Chapter 01
IN A FAIRLY WELL-OFF part of the city, our house stood out. It was a little one-story building from a previous era, with a flat, unassuming red roof, and a bright red mailbox at the entrance beside the old wooden sliding door. The colorful sheet metal walls faced out on a narrow yard, which was still plenty for drying our scant laundry. Thankfully, the lot beside ours was long-vacant, with only a few pieces of playground equipment left behind.
On clear days like this, bright sunshine filled our parlor. Soaking up warm sunlight was surely good for the body. As I sliced up a green onion—rather efficiently, if I did say so myself—I thought of the dream I had that morning.
I dreamed about a set of train tracks hanging in the darkness, barely illuminated by small lights on the edges of the tunnel. Endless darkness and a comforting swaying: the view from the windows of the head car of the subway train. I felt stuck, unable to escape, my very consciousness adrift. I was filled with dread, convinced a monster would leap at me from the darkness, but I could not avert my eyes.
The train showed no signs of stopping at any station, and there were no announcements over the speakers, nor voices or any evidence of other passengers. Even straining my ears, I could hear no music leaking from anyone’s headphones, nor clothes rustling. The only sound reverberating in my body was the ka-chunk ka-chunk, ka-chunk ka-chunk of the train running along the tracks.
I began to lose hope, praying the next station would arrive soon. This was a subway train, after all; it would be disastrous for it not to follow the timetable, to not stop at the station. It had to let me disembark.
I awoke with a voiceless scream—then realized that it was a dream.
It was hours before my alarm was set to go off, but I wasn’t about to go back to sleep. Glancing at my brother sleeping soundly beside me put me a little at ease. I did a bit of cleaning, then killed some time flipping through the morning news. I prepared some miso soup, chock-full of tofu like Himari always wanted, then took the cucumbers from last night—Himari’s favorite pickled vegetable—out of the nukadoko and piled them neatly in a little dish.
This particular nukadoko had been in our family for some time. It shocked me to learn that pickles were produced from such a smelly brown substance; I’d been stunned to see my mother casually plunge her hands into it. I wore rubber gloves when I mixed it, and tossed them in the trash afterward.
Honestly, for a high school boy to even be in possession of some nukadoko… I let out a self-effacing sigh.
I turned off the burner on the stove, took a taste right from the ladle, and gave a self-satisfied nod. Breakfast in the Takakura household was a standardized affair: white rice and a warm, hearty miso soup. Somehow, I inherited this routine without realizing it.
My brother awoke and put away the futons, and eventually our whole family was up and about.
Atop the low table in the tatami-floored parlor, three sets of bowls and chopsticks were laid out. Warm white vapor rose from the rice cooker. Fliers and coupons from the supermarket were pinned to the refrigerator with the cute magnets that Himari loved. All six of our shoes were lined up snugly by the front door. It was a perfect morning. A perfect, just-right morning.
As I carried over a tray lined with bowls full of miso soup, my eyes fell on our family photos. In one rectangular picture frame was a photograph of us three siblings and our parents, when we were young.
There was no Mother or Father on this perfect morning. Thus, it fell upon me, inheritor, to make our breakfast.
I despise the word “fate.” If our births, encounters, partings, successes, failures—whether we achieve happiness or fall into the arms of despair—are all determined by “fate,” then why on earth were we born into this world? What do we even live for?
Cured salmon and tamagoyaki, warm miso soup and pickles.
“Aniki, Himari, breakfast is ready,” I called to them together.
Some are born into prosperous homes. Some are born into poverty. Some are born beautiful, to beautiful mothers. Some are not. And, some are born thrust into the middle of famine or war. If all of those things are set in motion by the hands of “fate,” then God must be a horribly, outrageously cruel creature.
“Thanks for the food!” Himari said joyfully, pressing her hands together and smiling. Her hair was brushed out neatly, her lips glossy with lip balm. It always took her a while to get ready in the morning. I was relieved to see her looking bright-eyed and healthy today.
My brother and I shared our thanks for the meal in turn.
“Really pulled out the stops this morning, huh?” said my brother absently, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. We were both distracted, watching Himari pick up her bowl of miso soup, blowing a soft breath to cool it as she gently lifted it to her mouth. The sight set something aflame in us. Her face was beautiful in profile, her long eyelashes lowered. Her slender white throat moved ever so slightly as she swallowed.
“It’s delicious,” she said with a smile, enraptured.
“Is it good, then?” asked my brother, now wide awake.
“Yes. It’s been so long since I’ve had hot miso soup.”
“Of course. It was always cold at the hospital, wasn’t it?” my brother said softly.
Himari’s gaze lowered to her miso soup, smiling at the needless concern. “It was. But, more importantly, your soup tastes just like Mother’s, Sho-chan.”
“Himari.” Indeed. We all knew there was something decisively lacking in this morning scene. And yet, as long as we could all sit around the table like this, our family would survive. We were family, after all. There was no reason besides that. Or rather, that alone was reason enough.
We were keeping the Takakura family alive.
“Right? This guy’s already a perfect house husband, ain’t he? He knows when all the grocery sales are on, sorts the trash, does the laundry and the ironing perfectly. He’s even a master chef to boot,” said my brother brightly.
Himari cackled in reply and said, “He’ll make a wonderful groom someday.”
“That so?” I asked. I had no clear memories of our mother’s miso soup. But I was her child, so it’s possible that our tastes aligned. And if that made Himari happy, then that was fine with me.
“Say, you notice anything special about the room?” Himari suddenly asked playfully.
“Hm? I mean, I did a bit of rolling this morning, but I didn’t notice anything,” I said dully. I’d used a roll of sticky tape to clean, rolling it along the floor and furnishings. Our old vacuum was incredibly noisy and blew up a lot of dust, so it wasn’t suitable for prebreakfast cleaning.
“Did you make something again?” My brother whipped his head around quickly.
Himari was fond of crafting. She loved clothing, and her hands were small and skilled, so we often found her at her sewing machine or knitting. My brother and I didn’t understand everything she made, but if Himari created them, then they were “cute things,” and found a home as “new friends” in Himari’s room or the parlor.
According to Himari, the world was mostly comprised of cute things. If you asked her what made up the rest, however, she would innocently reply, “Who knows?”
“The answer is: the curtains!” she announced.
We turned our gazes to the curtains. Now that I thought of it, I hadn’t done any rolling on them that morning.
“Oh, there on the corner,” I said as I noticed it. The words I’m home had been embroidered in English on the pink fabric in beautiful red cursive lettering. Next to them was a little flower design. “I didn’t even notice this,” I added.
“What is it?” my brother asked, peeking around me. “You’re gettin’ good at embroidery, Himari.”
She smiled, clearly pleased.
Despite being shown the X-rays and receiving a thorough explanation, we never fully understood the situation. I’m not sure understanding it would have done us any good, anyway. All that mattered was whether Himari would get better.
“I’m very sorry, but unfortunately, there is nothing more that modern medicine can do,” said Dr. Washizuka vaguely. “Himari-san has a few months at most. Perhaps.”
“No way…”