The funeral was held at my uncle’s house. It was a bright and sunny October day, worthy of Momoko. Momoko’s parents had passed away when she was young, and the few relatives in attendance were people like my parents, but instead, there were many people she knew from Jimbocho: Sabu and the other bookshop regulars, then the owner of the Saveur and Takano, Mr. Nakasono and the familiar faces from the restaurant, plus the innkeeper and the people she’d worked with at the mountain inn . . . and of course, Wada and Tomo. Tomo and the innkeeper rushed over right away to assist with the preparations for the wake, and they were a tremendous help when my mother and I found ourselves shorthanded.
From that alone, I could see how much everyone loved Momoko, how precious she was, and it made me profoundly happy. And everyone was in agreement that it should be a cheerful sendoff. Right up to the end, Momoko had kept smiling her reassuring smile, as radiant as a flower in bloom. Clearly, it would’ve been wrong to say goodbye to a person like that with a grim funeral.
As we gathered around her coffin at the wake, we laughed together like we always did. Sabu, who was quite drunk, launched into an endless monologue that lasted more than thirty minutes about how he wasn’t able to fulfill his promise to Momoko to share one of his talents with her: performing some traditional naniwabushi ballads for her. In the end, his wife actually told him not to embarrass himself. A woman, who was Momoko’s distant relative, scowled at us as if to say there was something inappropriate in us carrying on like this, but she completely misread the situation. There was sadness in it too. We just wanted to express our grief in a way that would make Momoko happy.
It was a good funeral, I think, one that will remain with us. I’m still convinced that it made Momoko happy. Momoko seemed at peace in her coffin, even cheerful. We talked about it. “Momoko looks good,” we said; “she kind of looks like she’s enjoying this along with us”; “definitely.”
Yet there was one thing that worried me.
It was Uncle Satoru. He hardly opened his mouth during the funeral. He didn’t touch any of the food or drink. All he did was go around bowing politely to everyone who’d come, expressing his gratitude again and again. Even when Momoko was cremated, he just gazed up at the sky while Sabu and the owner of the Saveur wiped away their tears. He had such a distant look in his eye, it was like he was trying to see to the outer limits of Earth’s atmosphere. If he had broken down and cried at that moment, we were prepared to warmly welcome him into the fold. To be honest, I hoped he would. I hoped he would let himself depend on us. To mourn with us, and, if possible, to allow us to offer some words of comfort. But my uncle wouldn’t show any weakness in front of others.
My uncle was the one who was with Momoko at her deathbed. I don’t know what it was like. I don’t know what he thought or what he said at that moment. Yet, based on how he was at the funeral, I got the impression that he was avoiding showing what he was feeling, just as Momoko had feared.
“I think I’m going to close the store for a little while.”
It wasn’t long after the funeral that my uncle made his announcement. I had stopped by the Morisaki Bookshop on my way home from work because I was worried about him. But the shutters were closed, even though it was still business hours. I got worried, and called my uncle at home right away; I had to wait awhile before he finally answered. When I asked him about it, he said, “I’ve decided to close for a while,” sounding terribly exhausted.
I felt confused, and at the same time, a part of me thought, “Yes, of course.” I’d had a slight hunch that he might say something like that soon.
“Are you in physical pain?” I asked.
“No, it’s not that,” he said, sounding listless on the other end of the line.
“Are you eating properly? Could I come over and make something for you?”
“I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. So . . .”
And with that the line went dead.
But my uncle had wasted away so much in the space of a month that I agreed that he should rest for a while. Get some proper rest, I thought, and when you’re feeling better, come back to the shop. My uncle had already decided it was better that way.
I thought it would last a few days, certainly no longer than a week. Yet no matter how long I waited, the shutters of the Morisaki Bookshop remained closed. At some point, a handwritten sign on a piece of white paper had been stuck to the shutter, announcing, “We’re closed for a while.” The paper now dangled, after being battered by the wind and rain.
“How long is Satoru planning to wait till he opens the shop?” Sabu, who once seemed to come by every day, now seemed sad to have lost his place to go.
“I understand the feeling, but I still want Satoru to open the shop. We might not be much, but as regular customers, we can support him. But if he isn’t around, then there’s no way we can cheer him up.”
On the phone, Sabu asked me to pass on the message when I saw my uncle.
He was right. There were other people who were waiting for the shop to open. But I would think my uncle already knew that . . .
The shop was still shuttered, and my uncle had let it remain closed for roughly a month. What was he doing all this time? He had basically shut himself up inside the house. Until Momoko passed away, he had insisted on running the shop, no matter what happened. Maybe he had put himself under too much strain, and now all at once it had come undone.
I went to the house in Kunitachi to see how he was doing. On the phone, he always told me he was eating right, but his voice sounded so listless that I decided to buy some groceries at the supermarket on the way so I could get him to eat something.
I stopped at a big supermarket near the train station that I’d been to many times with Momoko. She had a deep love for the place, because when they had sales the prices were much cheaper than the other stores nearby. It used to make me laugh when we went there together to see the way she would put the whole weight of her small, nimble frame on the shopping cart and then go gliding swiftly down the aisle. It was trivial little memories like this that kept coming back to me after she died. In those moments, it felt like I had a gaping hole in my heart. That’s what it was like losing someone precious to you. I felt it now in so many different places and in so many different ways.
After I finished shopping, I headed for my uncle’s house, walking down the alley of their residential street with supermarket shopping bags in both hands. Some dragonflies were flying across the sky, which was now bright red at sunset. One of them came down to me and acted as if it might land on my shoulder, then it flew off into the sky. As I walked, I felt like I was going to cry. I walked faster until I was moving at a brisk pace, rushing to get to my uncle’s house.
Although I had told him I was coming that evening, he didn’t answer the door when I rang the bell. It wasn’t locked. When I let myself in and called to him upstairs, the only response I got was a “Yes” coming from my uncle’s room.
Before I went up, I placed my hands together in prayer in front of the Buddhist altar to Momoko in the living room. The photograph on the altar had been taken six months earlier by a regular customer who was an amateur photographer. She was smiling, with the Morisaki Bookshop in the background. It was a wonderful picture. Seeing it brought back so many emotions.
Then I climbed up the stairs, knocked on my uncle’s door, and opened it. Although the sun had already begun to set, my uncle was still in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, lying down on his futon. His hair was a mess, and he was so unshaven he looked like a cartoon burglar. He was in such a pitiful state that I blurted out, “Uncle!”
He looked at me drowsily and dumbly greeted me with a “Hey.”
Was this how he’d been spending the whole day? There were bags of potato chips and bento containers from the convenience store scattered around the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
From an opening in the covers, my uncle thrust out both of his hands, flashing a peace sign.
“This is hardly peace!” I yanked off the covers, and my uncle curled up in a ball like a roly-poly bug. Undaunted, I threw open the curtains he’d drawn closed.
“Stop! If I’m exposed to light, I’ll turn to ash.”
“You idiot.” I realized my voice sounded like I was about to cry. Why did I feel such relief? My uncle was still perfectly alive, he was still here. It’s not that I actually believed that he’d end up following Momoko to the grave. But the way he’d been carrying the burden on his own lately made it seem like that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Which is why it made me happy to see him there—even if he was acting like a roly-poly.
“Sorry, Takako.”
“It’s fine. What matters now is I’m making you dinner. Want to eat together? I’m sure you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.”
“Hey, thanks.” He nodded obediently.
I took over the kitchen and made his favorite curry. Naturally, it was the Vermont Curry brand—mild. The kitchen didn’t seem to have been used in a while. It was exceedingly clean.
I brought some egg drop soup and a plate piled with curry and salad into the living room and then I called out to my uncle. When I suggested he go wash his face and shave before eating, he obediently headed to the bathroom. I told him he ought to change his sweatsuit too because it was looking a little dingy, and he went up to the second floor and changed into another sweatsuit that was exactly the same color and style.
However, when I came into the living room and saw my uncle, I screamed. The area around his mouth was so covered in blood it was bright red.
“Huh, what?” My uncle’s mouth hung open. He tried to approach me, and I shrieked.
“Blood! Blood!”
“Ah, I hadn’t shaved in so long, I might’ve hacked myself up a bit,” he said in a daze. He wiped his mouth with a tissue, but when he saw how stained with blood it was, he cried out, “Whoa, that’s not looking good.”
“Don’t stand there ‘whoa’ing. Try looking at yourself in the mirror.”
“Why would I want to see how terrible I look?”
He was more or less aware, it seemed, of how terrible he looked. But even in moments like this he acted in a way that was hard to gauge, so I stayed vigilant.
Eventually, the two of us sat down at the table. His eyes still looked drowsy, and his expression was still the same as he shoveled the curry into his mouth robotically. It didn’t feel like we were really having a meal together. Still, it was better than him not eating at all.
“Sabu and the others, they’re worried about you. They want to see you back running the shop again.” I passed on the message from Sabu, as I ate the curry that wasn’t spicy enough for me.
“Oh, really? I feel bad about that.”
“Everyone’s waiting for you.”
“Oh.”
“How about we go together next time? I’ll help you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
There was no emotion behind what he was saying. He was just stringing words together. Then he said, “Sorry, I’m full,” and put down his spoon. He hadn’t even eaten half of it. He was still fairly weak. There was no way I could leave him like this. I had made a promise to Momoko, a promise that I would help him move forward and go on living. But I had absolutely no idea how to go about doing that. All I was able to do was make him meals, do some laundry, and be there for him to talk to. If he would at least open the shop, then I could be of more help to him.
I worried about this, and then I cautiously brought up the subject. “Uncle?”
“Yeah?”
“You aren’t thinking about just leaving the shop closed like this, right? It’s important to take some time off, of course. You’re just taking some time off though, right?”
My uncle looked up as if what I’d said surprised him. But the gloomy look in his eyes returned and he looked down again.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Uncle . . .”
“I genuinely don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to keep the shop. I am perfectly aware that our customers are waiting for me. It’s just really hard. Momoko and I started at the bookshop together. Even when Momoko was gone, I ran the shop because I knew she was alive, even if she was living in a faraway place. Because I wanted to hold on to somewhere she could come back to, if she got tired or hurt, no matter what happened.”
As he talked, my uncle’s expression stiffened again. At times, his face contorted in pain.
“But it’s really hard to be there right now. There are too many memories. And all those memories are vivid reminders that she’s dead. I don’t want the time to pass. Because if time passes, Momoko will drift further away from me.”
My uncle stared at the clock on the wall across from me like he was giving it a glare.
The clock had been in use since my grandfather’s era, and it was ticking away, still keeping time today. My uncle seemed to think he could stop the hands of that clock.
“I understand how you feel. At least, I think I do a little. I mean, I loved Momoko too. But you’re making a mistake. You know it’s a mistake, right? We’re alive. There’s no stopping time. So we have to keep on moving forward, one step at a time, no matter how heavy our legs feel.” I felt a lump in my throat, but I kept on talking. “Even if it means leaving behind the person who died.”
“Takako . . .”
I tried to look him in the eye as I talked, but he quickly looked away. I went on talking nevertheless. “You don’t understand, Uncle. You taught me so many things. All the things you said. That’s why even though it might not be clear in my head, I’m trying to find the words to get through to you. It’s what you taught me, isn’t it? How important it is to talk face-to-face and say what you have to say.”
His eyes remained downcast the whole time, so it was hard to tell if he was listening. But in the end, he muttered a few words. He sounded like he’d given up. “You’re right. I don’t understand. But that’s okay.”
The Morisaki Bookshop remained closed after that too. The only thing I could think to do was keep the shop clean. If you leave old books shut in a room without air circulation, they’ll mildew and become unsellable. I wanted to prepare the shop for when my uncle felt ready to reopen. I knew that was what Momoko would’ve wanted.
On the way home from work, I used the key I still had from when I lived in the building, and went in through the back door of the bookshop. Because it had been left for a whole month, the air was heavy and stagnant. It was filled with the scent of damp mildew. In the darkness, I felt around with my hands and ferreted out the switch. When I flipped it on, the fluorescent lights flickered to life, and it was suddenly bright inside. When I sneezed from the dust, the sound filled the room.
First, I opened all the windows and aired out the room. Then I took time to sweep the floors with a broom, then diligently wiped down the bookshelves and the floors with a dust cloth. Under the overly bright white lights, the shop looked terribly empty, like some storeroom deep underground. Just being in that room, I felt sadness growing inside me till it was unbearable. Even Roy, the donut pillow, neglected by his owner for such a long time, somehow seemed lonely.
My heart ached to see that this place that my uncle loved so much, that mattered to so many people, had now been discarded as if it were no longer needed.
I went upstairs to the second floor and watered Momoko’s potted plants on the windowsill with her watering can. Having gone so many days without water, all of them had shriveled and now looked down as if they were cowering. “Sorry guys,” I murmured as I watered each one thoroughly.
It was after nine o’clock when I left the shop. The night air was dry, and the wind was so cold it seemed to pierce my skin. I winced. In the darkness, the air I exhaled looked so white it shocked me.
The world was trying to usher in winter.
One season would give way to the next. The loss of a single person couldn’t change that. It should’ve been obvious, but it now felt like an outrage.
I turned to look back at the bookshop and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.” Then I walked away.
“Takako, you’re doing the right thing.” Wada was comforting me on the phone.
Lately, I’d been feeling down all the time. Though I knew it was wrong, I’d find myself depending on Wada.
“But what I said didn’t get through to him. I’m at a loss . . .”
What could I really do to get my uncle to move forward with his life again the way Momoko had asked?
“There’s only so much you can do. Your uncle lost the person who mattered most to him. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but if it were me, and I knew I would never see Momoko again, then I might give it all up too.”
I found myself imagining the reverse scenario. I only imagined it for an instant, but it made everything go black in my mind. He was right; I was truly sad that Momoko was dead, but there was no way it could come close to the sadness my uncle felt. I regretted how I’d righteously told my uncle at his house that I understood how he felt a little bit. For my uncle, Momoko was what Kazue was for Sakunosuke Oda.
“For my uncle, I guess, the Morisaki Bookshop is also a symbol of all the time he spent with Momoko.”
There are too many memories in the bookshop. I remembered what my uncle looked like as he said that to me. Memories that stretched across twenty years, of happiness and sorrow, had accumulated in that site, layer upon layer.
“He must find those memories unbearable right now,” Wada said. “But the time will come when the place will be precious to him precisely because it holds all those memories. Until that day comes, maybe you just have to put your faith in him, and wait for him to be ready.”
“That’s all I can do now.”
After that, every few days I made time to head over to the shop. All I did was air it out, clean, and check that there were no signs of mildew in the collection. But it was enough to make sure that he could open the shop anytime he was ready.
On one of those nights, Tomo accompanied me. To tell the truth, it was sometimes hard for me to be in the bookshop alone at night; I would find myself remembering all kinds of things. So, I was grateful that she was with me.
Working together, we finished cleaning in less than a half hour. Tomo was so full of enthusiasm she suggested we try to straighten up the collection of books on the second floor, but I dismissed the idea, telling her we’d do it some other time, because if we started now, we’d never make the last train.
I felt indebted to Tomo for coming, and for her help at Momoko’s funeral. I was truly grateful. This seemed like a good moment to tell her again how thankful I was.
As usual, she was too modest. “No, no, please. It was nothing,” she said.
“But you really have gone to so much trouble on my behalf,” I said, insisting on telling her how grateful I was.
“When I go back at the end of the year, I think I’m going to see my sister’s former boyfriend again,” she said suddenly.
“What? Really?”
“I am. I’m going to apologize to him properly. He’s been worried about me all this time, it seems, yet I’ve been avoiding him. It might sound like an exaggeration, but I feel I need to set things right. I think once I do, I’ll be able to see a way forward.”
“Oh, I think that’s absolutely wonderful.”
I was delighted to hear Tomo had come so far. I supported it wholeheartedly.
“It’s thanks to you and Takano that I was able to get to this point.”
“No, no,” I said, flustered. “I really didn’t do anything.”
She giggled.
“Now you’re the one saying that. We’re just alike. I’m not here today because I want you to thank me. And the same goes for you. That’s just how we are.”
Then something happened at the beginning of December, around the time I noticed the neighborhood was lit up in glittering lights for Christmas.
On that night, I went again to the shop to air it out and clean up, following my usual routine. I had more or less finished my work, and had told myself it was time to go home, but I made no attempt to leave. For some reason, I found it hard to go. I thought, Let me stick around a little longer. For no particular reason, I sat down at the counter in my usual seat, staring off into the distance. Although I’d turned on the heat, I’d had the windows open until a few minutes earlier, so it was as cold inside the shop as it was outside. I rubbed my hands together and wondered how long it would take to warm up.
When I looked at the clock on the wall, it said it was nearly ten. I should leave soon, I thought, but my body wouldn’t budge. Outside the window, a lively group went down the street, probably on their way home from an end-of-the-year party.
By chance, my gaze landed upon the account book tucked away in the utility cabinet below the counter. Though we called it an account book, there was nothing major written in it. It was the sort of thing where we wrote down the books we sold and the price. The leather-bound book my uncle normally used was thicker and threadbare from years of use. This one was thinner, and still relatively new. What’s going on here? I thought, and pulled out the account book that had been pushed all the way in the back like someone was trying to hide it.
When I opened it up, I blurted out, “Oh . . .” On each page, there was something written in densely packed characters.
They were things that Momoko had written. It was not quite a diary, it was more like simple notes, but she recorded the date and the weather, along with things that went on in the bookshop. The dates began not long after Momoko suddenly returned home and started living on the second floor of the bookshop.
“Satoru, sold books again today, in a good mood.”
“Setting aside the Ōgai Mori book Mr. Kurada wants.”
“Don’t forget to organize the book carts!”
“Sold nothing before noon because of the rain. Heartache.”
“Takako isn’t doing so well today? Worried.”
After I read the first few pages, I closed the book suddenly. Some of Momoko’s thoughts were still here in these pages. The days she spent with my uncle and me were inscribed in this book. It might not be a masterpiece to be read for generations, or a text left by a great writer, but for my uncle and me it was precious.
I needed my uncle to read it right away. With that thought in mind, I got up from my chair, but in that instant the back door was thrown open with a bang, and I jumped back in surprise. When I looked over, I saw that my uncle was somehow standing in the entrance, breathing heavily. And with a look of shock on his face. But his expression quickly changed to disappointment when he saw me.
“Oh, it’s you, Takako,” he muttered with a weak smile. “I found myself back in the neighborhood walking past the bookshops. Then I saw the lights were on in the shop . . .”
I didn’t have to ask what happened next. I could tell just by looking at the expression on his face. My uncle tricked himself into believing Momoko was inside, despite the fact that there was no logical reason why that should be. I, on the other hand, was so stunned by my uncle’s sudden appearance that I couldn’t speak.
“Takako . . . ?” My uncle was staring at me with a baffled look on his face.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was happening here, something I couldn’t put into words. There must be some other power at work here. The timing was too much. First I find Momoko’s writing in the account book, and then at the very moment when I wish I could show it to my uncle, he comes bursting into the room . . .
“So, um,” I said, still feeling overwhelmed. I stood in front of my uncle and held out the account book. “This is the account book Momoko wrote in.”
“Momoko?” For a moment, my uncle just stared blankly at the book in my hands, then he slowly reached out his hands to take it.
“Maybe I should sit down?”
My uncle sat on Roy, and gently turned the pages of the account book. As he carefully read through each handwritten line, he suddenly cracked a smile. “When did she start doing this?”
“I know, right?”
Finally the heater was kicking in, and the room began to warm up. My uncle turned the pages, as if transfixed. I could hear the rustling of paper. I thought I might make tea, but right when I went up to the second floor to get the teapot and teacups, I heard my uncle suddenly shout, “Ah!”
“What is it?” I peeked suspiciously over his shoulder, then I called out too. There on the last page of the book was a long passage that began “To Satoru . . .” She had noted the date too: it was two days before she collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance.
“It’s . . .” I said, and my uncle nodded silently without looking away from the book. His hand was trembling slightly.
“Uh, maybe I should step outside for a bit?”
“No, it’s okay. Stay here.”
“Got it,” I said, and then I stayed quiet.
After my uncle had taken some time to read through what she’d written, he gazed up at the ceiling for a long while. Then he stood up straight and read through it slowly once more. During that time, I walked up and down the aisles, looking around the shop restlessly. I was caught off guard when my uncle suddenly tried to hand me the account book without saying a word.
“That’s okay. I don’t need to read it,” I said.
“It’s fine. I want you to.” He was looking right at me, holding out the book as if urging me to hurry up and take it.
I hesitated for a moment, but eventually I took the book.
To Satoru,
How long will it take for you to find this? If you’ve already gotten back on your feet again, then there’s really no need to read this. In that case, feel free to blow your nose in it and toss it in the trash.
I thought about leaving a will, but then I’m sure you would’ve read it right away. That seemed pointless, so I decided instead to leave this for you. So, please read it as an alternative to a will.
Unfortunately, I didn’t end up outliving you. I guess this is my fate somehow. I apologize that I had to be the one to leave first.
It breaks my heart to leave you behind because you’re such a crybaby. Even when you proposed to me, you cried. “You might be fine without me,” you said, “but I’d be useless without you.” At the time, I laughed and said, “This guy’s a mess,” but I was really happy. There’s no one else on earth who could have told me something so pathetic and wonderful. After all, I would be useless without you too.
Afterward, through the joy and sorrow, we had many happy times together. But I know I caused you a lot of trouble. Still, you took me in after I chose to leave. And you asked me to come back. You’re so infuriatingly kind. So kind that you wouldn’t let me go in the end. You never gave up on me.
I’ve decided that from now until the day I die, I’m going to say “thank you” to you every day without fail. It still won’t be enough to express my gratitude for all that you’ve done for me, but I’d be happy if I can show at least a small portion of how much I owe you.
Um . . . my writing is getting more and more discombobulated. Is that how you write discombobulated? If I’m wrong, please don’t snap at me, okay?
Anyhow, here’s my request: just as I have wonderful memories of being with you, I don’t want you to let your memories of me be sad, I want you to remember the fun and happiness. If you find yourself spending every day in the same anguish you felt when I was in the hospital, you’ve got to know that’s not what I hoped for. I want you to smile. I love the way you smile.
There are a lot of people around you who will support you. Remember that, and lean on them. There’s one particular person I trust and love above all, and I’m going to ask her to do a little something for me.
One more thing.
Please give my regards to the Morisaki Bookshop. The proof that we were together lies there. I know how much you love the shop, and the truth is I love it too. If I’d been able, I would’ve wanted to see you working there just a little bit longer. After all, it’s when you’re in the shop that you shine the brightest. Of course, it was just a selfish wish on my part. But if that’s the case, I hope that after this you and the Morisaki Bookshop can move forward together.
Please look after the shop. It’s full of our memories together, and the memories of so many other people too.
Momoko Morisaki
She never played fair, did she? If she had this up her sleeve, she could have at least told me. Did she anticipate that my uncle would close the shop? Or had she left it as some kind of insurance? I didn’t know, but what I did know was that this note was full of love for my uncle and the Morisaki Bookshop. And this shop was teeming with the thoughts and hopes and feelings she experienced in her life.
And she referred to me as the person she “trusted and loved above all.”
“She really was such a troublemaker.” When I handed back the account book, my uncle gave me a bitter smile. “Takako, what did she ask you to do? Was it too much trouble?”
“That doesn’t matter now, Uncle,” I said and my uncle looked back at me, his eyes wide with surprise.
“What?” he said, and smiled at me.
“Momoko told me, ‘I want him to fully grieve, and then look ahead and go on living.’”
“No, Takako, I . . .”
But I went on, ignoring my uncle’s attempt to respond. “I can’t really do anything for you. I can’t do anything but cry with you. So, you don’t have to grieve alone anymore.”
My uncle stared intently at the account book in his hand as if trying to resist it. He looked hard at it for a long time. And then just as I realized his lips were trembling slightly, he suddenly let out a scream that sounded like the call of some wild beast. He raised his voice as if straining to force out all the air inside him and channel it into a wordless scream. I went to his side and rubbed his back that now seemed so skinny. When I looked at my uncle, my eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“When I went to see her in the hospital, she always said ‘Thank you.’ I told her to stop because it was disconcerting, but she kept on . . . even at the end . . .”
Now both of us were openly sobbing. We wailed out loud and cried uncontrollably. My uncle crouched and covered his face like he was going to collapse right then and there. I stayed beside him and rubbed his back, ignoring the tears dripping from my face onto the floor.
Our sobs echoed in the bookshop late into the night. Our voices, reverberating inside the room, made the air tremble. It was as if the shop itself joined in to mourn Momoko’s death with us. As if it too were grieving.
We went on crying for as long as we needed to.
No matter how much we cried, our tears would not run dry.
That sound will echo in the shop forever.
The night gently enveloped us, my uncle and me, and the whole Morisaki Bookshop.
Surprisingly, it was Wada who told me the following evening that the Morisaki Bookshop had reopened for business.
“I’ve got good news,” he said on the phone, sounding unusually excited. “I finished work early today, so I went by the bookshops in Jimbocho. And then I saw, believe it or not, that the lights were on in the Morisaki Bookshop,” he said, almost without stopping to breathe.
“Is that right?”
I was still at work, but as I stood in the hallway of my office, I let out a sigh of relief.
“Huh? You don’t seem that happy? Did you already hear it from your uncle or Sabu?”
“No, I just knew it was going to be okay. Thank you, my prince, for your efforts.”
After last night, my uncle completely changed, and by the next day he was already opening the shop—that was just like him. I, on the other hand, embarrassed myself by going to work with my face still puffy from weeping my eyes out.
“Oh really? Anyway, it’s good news. I was so happy it was like it was happening to me. I got very excited. And even better, when I went in, your uncle brought out tea and said something like, ‘Thanks for coming to the funeral.’”
“What? Really?”
“And then I told him I was writing a novel set at the bookshop, and he told me to let him read it when I was finished. He said, ‘If it’s bad, I’ll tear it apart for you.’”
“Hold on there. That’s going too far,” I said in shock.
“No, I was happy. I was really happy. Whatever the case, it’s really good news, Takako.”
“It is.”
What happened that night seemed like a dream. How I’d suddenly noticed the account book, and how my uncle had appeared right then . . .
Maybe it was all Momoko’s doing. She was worried about my uncle being lost in grief . . . The idea briefly crossed my mind, then I decided not to think about it anymore. No matter how much I thought it over, I’d never know. What mattered was that the two of us were looking ahead and going on living. That’s all.
“My prince, do you think I should go over after work?”
“Sure, though your uncle will be gone by then.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“Well, how about the Saveur?”
“Sure.”
“Got it.”
Outside the window, the sky was already pitch black. The nearly full moon, missing only the slightest sliver, gave off a dazzling light.