“Bwah!”
I thrust aside my thin blanket and sat up, gasping for breath. My head almost banged into the low ceiling; the rafters of this shabby, rustic attic sloped down right over my bed.
“Haaah, haaah… Haaah…”
It was morning. The sunlight was blinding.
The brilliant world I’d just waken from still lingered so fresh in my mind. I closed my eyes, reaching for its dregs. I’d been standing on that whale’s rostrum, singing. I was wearing fancy clothes, belting my heart out.
I opened my eyes again. My phone was lying on the sheets, its screen blank. I could see myself reflected in its dark surface, lit up by the sun. I was wearing the same frumpy, faded pajamas I’d had since junior high. My hair was sticking up in various places, my eyes half closed.
And spattered over my cheeks—were freckles.
They made me so depressed. My chest felt tight; I let slip a sigh.
“Phew…”
Immediately, I heard Dad call from downstairs.
“Suzu? What’s wrong?”
Panic set in.
Did he hear me just now? Needless to say, my room isn’t a soundproof booth. It’s just the ordinary room of a miserable seventeen-year-old girl. The only way to keep people from hearing stuff is to curl up in a ball under the blankets. Did I sigh more loudly than usual…? I felt a surge of regret, and my back broke out in a cold sweat.
“Nothing! I’m fine…!!” I hurriedly shouted back, crouched on all fours on my bed.
What do I do if he comes upstairs to check on me? I mean, he probably won’t. But what if—?
“Oops—”
My hand slipped, and I collapsed face-first onto the floor.
I changed into my school uniform and went downstairs. Dad was nowhere to be seen. He must have been getting ready for work.
I opened the porch door to let Fugue out and the cool morning air in. I gave the living and dining rooms a quick sweep and stacked the magazines scattered on the table. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I picked some flowers from the garden, stuck them in a vase, and set it next to a framed photo in the kitchen. Then I put a teabag in my mug and poured in the water, sending the steamy scent of black tea swirling upward. Mom was smiling at me in the photo, just like she always did.
Fugue was waiting eagerly in the garden, so I gave him some food. From a distance, the tan flecks in his white fur made him look dingy, like the poor dog never got a bath.
He lost his front right paw in an accident where he got it caught in a wild boar trap someone put out. The pink stump stuck out as he ate, making him wobble around like he was about to fall over. People must have really felt sorry for him before we adopted him.
I sat on the porch and sipped my tea, staring at Fugue.
Dad walked out to the garage. He was wearing a navy T-shirt over his tan skin, his backpack full of work gear draped over one shoulder.
“Want a ride?” he asked me.
I kept staring at Fugue, my mug covering my mouth.
“…No thanks,” I replied.
“What about dinner?”
“No thanks.”
“…Okay. Well, see you later.”
I bet he was frowning. I can tell without looking at him.
I heard the engine of his little four-wheel-drive start. He backed up, swerved into the road, and drove down the hill. The sound of gravel crunching under the tires faded away.
I’m not sure when I stopped being able to look him in the eye. Or how long since we had a real conversation. Or how much time has passed since we ate a meal together.
A notification pinged on my phone. There was a text bubble on the screen:
Belle is the most beautiful woman in all of U
Languages from all over the world were translated instantaneously.
Her music is super unique
Belle’s songs are bursting with confidence
The hottest account out of all 5 billion users
Text bubbles popped up one after another, filling the space around Belle’s icon in seconds.
But they didn’t make me feel happy or accomplished or elated. No matter how much attention Belle got, it didn’t affect me. I huddled in my shell, my lips resting on the chipped rim of the mug.
One of the text bubbles swelled larger, which was what happened to comments getting the most attention.
Out of all the countless comments at that moment, this one was generating the biggest buzz:
Who in the world is Belle?
Fugue gave me a puzzled look.
He seemed concerned that I was acting so depressed.
Most people probably don’t know this, but Kochi Prefecture here on the island of Shikoku is actually a gorgeous, fertile place covered in steep mountains threaded with sparkling blue streams. Lots of the people who revolutionized Japan’s feudal society more than a hundred and fifty years ago came from here, which is something else we’re proud of. Plus we have the sunniest weather nationwide. And the highest alcohol consumption per person. Maybe that’s why folks here are supposedly so laid-back and friendly and cheerful. Granted, we’ve still got some pessimistic sad sacks.
Like me.
My home is on the edge of a village of about thirty houses dotted over the side of a mountain. Down below there’s a river called the Niyodo, with the Chinka Bridge connecting us to the other side. It was built without any railings so that it wouldn’t wash away during a flood. And as long as there isn’t a flood, I cross it every day. Today the Niyodo was quiet and blue.
Sometimes tourists come in their rental cars and stand on the bridge taking pictures and oohing and aahing about how pretty and blue it is. What a sweet little village, they say as they strike a pose for the camera. They don’t know anything about this place.
I climbed down the stone stairs with my schoolbag under my arm and walked down the steep road, my loafers slapping the asphalt. Neighborhood housewives used to say hello to me and wish me a good day at school while they swept their front stoops. That doesn’t happen anymore. On a lot of the houses, the rain shutters are closed tight. Some of the people have passed away, and some have moved to the city. Every year there are fewer of us. Lots of villages are like that in the Niyodo watershed. I heard that the sociologist who invented the phrase “disappearing village” in the nineties based it on a place near here. I can’t tell you how many times in my life I’ve heard adults say, “You’d be surprised how many people used to live here in the old days.” We’re at the cutting edge of population loss, falling birth rates, and an aging society. That’s the cold, hard truth.
Once I climb the road on the other side of the river and come out on the highway, there’s a bus stop. The schedule in its rusted frame only lists buses that run in the morning and evening. If you miss the bus, you’re out of luck.