During daylight hours she used no narcotics. Even so, she could lie down now. In that state she would sometimes fall asleep—shallowly but genuinely. Her nighttime sleep hours appeared to have lengthened too. The shoulder wound had not yet closed completely, but its depth had grown markedly shallower.

On a day of intense lingering summer heat, Motoko, who had gone to work for the first time in a long while, returned home early around four o'clock.

“Daddy,”

As soon as she entered the study, Motoko said "Daddy" and sat down beside me.

“Ms. Hanai has passed away, I heard.”

“The one from the hospital—the person who shared your room initially, right?”

“Yes—the breast cancer from twelve years ago recurred, and fluid had accumulated in her pleural cavity.”

“At the hospital I wondered too—can we really call something from twelve years ago a recurrence?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“She was getting those injections from America or something, right?”
“Her complexion had improved, and she seemed to regain her energy, though.”

“She was someone terribly accustomed to illness, and when she was discharged, when I offered my congratulations, she said, ‘Well, but if I can hold on for about two years like this, maybe they’ll develop new medications by then.’”

Motoko seemed to feel stronger emotions about this case compared to when Ms. Yamazaki had passed away earlier. These days, she had stopped using narcotics even at night. Until then, her entire nervous system must have been consumed by the pain in her neck. That pain had vanished. Her joy must have been beyond words. Yet through the fissures in that relief, Motoko must have abruptly glimpsed an abyss.

Since Ms. Hanai's husband was a university professor, Motoko must have learned of her death through his workplace connections. But I too was perpetually haunted by the same terror. I made a point of avoiding any mention of Ms. Hanai's husband.

The days grew somewhat shorter.
Having finally finished the day's work, I entered the tearoom.
I felt against my skin a faint, cool breeze flowing in from the north window.

When the internal medicine examination and tests were done, after handing the prescription to the pharmacy window, I would go to the oral surgery department. This was because obtaining the medication took an extremely long time.

The lingering heat today remained quite intense, and walking under the direct sun brought a light sweat. As usual, I took a seat in the oral surgery clinic chair. This clinic faced south with fully glass-paneled windows, so a cool breeze always flowed through. However, a few vivid yellow leaves could be seen on the plane tree in the garden. A single evening cicada cried out. However, the figures of children carrying insect nets were no longer visible.

My treatment primarily involved my gums and the cleansing of cavities that had formed where radiation was applied.
At times, my jawline and lymph nodes in the neck were also examined.

Dr. Yanagida, holding a dental mirror, muttered “Hmm, hmm” under his breath—or so I thought.
But Dr. Yanagida proceeded with the treatment as usual, engaging in small talk.

“The lingering heat remains quite severe, doesn’t it?
“I’m on the heavier side, so I’m rather sensitive to the heat.”

“But this place is comfortable,” I said. “Cool in summer and warm in winter.”

“Absolutely.”
“It’s cooler here than at some mediocre summer resorts.”

But after tossing the rolled-up cotton into the waste bin, Dr. Yanagida remarked casually.

“Now, please go take an X-ray.”
“You can use the X-ray room there.”

After getting my mouth X-rayed in the dental imaging room, when I stopped by the examination room again, Dr. Yanagida said:

“Then please come the day after tomorrow, on Friday.”

I returned home and said to Motoko, who had come back from the hospital earlier than me.

“It seems there’s something concerning again. I had to get an X-ray taken.”

“Oh? But you’ll certainly be all right.”

“Well, though deep down I’m not really worried.”

“Oh yes, I heard Grandma has been discharged. It’s been over two months now, hasn’t it?”

On the desk lay a letter from my brother addressed to us.

On Friday, I went straight to the oral surgery department. However, Dr. Yanagida said nothing about the results of the X-ray. I too had made it a policy not to press for what the doctor did not attempt to speak about. However, when he finished the usual treatment, Dr. Yanagida said in an utterly natural tone.

“Ah, perfect timing – Dr. Kimura from Radiology has arrived.
“Please let me examine you.”

When Dr. Kimura entered the examination room, he seemed to head straight for my treatment table. But such things were equally unimportant. Dr. Kimura was the physician who had made the plaster mask I wore when receiving radiation treatment the previous year.

Dr. Kimura kept conversing in German with Dr. Yanagida while holding a dental mirror in my mouth. The two doctors' opinions appeared to align immediately. I went to the fourth-floor examination room as instructed. Cells were collected from both sides of my upper jaw, rectangular glass pieces fitted together to create a slide. The previous year too, the day after undergoing this test, I had been ordered to be hospitalized.

I stood on the platform at Ochanomizu Station. The red oleander flowers on the moat's embankment swayed in the wind. Directly ahead, the third-floor examination room windows of the hospital were also visible. The water in the moat was, as always, polluted and murky. Because Hijiribashi Bridge cast the shadow of its semicircular girders, it conversely formed a bright semicircle on that water surface. Ordinary cargo boats were moving extremely slowly. They seemed to be collecting driftwood and debris.

The thought of death terrifies me.
Yet this fear doesn't stem from attachment to material things.
Nor does it come from any desire for honor.
Neither is it lingering attachment to my work—I believe I've accepted my limitations.
Ultimately, it's this reluctance to part from loved ones that pains me.
Though I don't know what agony body and mind may bring, death would reduce it all to nothingness.
Having been left behind by my deceased wife, I know too well the sorrow of those who remain.
Suddenly—even to myself—an utterly strange emotion surges forth.

“Which of us will reach it first?”

“What a thing to say, Mr. Rabbit!”

In that auditory illusion, I thought I heard my wife’s voice.

“Idiot, idiot, you utter idiot!”

I hurriedly scolded my own mind.
That I indulged in such foolish antics in broad daylight—perhaps it was because I feared death so intensely—but whichever it might be, there was no doubt it was utterly base.

On Monday, I went to the oral surgery department. The results of the cell examination showed no abnormalities, so I received treatment as usual. After the treatment, Dr. Yanagida said: "Will you be going to radiology today?"

“Yes. I’ll go there.”

“Then please take this with you.”

I was handed a slip of paper detailing my recent condition.

The radiology department's examination room was located on the second floor. In the dimly lit corridor, several patients sat waiting their turn in chairs. In the past there had been seniors and peers from when I was hospitalized, but now there were only unfamiliar faces. What had become of those people? I handed the slip of paper to the nurse and sat down in a chair.

Listening to the two people sitting next to me, it seemed they were dealing with breast cancer and maxillary cancer.

“Can cancer really develop in such a place? Couldn’t it be something else?”
“No, it’s cancer.”
“So it is... What a nasty disease.”

“Breast cancer is supposed to be the easiest to cure, isn’t it? I’ve seen folks at the bathhouse who’ve had theirs removed too—look perfectly hale and hearty now!”

A doctor who had accompanied him from another department—appearing inexperienced with administering radiation—was recommending hospitalization.

“For a time, your voice may become weaker than it is now. Your skin may burn, and your appetite may diminish. For a time, you must be prepared for it to become quite painful.”

Before long, I was called by name and entered the examination room.
The woman from earlier had stripped to the waist.
I lacked the courage to look directly.
I immediately averted my gaze.

I took a seat in the chair before Professor Mikumo.
The professor pressed a dental mirror into my mouth and said something in German interspersed with Japanese while shining a flashlight.
The assistant recorded it in the medical chart.

“Yes, it’s clean.”

Having said that, Professor Mikumo firmly pressed the area beneath my jaw.
He withdrew his hand with a slightly changed expression and spoke again in German.
Dr. Kimura, who had been standing behind him, answered likewise in German.

“Why not just remove it altogether?”

“For some time now, there appears to have been no ××× (German).”

“Then we’ll monitor the situation for a while.”

Professor Mikumo measured the size of the lesion on my neck with a U-shaped measuring device and had it recorded in the medical chart.

“Then please come again at an opportune time.”

Motoko, who had returned from the hospital, suddenly said.

“How did it go?”

"The test results were negative."
“The Geschwulst also seems to have disappeared today.”

“That’s good.”
“I did think you’d be all right, though.”

"But Professor Mikumo suggested removing this neck lesion altogether."

"So even you haven't been fully acquitted yet."

"That seems to be how it is. Though they did say there's nothing to worry about in oral surgery."
"Oh yes—Grandma says she wants to go back to Tokyo soon."

Mother had recently moved from my elder brother’s house to her deceased sister’s eldest son—that is, her grandson’s place.
I handed Motoko the letter from her nephew.

“Huh, that’s unusual.”

The katydid that had sung through summer nights died the other day.
Now crickets were chorusing vigorously in the garden.
Some repeated short percussive beats with mechanical monotony.
Others swelled their phrases’ endings high-pitchedly while some wove beautiful melodies.

A few years ago, in the grassy fields of Tenjinyama in Motoko’s hometown, I had seen bell crickets chirping.
The bell cricket that ceased its song at my footsteps was slowly moving its long antennae when, as if lured by the evening breeze, it trembled its wings and began to sing again.
Perhaps because they were flapping their wings so vigorously against each other, the outlines of their wings blurred in my vision, making them appear rather still.

“Even Grandma must have finally learned her lesson.”

“The country house might be where you want to die, but however determined your spirit, human beings are woefully weak against physical suffering.”

“Absolutely.”
“But this eases my mind.”
“Truly, there’s no alternative but to ask Mr. Keizo to fetch her.”

“It seems my elder brother has already sent a letter to my younger brother’s place as well, but I’ll go make the request myself.”

In the garden, evening dusk was already gathering.
The insects were now chirping ever more vigorously.
Various tones overlapped and blended together, creating quite a lively commotion.

The elderly mother returned to Tokyo accompanied by her younger brother.
I went to meet her at Tokyo Station.
Her left hand was nearly unusable.
Her steps were extremely unsteady, and supported by me, she finally managed to descend the platform stairs.
The sight of the elderly woman barely propped up by a middle-aged, gaunt man must have appeared pitiful indeed.

"Well, you've had quite the ordeal," said the ticket gate attendant.

Finally returning home, the elderly mother was shown to the living room where she sank down into a sitting position and said:

“Ah, well… Now I don’t have to go anywhere anymore.”
“Thanks to everyone here.”

The elderly mother seemed quite exhausted and spent the following day resting in bed as well, but from the day after that, her days became a cycle of sleeping and waking until a few days later when we had her bedding put away.
However, she no longer went out for walks but would watch television or sometimes spread out a floor cushion in a sunlit spot to lie down, often falling asleep there.
But her appetite remained strong, and she would make various requests that amused Motoko and the others.

I was sitting before Professor Mikumo.
Professor Mikumo finished examining the inside of my mouth and measured the lesion on my neck with a measuring device.
As was customary, after exchanging conversation peppered with German, Professor Mikumo said to me:

“There seems to be no need for concern.”
“Particularly, the skin in this area has developed a healthy luster lately.”
“No—that’s quite sufficient.”
“Then, we can wait until next year for the next one.”

As my feet hurrying homeward naturally began to quicken their pace, there was nothing I could do about it.

At breakfast, Mother took hold of the rice bowl, attempted to lift the chopsticks, then returned the bowl to the table.
“Today, I’ll leave the rice.”

With that, Mother stood up.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Both Motoko and I stood up.
The elderly mother staggered toward the living room.
The maid Ayako hurriedly prepared the bedding.
The elderly mother collapsed in a sideways L-shape upon it.
Immediately, she said:

“My stomach’s kinda queasy.”

I hurriedly fetched a washbasin.
The elderly mother vomited a considerable amount of blood into it.

I had the eldest son, who had returned from Hokkaido, run to fetch the doctor.
The eldest son returned accompanied by Dr. Sugimoto.
After examining the elderly mother，Dr. Sugimoto went to another room and，while examining the blood in the washbasin，said：

“Is it hemoptysis or hematemesis?”
“If it’s hemoptysis，the lungs；if hematemesis，the stomach—likely an ulcer or cancer.”
“However，the heart is relatively strong.”

“I see.”

“In any case，keep her at rest today，and depending on how things progress，we can take an X-ray tomorrow.”
“But it’s probably hemoptysis.”
“Since the blood is quite red.”

Having said that, Dr. Sugimoto left.
Neither I, who had gone out to see Dr. Sugimoto off, nor Motoko, nor our eldest son spoke for some time.

However, the elderly mother had no further hemoptysis and was sleeping with a relatively peaceful expression.

"You really don't need to do anything more for me now."
"There isn't a single thing left undone that I regret."

"That seems rather premature."
“Please just rest quietly.”

“Yes yes.”

The elderly mother had no further hemoptysis after that, and the following day she was scheduled to have a chest X-ray taken.
However, it was also the day both Motoko and I had to go to the hospital.
I left the house after entrusting her care to our eldest son.

After hurrying back from the hospital, I sat down at the elderly mother's bedside.
The elderly mother seemed relatively well.

“Today, I went out feelin’ like I was headin’ all the way to Hokkaido, I did.”
“Brother here and even Ayako-chan have been so kind to me—I’m right grateful, I am.”

The following day, I went to Dr. Sugimoto’s clinic.
Dr. Sugimoto set up the elderly mother’s X-ray photo on his desk, illuminated it with electric light, and spoke.

“The lungs are clear.”
“However, since there’s been no subsequent bleeding, it’s not the stomach either.”
“This is probably senile congestion.”

Dr. Sugimoto pointed to the darkened area of the X-ray image and said.

“The blood vessels are dilated like this.”
“However, there’s no need to worry that much.”
“If she experiences any difficulty breathing, please let me know.”
“You can gradually start reintroducing regular foods in moderation.”

I opened the door of Dr. Sugimoto’s clinic.
The sky stretched clear and deep blue, while autumn’s peculiarly bright light cascaded over roads, rooftops, and tree leaves.
From some indeterminate origin drifted the scent of osmanthus.
Perhaps owing to the dry air, its fragrance intensified sharply yet agreeably irritating nasal membranes.
As I habitually did whenever Mother would say,

“One day of joy, one day of joy,” I murmured as I made my way home.

The elderly mother continued to recover with miraculous steadiness thereafter. Her appetite had returned to normal, and she would say with self-satisfaction, "Well now, when I get proper meals, I sure do perk right up." Her complexion had improved significantly compared to when she had first returned to Tokyo, her lips now vividly red.

Motoko’s wound had not yet completely closed, but it had become very shallow. Her complexion had improved; in fact, she seemed to have put on some weight. To outward appearances alone, she was nearly indistinguishable from a healthy person. On days she didn't go to the hospital, she received treatment from me and went to work.

I considered my energy to be quite replenished.
I could throw myself into my work in my own way.
The evening drink after finishing work was all the more enjoyable.

In recent years, even our home—which had seen many troubles—seemed to be passing through days of peace for the time being.

It happened last night.

Motoko swiftly grabbed the sake bottle and poured alcohol into a glass.

“You shouldn’t.
The wound hasn’t closed yet.”

“It’s fine. It’s really fine.”

Though I had no memory of it—being already pleasantly drunk—Motoko continued to berate me.
I was apparently making excuses repeatedly, but Motoko wouldn’t listen at all.
Again, Motoko poured alcohol into a glass.

“Don’t.”
“You really shouldn’t be so reckless.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to fuss over me.”

Motoko sipped from the glass of alcohol and vigorously attacked me.
She made arbitrary assumptions and conclusively decided things on her own authority.
Though I had no memory of the most crucial details, that sensation alone remained strongly in my mind.
Moreover, Motoko nitpicked at my words and obstinately pressed her attacks.
I gradually grew more irritated.
But this discomfort seemed to stem rather from physical pain.
At that very moment, within my mind, intoxication and sleep were indulging in their pleasant dalliance.
In other words, I was terribly sleepy.
But Motoko stubbornly refused to let go of me.

“Stop saying such foolish things already and let’s go to bed.”

“Let’s sleep.”
“But what do you mean by ‘foolish things’? What exactly are these ‘foolish things’?”

Even in my drunken state, I remember being assailed by violently despairing emotions—though perhaps this was the moment they struck.
Yet to keep the pleasant drowsiness at arm’s length, I had kept drinking without pause; consequently, I retained no memory of what followed.

This morning, I awoke.
I seemed to have gotten slightly insufficient sleep.
Though I had no clear memory, there remained in my mind some unpleasant residue.

Motoko seemed to share the same feeling. She rose from the floor and said with a pained expression,
“Last night, you told me, ‘Go die of cancer already.’”
“To make you say such a thing... I must be a truly wretched woman, mustn’t I?”

Now I sat at my desk as usual. The pure white shoji screens Motoko had replaced days before were bathed in soft sunlight filtering through the glass door. Black branch shadows fell upon the bright screens.

In the garden, the insect chorus had ceased unnoticed. When I'd become aware of this absence days earlier and felt a faint wistfulness, the frail sound of insects had suddenly reached my ears once more. But today, no matter how long I listened, that sound never came. Now was the peak of sasanqua blossoms. Their color shone red through the frosted glass floral patterns set in the shoji screens. The Fatsia japonica had extended flower stalks bearing round clusters of buds at their tips. The opening of its small pure white flowers—so characteristic of winter blooms—wouldn't be long now.

Yet the events of last night refused to leave my mind for even a moment. Last night, Motoko had apparently blamed me regarding Reiko Hiratsuka. Reiko Hiratsuka was Motoko's old friend and the one who had recently informed me of my daughter's marriage proposal. That I despised Reiko—it seemed Motoko had continued reproaching me over this last night as well.

Speaking of which, there had been a time when Reiko first visited Motoko during her illness, and Motoko had sent her home with whatever items happened to be on hand as a return gift.
It had indeed seemed haphazard, and I had once cautioned Motoko about it.
But as ill luck would have it, since it turned out to be quite a valuable item, Motoko interpreted that I had begrudged giving it away—might this not have given her drunken self a pretext to claim I despised Reiko?

However, such things were utterly meaningless.
The question was what had made Motoko crave alcohol so intensely—what had driven her to such violent behavior.
When I suddenly arrived at that thought, I trembled.

Every human being was undoubtedly being watched by that creature.
Most simply remained unaware of it.
Motoko wouldn’t have consciously sought such awareness herself—yet she couldn’t escape it either.
To endure constant consciousness of its gaze in every waking moment would have been unbearable.

However, I too had experienced instances where slight intoxication instead intensified that terror. Wasn’t it that Motoko had to seek such unreservedly deeper intoxication precisely to avoid being conscious of that creature’s gaze? Moreover, the reason that creature was so terrifying was because it loved people. To free herself from that terror, Motoko had no choice but to hate me. In the end, aided by intense intoxication, Motoko succeeded in summoning the devil—it could not be considered impossible to think.

But I too was drunk.
The pleasant intoxication had made me completely forget the terror of being watched by that creature.
Yet at the same time, I had lost all discernment that Motoko could not forget that creature’s terror for even a moment.

The one sitting beside me, who had been persistently accusing me since earlier, was not Motoko.
She must undoubtedly have been a woman who had sold herself to the devil.
For such a woman, I had not the slightest need to fear that creature.
Moreover, that creature was even involved in our daughter’s marriage proposal.
There was no telling what demonic machinations the devil might resort to.

Even in my deeply intoxicated mind remains the memory of that sudden surge of passion akin to reckless abandon.
It could never be dismissed as mere drunken outbursts.
To break free from this demon-possessed woman, I too had no choice but to summon a demon.

The sun seemed to have moved considerably westward.
Glittering rays slanted through, casting the frosted glass's floral pattern onto the manuscript paper.
Outside showed no trace of breeze; the shoji screen's branch shadows remained motionless.
Until moments before, Ayako had apparently been sweeping the garden, but now even the rustle of fallen leaves had ceased.

It was quiet.
It was quiet—so quiet that one might think time had stopped; it wouldn’t be impossible to say as much.
Yet paradoxically, in such profound stillness, one became acutely aware of time slipping away with utmost silence.

Motoko currently showed no abnormalities and was leading peaceful days for now.
But might not that very tranquility of a mildly intoxicated night have instead abruptly awakened that terror?
I too at that time must have intended to counteract poison with poison.
Then, that terror seemed to have become part of the subconscious, always lurking within my mind.

However, today was an extremely calm day.
The late autumn sun shone brightly on the shoji screens.
The air was warm, with not even a hint of breeze.
In such stillness, that time passed at an exceedingly languid pace became apparent through the branch shadows cast upon the shoji screens gradually shifting positions.
Yet I too seemed to have been assimilated into the stillness, and my mind was quiet.
As if I were riding in time’s carriage, each passing moment had to be cherished with increasing intensity.

The sun appeared to have begun hiding behind the roof of the house across the way. The sunlight on the shoji screens faded away from the lower sections. I stared fixedly at the sunlight on the shoji screens. When staring like this, the sun’s descent seemed unexpectedly swift. At last, the final faint glimmer slipped silently away.

Suddenly, the whiteness of the shoji screens seemed to emerge.
However, I remained motionless as if savoring some lingering emotion.