Pathway to Japanese Literature

Just now, I had gone to visit an acquaintance’s house, where I was allowed to pick as many sweet peas as I wanted from their garden that was bursting with them, and now I was on my way back. The flowers had a heavy, slightly overpowering fragrance—as if the scents emanating from their deep purples, pale pinks, whites, and every other hue had merged to create something entirely new that was being cast toward me. Could there be some strange power in this fragrance?

Along the narrow path beside a mansion with towering trees, the May sunlight filtered through the green leaves, now bright, now dim. Could there be some magic at work in this light?

Though I ought to have gone straight home from here, I made my way around the back of the mansion to the station and bought a ticket for A Station—a journey taking no more than ten minutes by train. Getting off at A Station by the riverside seemed to be my first time doing so in memory. Exiting through the south exit after mindlessly handing over my ticket, I found the three o'clock sunlight blazing down on the white dusty road without casting shadows—so intensely it made me feel weary. Clutching the bouquet, I meandered down that southern-sloping road until immediately to my right appeared the narrow path I had envisioned—lined with new Western-style houses and homes blending Japanese and Western elements in fashionable designs, all standing silent with hardly anyone passing through. Walking west along it for about five minutes before turning right again to continue onward, I soon came to a halt. This was a place I had reached without any conscious intention. Before me stood a purely Western-style house, its recessed windowsills crawling with roses and a stone path stretching from the low red-brick gate to the entrance. Flanking both sides grew clusters of snapdragons, top grass, and sweet peas in full bloom. I looked once more at the roses on the windowsill. At that instant, a silhouette flickered in the window. Not directly visible. Through frosted glass came a fleeting glimpse of white fabric. It disappeared instantly.

In that instant, I left. I ran wildly. I turned several corners and emerged at the riverside. Finally regaining my senses—This was a problem. I must think about this—I muttered. Why had I gone there? Even if it had been entirely under a spell, why that particular house? And what had I seen there? Why had I come rushing back? Look how violently my heart was pounding. Who in the world was that silhouette?

I realized I needed to think carefully about the silhouette. And I remembered the silhouette.

When I was sixteen and the silhouette was thirty. At the mountain’s base lived I, and at its summit dwelled the silhouette. Every morning, clutching my schoolbag as I dashed out the gate, I wore a navy pleated skirt and had my hair parted down the middle and braided at the back. The girls' school stood atop a mountain separated from the silhouette's dwelling by a single valley, and to reach school, I had to climb halfway up the silhouette's mountain and cross a bridge. With the ring of vocabulary cards hooked on my finger, or while memorizing grammar, I would climb up the narrow, dim path along the stream. Then before long, I would reach the narrow, steep stone steps. To the right was a mansion’s towering stone wall, to the left faced a river where its wooden railing had long since rotted away, and those stone steps—less than a meter wide—required crawling up on windy days. I always stopped at the bottom of those narrow stone steps. And then, if I waited—sometimes as long as fifteen minutes, other times as briefly as five—the clattering sound of footsteps walking along the upper path would reach my ears. Then I, straining and panting as though I had just arrived, tried to climb the stone steps one by one. Then, I would spot the silhouette rushing down from above. The distance between the silhouette and me gradually narrowed. I would press my body against the stone wall as if forcing myself and lie down. Otherwise, we couldn’t pass each other.

“Thank you.” The silhouette would say this and rush down without so much as a smile. There were times when he would let me go first. There were times when I would wait at the bottom. Furthermore，there were times when he would wait at the top until I finished climbing up. At such times，I would bound up the steps with flying momentum and pant out，“Thank you.” Every morning without fail，the silhouette and I met on the stone steps. It might have been coincidental on his part. But for me，I couldn’t help but feel that we absolutely had to meet. When our bodies brushed past each other midway up，I would stare intently into his eyes. However，the silhouette would not even cast a single glance my way and would simply walk away. How many times must this have been repeated? From mid-April until around June，this went on every morning. There were days of crisp clarity，with white clouds floating lazily. There were days of rain that swelled the river. At such times，I absolutely had to close my umbrella. And sometimes droplets trickling from the half-closed tip of his large black umbrella would flow into my braided hair’s collar. It was indeed more a source of intense pleasure than something cold.

The sixteen-year-old girl thus fell in love with the silhouette. No, perhaps it couldn't be called love. Nor could it be called affection. But it was not something faint and thin like a dream; rather, it was undeniably something of fierce intensity and considerable force unlike anything I had experienced before. The silhouette usually wore a suit. He wore a navy suit of utterly ordinary cut, a similarly dark and inconspicuous tie, and carried a black briefcase. Could he be a company employee? But he lacked that worldly coarseness. Yet he didn't seem like a scholar either. There was absolutely no opening; that silhouette always maintained the same attitude as if stamped from a mold—cold and rigid. How old was he? Was he unmarried? He seemed youthful, yet his coldness carried composure and dignity.

Two months passed without my knowing who he was. And then, on a day in June, I finally discovered the true identity of that silhouette. This happened when I developed a severe lacquer rash—my entire face swelled up and a high fever suddenly struck. Immediately, I begged Mother to call our usual hospital and ask Dr. N, our family doctor, to come. But they said Dr. N couldn't make it due to a major surgery and would send someone else instead. I kept replacing the water-soaked towel on my forehead nearly every minute, desperately awaiting the doctor. Around four o'clock, the doorbell rang. Footsteps climbed the stairs—then the sliding door opened. In that instant, I froze. There stood the silhouette from those stone steps. I nearly burst into tears. My face had swollen grotesquely—even my eyelids refused to open properly. I felt the dream I'd secretly cherished—of that silhouette and myself—beginning to shatter.

The silhouette calmly sat down beside my futon. Even though we met every morning, he took my pulse and examined my face with meticulous care, behaving as if completely unaware of that fact. I involuntarily turned to the opposite side and closed my eyes. Then, the towel that had been on my forehead was removed, and in its place I felt something cold yet somehow warm. And I immediately knew it was his hand. The hand held a strange force, and as if being pulled by it, I fell back onto my back again. I opened my eyes. Still, he kept staring at the swollen ridges on my face without opening his mouth. Mother informed him of my condition. Finally, he opened his mouth. The first words I heard from him other than "Thank you."

“Is it only your face?”

His voice was low and clear. Faintly, I nodded. Because I didn't want my voice to come out hoarse. “It will clear up soon. “It’s lacquer. “I’ll give you an injection. “The fever will subside by tonight. “And I’ve brought an ointment, so apply it. “It will heal in two or three days.” He finished delivering each of these assertive, commanding statements with crisp enunciation, then immediately began preparing the injection. While looking at my face reflected in the silver injection case, I felt unbearably sad. (Please don’t let him realize I’m the girl from the mornings.) I prayed while offering my arm. I opened my eyes wide and stared at the vein swelling up. He inserted the needle into my arm bound with a black rubber cord.

“It won’t hurt.”

He said this. That was not a question nor suggestion—it was a statement of conviction that there should be no pain. I suddenly wanted to retort because, “It hurts!” I said. He again, “It won’t hurt.” he said. This time, I ended up nodding silently. I hardly listened to him explaining how to use the ointment to Mother and me. Because I was too sad to listen.

He stood up, Mother went downstairs to see him off, and on the quiet floorboards after they left, I tried to force myself to cry while pressing the injection mark. While thinking it was pure schoolgirl melodrama, I truly ended up crying. Mother came back upstairs immediately and told me that he was a surgeon under Dr. N named Sasada, and that since he lived in the area above us, Dr. N had asked him to come over.

As he had asserted, that night my fever subsided, and after two or three days of full recovery, I left home energetically to meet him again on the stone steps.

That day, I waited about ten minutes. When I reached the bottom of the stone steps, the stone wall I leaned against felt unpleasantly tepid from the sweltering morning heat. Footsteps approached. I hesitated. Did he realize it was me? I decided to wait below. Then we met abruptly. He had recognized me after all.

“Oh, good morning. That’s enough now.” “Thank you very much for your care.” Without stopping to talk further, he briskly walked away. I went to school singing at the top of my voice. I met him again the next day and the day after that. He would only exchange a word or two. I knew his family name but not his given name. As I fell asleep, I whispered it repeatedly.

Sasada, Sasada, Sasada.

When summer came, both my older sister and I suffered from the beriberi that occurred every year. Through my mother’s suggestion and my agreement, we came to receive daily injections from Dr. Sasada. He promptly agreed to this arrangement, and it came to pass that around five o'clock each day, he would appear at my house. And my feelings for him grew even deeper, while my older sister also began trying to win his favor.

His name was Akeo. And it was also discovered that he was unmarried. It was also discovered that the house on the hill belonged to distant relatives, and that he was staying there as a dependent because he had no family of his own.

When the doorbell rang, both my older sister and I would come rushing out. And I would pour whiskey into a glass and take it to the reception room. He was very fond of both alcohol and tobacco. But he was a man of such strong will that if he resolved to quit, he could do so at any time. He would down it in one go and remain unperturbed. After administering the injection, he would talk for a while. Though it was called conversation, it amounted to little more than him sparingly answering my questions—he would never be the first to open his mouth.

“Were you a soldier?” “I was in Hainan Island for three years and got demobilized this April.” “When I returned, both my parents were dead, our house had been burned down, and I was all alone.” “School was in Kyoto—those days were fun.”

The immaculately white open-collar shirts he always wore appeared changed almost daily, their collars without a single wrinkle, and his sharply creased trousers spoke of a fastidious nature. He himself had said so, and he paid meticulous attention to disinfecting the injection needles and handling the instruments. One day, when a peach was served, he peeled its skin with smooth swishing sounds, finishing cleanly in one unbroken motion. At that moment, as I gazed at his hands, I felt a touch of sentimentality well up within me.

“How deft you are.”

My older sister laughed about it later, but for me, it was no laughing matter. About three months passed in a flash, each day flying by. We would chat about trivial things, and I was happy. My older sister was too. Moreover, everyone in the household had taken a liking to him. And so naturally, Mother chose him as my sister’s prospective spouse. When I overheard my parents discussing this matter, I wasn’t surprised—but resolved to sabotage this marriage arrangement without fail. I loved him so desperately that I couldn’t even feel the simple joy of his proximity. Let my sister claim him? Accept defeat? Yet I wasn’t of marriageable age regardless. He would inevitably wed someone other than me. If so, I even thought it preferable that his bride be a stranger rather than my sister.

Having eavesdropped from the adjacent room on my parents discussing matters centered around my older sister, I left home earlier than usual that morning when Father intended to directly ascertain Dr. Sasada's intentions.

At the bottom of the stone steps, I waited for footsteps as usual. After last night’s Typhoon Day storm, the morning stood crisp and clear, but tea-brown muddy water roared through the river. I strained my ears, fearing the torrent’s din might swallow his footsteps. A full twenty minutes I waited. Footsteps sounded. When our eyes met, all I’d meant to say vanished from my mind—only “Good morning” escaped my lips. Then, having climbed four or five steps to stand one stone below him, I found myself clutching his arm. (An act beyond intention.) And rapidly—

“Please—I’m beggin’ ya—don’tcha go agreein’ to whatever they ask ya at home today, okay? Please!”

No sooner had I spoken than I pressed him against the wall, smoothly scrambled up the steps, and ran off without a backward glance.

In the evening, my older sister and I stood side by side at the entrance to welcome him. When my gaze briefly met his, I pleaded once more through my eyes. After he had calmly departed, we pressed Father with urgent questions—how he had phrased it, what answer he had received.

“Dr.Sasada has decided,” “...that he’ll be entering an adoption arrangement.” “He’s leaving here at month’s end for H Hospital in O City.” “Well—she is a doctor’s daughter after all.” “It can’t be helped.” “For Dr.Sasada too, becoming an adopted son is likely the wisest course.” “After all, he can’t manage alone now.”

One night, I heard my older sister sobbing. The feeling of triumph I had was only momentary, for my mind was consumed by the imminent parting.

The next morning when I met him, I couldn't say anything. It wasn't "thank you," nor could I say "I don't want to"—I just kept my head bowed in greeting. For a while, he rested his hand on my shoulder and left without a word. Was this meant as affection toward me? Don't be absurd—it couldn't be that. Was it pity for me...? Suddenly, tears began pattering down.

That evening，my older sister remained shut in her room—even when we called “Dr.Sasada!” she wouldn’t emerge. I poured three glasses of whiskey. By the parlor window where bush clover swayed，he and I sat for nearly an hour without speaking. When he left，I alone went out to see him off，

“Please don’t come anymore. My sister is pitiable. But...in the mornings...”

My sympathy for my older sister might have been falsehood. Because I could meet him alone. The days until our parting kept narrowing. I met him every morning. On that final day, September 30th, he who wore a navy suit like when we first met announced his farewell to me.

“I’m grateful for all your kindness.” “Please give my regards to Ms. Hiroko.”

I extended my hand. I wanted to keep holding his hand forever.

“I can’t say anything... I just can’t...” I let tiny tears fall onto our clasped hands. And squeezed harder—harder still.

It was a sweet little romance.

A year passed. They were days of sweet sentimentality. I heard about him from somewhere— that the adoptive family was wealthy and his wife a peerless beauty, that a child had been born.

A year passed. I could no longer content myself with mere sentimentality. As my body matured, so too did the love for him within my heart expand. With each passing day, far from fading, it transformed into a fierce carnal longing that tormented me. To purge this anguish, I took employment. It wasn't to earnestly observe society, nor was it to materially support my family. I wanted indiscriminate human contact. I wanted to vanish into crowds. When alone, I felt unbearably desolate—I became convinced some force within multitudes must sever what lay between him and me. Yet this produced the inverse effect. Far from severance, I found myself drawn closer to him than ever before.

The reason was that I often went on business trips to Osaka for company matters. The destination was a building about fifteen minutes away across the river from H Hospital where he worked. And each time I had such a business trip, I would get off one stop early and pass by that hospital. I did nothing but pray whether I might meet him by chance. But as this happened repeatedly, I began to think of meeting him intentionally.

On a rainy day, during a quiet spring afternoon, I finally made up my mind.

The black raincoat was wrinkled. The square briefcase tucked under my arm, the umbrella in my hand also black, my hair tied back in a lifeless bundle—though I wore lipstick, it wasn’t the kind that enhanced beauty unnoticed but rather a half-worn-off unsightly thing. The image of my exhausted self—yes, I was weary of daily life. I had lost all sense of beauty, forgotten any longing for distant things, and become a thoroughly vulgar working woman. Covered in dust, reeking of mud—nothing but money, numbers, and fawning over superiors. But within all that, the only thing remaining—sad yet pure—must have been my feelings for him.

The noon siren sounds. Step by step, I enter deeper through the crowded entrance where people are constantly coming and going. Immediately, the pungent smell of disinfectant assaults my nostrils. The stifling heat of people suffering from illness. Heavy air.

“Where is the O Surgery Department?” “It’s over there to the right.” The nurse walked away briskly.

In front of the O Surgery Department, people crowded together, with every chair inside and outside the room filled to capacity. The sound of children crying. The clatter of instruments persisted regardless, the hurried footsteps of indoor shoes, between which the white skirts of nurses and the surgical gowns of doctors flitted about. I squeezed between the patients and sat down. The old man next to me had small pustules covering his entire skin. They were festering, swollen and unsightly. And he would occasionally scratch at them. The young woman in front—could she be about the same age as me? Her right foot was wrapped in a pure white bandage from heel to toe, and a crutch lay beside her. Those eyes—beautiful yet somehow clouded, giving an unclean impression—belonged to her flipping through a grimy magazine page by page, moistening her index finger with saliva as she devoured the text. The pillar clock directly above the woman ticked off the seconds in a low, heavy tone, and I realized ten minutes had passed since earlier. The contents of my bag floated into my mind. I had to make copies and get them stamped by today, then submit them to another company tomorrow. I stood up. I resolutely asked one of the doctors who had come out of the room.

“Is Dr. Todo… not here?” “Dr. Todo is—” (turning around sharply) “—on a business trip! Tokyo, probably. That conference business.” “Probably Tokyo.” “That conference business.” Seeing his retreating figure bellowing, I felt relieved. Why? Before I could question myself— “No, he came back this morning,” a nurse interjected. “He should be in the staff room.” “Having lunch.”

The nurse's voice. My chest quivered. “This way.” “I’ll go now.” “Let me call him.” We ascended concrete stairs with peeling tin sheets, their surfaces clattering noisily.

“It’s about Todo.” “That’s right.” “I’m starving.” “It’s exhausting.” “Doctors have it tough too.”

From behind this person chattering away nonstop by herself, I followed in silence up the stairs. My mind was filled with the imminent conversation pressing before me.

(What brings you here?) (I'm busy.)(Oh—welcome. You've come at last.) No—that's wrong. No. (Who are you?) This—this must be it. “Mr. Todo—a visitor.” When we reached the room’s entrance, that person called out loudly and went inside. I pressed my body flush against the wall and kept my gaze lowered. Though I’d made a fist, it trembled uncontrollably.

(I wanted to see you. I wanted to see you.) I screamed inside myself. A moment later came the sound of slippers. I couldn't lift my face. Keeping my head bowed motionless, I waited for his words. Yes—I was clinging to a sliver of hope inside. What was I— The slipper sounds halted abruptly before me. A white coat entered my vision. I gradually raised my eyes from my toes upward. Then, before that gaze could reach his face, "I am Todo."

I started. That voice was wrong. Completely wrong. I looked at the man's face. It was round and corpulent, with narrow eyes - a countenance diametrically opposed to his. This wasn't him. A suffocating sensation rose in me, cheeks burning with shame.

“Ah, I’m Todo.” I heard those words again. I resolutely opened my mouth. “Um... Dr.Todo—isn’t there another one here? It wasn’t you. Akeo Todo…” “He isn’t here… Ah, Akeo Todo. Yes, he left last year. He must have opened his own practice, I suppose. I don’t know where exactly—” “Well…” “No.”

The leather slippers departed.

I stood frozen in a daze, recalling everything from these past two months. Every time I was on a business trip, I would make a detour past this hospital—how many times had I walked back and forth along this riverbank without the courage to go see him? He had been gone all along. Nearly despair. The kanji for 'despair' spun in my head, gradually growing larger and larger.

I don't know how I managed to reach the station and board the train, but at any rate I must not have used an umbrella—my hair was soaked and my shoulders cold. In the swaying train car, I gazed blankly out the window.

Life after that. I was reckless, unmoored, and self-abandoning. My older sister would eventually marry. I remained in my salaried existence—a tarnished working woman. My paycheck would vanish into diversions the moment I received it. I sold books too. In the hollowed-out bookcase sat five or six borrowed volumes I couldn’t quite bring myself to sell; they lay dominoed under dust. The pen nib stayed crusted with ink residue, petrified.

Every day, I wouldn’t return home until night had fallen completely. Through summer dusks and autumn twilights, I would wind myself around the arms of people I didn’t love, drag myself to bars, force myself into drunkenness, press my cheek against mournful melodies and dance with anyone at all, even attempt to lose myself in gambling. But try as I might, I couldn’t banish him from my mind. Hearing a song he used to love while passing on the street; occasionally falling ill and catching that hospital smell of chloroform—these things became unbearable, driving me to carouse more recklessly than before. No—what truly churned my heart was glimpsing beautiful women. Whenever I encountered someone in splendid Western dress on the streets, I’d wonder if she might be his wife. Then I’d feel hatred toward these passing strangers I’d never met, nursing something like jealousy. If even small children happened to be nearby, it grew especially intolerable—I’d cover my face with my hands wherever I stood.

Just how long was I going to keep living like this? What nonsense this was. He was married. And he had already moved away from me. He existed within my mind—but could I have occupied even a single day within his?

And time finally managed to wrench me away from him. It wasn't that I fell in love anew; I simply kept denying all notions of romance or love. The world operates on calculation. I survive by reckoning. When an arranged marriage proposal coincidentally arose during that period, I accepted without a second thought. He was wealthy. He cut an impressive figure and was rumored to be America-bound. I wanted nothing from my partner—no pursuit of sensual pleasures, no demands for affection, no expectation of mutual understanding. When friends occasionally voiced such hopes to me, I'd laughingly dismiss them, even taking pride in my own philosophy. Even had I quit my job for bridal training, it wouldn't have brought me satisfaction. Yet I found no joy in planning my future—merely chopping vegetables and clutching a broom through each passing day. I neither consider my current life good nor bad. I don't think about it at all. There's neither laughter nor tears. No music exists—just an endless procession of colorless days.

Then one day, I heard something like this from my married older sister.

“Akeo-san—he’s opened a practice in A City, I hear.” “Y-san, a friend from dressmaking—when she met that person, out of the blue, Akeo-san’s name came up.” “She’s right in his neighborhood, I hear.” “And she often goes over to visit him, I hear.” “She even had him give her typhoid injections, apparently.”

My sister—already five months pregnant—still carrying remnants of Akeo-san in some corner of her heart...... I suddenly remembered everything up until now. My older sister knew nothing about what I had done last spring—that is, my visit to H Hospital to see him. I was seized by the impulse to see him again. My older sister neatly stacks away all the people she has loved until now in a corner of her heart and remains composed. I couldn't bear it. Into that emptiness came new news about him. I cast aside both my marriage proposal and current position, driven solely by the passionate desire to see him. But I did briefly consider what consequences meeting him might bring. When I went to H Hospital, I cast aside all concern for appearances and everything else. It would be more accurate to say that rather than the strength of my love compelling me, I simply had nothing to restrain myself. This time, I had matured compared to back then. I had come to think about things through calculation. And as a result of my deliberations, I steered myself to be bound to domestic life as much as possible and deprived myself of opportunities. But today, I had wandered aimlessly, just aimlessly, all the way to A.

Several cigarettes were crushed against the bridge's handrail and swept into the river. I took out a mirror and applied lipstick. The May sun glared again in the mirror, recklessly fueling my desire. It turned five. I stood up and walked back along the earlier path with clear resolve. (I'll meet him. I'll meet him. I'll meet him and talk. What's wrong with just touching his words? I'm simply greeting a long-unseen acquaintance. That's all. ——No, that's not it. If meeting and talking would suffice with anyone, what am I truly wishing for deep down?)

My pace slows. But I do not turn back.

(I am seeking. (His embrace.)

I turned the corner along the white-walled fence. Then a Jeep came speeding toward me. In that instant, I dashed forward as if about to be run over. But I stopped at the last moment. The black man's glaring eyes turned toward me and grinned. The Jeep sped away, its driver hurling unintelligible words. (If only I'd been run over. Then I would have been carried off to that hospital whether I liked it or not. Because the hospital bearing his name clearly inscribed on its white signboard now stood right before my eyes. And then I would be tended to by his hands. I soon came to my senses, and when I half-opened my eyes, his pupils were peering into mine. My arm would be clasped in his hand. Even if that were only to take my pulse, it would be fine. But would he realize I was that girl from the stone steps back then?)

When I had fantasized that far, I snapped back to reality with a start. Within my field of vision, I clearly saw a person. A young child in a red dress came running out from the hospital. And a voice came from inside. It was his voice. I stood at the right edge of the road, my legs stiffened. I could meet him. I heard a light click-clack of footsteps. Those footsteps were the same ones I had eagerly awaited every morning. A navy suit emerged from the red brick gate. That suit was a nostalgic color. He was leading a small child. Wearing a red dress identical to the girl from before, she dangled from him while chattering about something. I remained standing stiffly. The child who had gone out first continued to trot briskly ahead of him, and from behind, he matched his pace to the small child’s as he walked forward slowly. The moment he did, my gaze and his locked together as if magnetized. I would never let go. An invisible line between him and me gradually drew closer. That visage was now directly before me. I was seeing now.

"It's him, it's him," I cried out in my heart. I tried to smile, but my cheeks froze; I tried to speak, but my throat felt as though constricted, painful. He stood up. The child from before dashed past my side. I continued staring into those eyes as if boring through them. But at that moment, he averted his gaze. He hadn't truly registered my presence. I sensed this. As if to immediately confirm this, he started walking. He walked calmly past my side. I turned on my heel. A few flowers fell at my feet.

“Uncle!”

At the corner above, a child waved their hand. Is she his niece? He lifted up the small child and started walking briskly. That child was his.

I blankly watched his retreating figure. And then, as he turned the corner, he glanced briefly in my direction. It was just a moment, and his figure vanished from sight almost immediately. I chased after him. Around corner after corner, and then, he cast a light glance this way. At the same distance, I bathed in his gaze momentarily each time.

When I arrived at the station, the train departed with a loud noise. My shadow standing desolately at the railroad crossing was trampled by the train's roar and its massive body. (My innards were torn apart, thick blood dripping down.) At that moment I clearly felt the finality between him and me. Not a single person remained on the platform. He and the children had already boarded the train and left. While following the departing train with my eyes I clearly felt the distance between him and me growing. It was only natural. Does even a single trace capable of discovering the past remain in my features? I had completely changed. And he too— He had acquired a beautiful wife built wealth and become a good father indeed.

“Goodbye*, *Akeo*.”

The bundle of completely wilted sweet peas was still emitting their alluring fragrance. The May sun was still pouring its lingering light upon the earth. But those things brought me nothing at all.

(Written September 9 (Shōwa 24) [1949]; "VIKING" No. 11 (October Shōwa 24) [October 1949])