On the eve of Obon, we received a visitor in the afternoon.
Nagisa's great-uncle – her grandmother's younger brother – had come, accompanied by a high school gyaru in long summer dress – what, at first blush, looked like his granddaughter.
He was the only family relation Nagisa's grandmother mentioned as being alive. Everyone else had either passed on or drifted away.
The tone she adopted whenever she spoke of her brother was worry, however. He was blind in one eye and losing sight in the other. And to a large degree, he was wheelchair bound. But in all other respects, he was perfectly healthy. That, however, was several months ago.
In the past, Nagisa's grandmother was free to make the long journey to the other side of the country to visit him before Obon. But no longer. And since they had no means of contacting each other, she sometimes fretted over him, unsure if he was well.
She seemed saddest at the thought that her brother was still waiting for her.
"If only I was healthier," she would say, before glancing into a corner.
She had all along believed that she would never see her brother again. Hence, to her, this sudden visit from him was something like a dream come true.
At the time, I was in the guest room studying, while Nagisa's grandmother was at the living room. Amidst the cries of cicadas and rustling leaves, I heard the shuffling of feet against the pavement outside, stopping near our gates. Then, the doorbell rang and in came a smooth elderly voice.
"Sumimasendeshita. Is Sakaki in?"
Sakaki was Nagisa's grandmother's given name, but rarely did anyone call her as such. She had no close friends nor partners who would offer her such intimacy. She was only either Momoe-san or Obaa-san.
I rose to my feet and quickly arranged myself before stepping out.
Nagisa's grandmother had already invited the two into the genkan. I went to her side and stood in position behind her, ready to attend to the guests.
After an initial hug, they showed no more sentimentality than that of two old friends who had finally found time to catch up. I wondered why they were not happier to see each other. Perhaps it was because their joy only ever appeared in the shadow of inevitability, awaiting death. And, like the sun hanging in the sky, separation illuminated all their thoughts in pathos.
At first, their talk was light, consisting of mundane affairs. Then, they placed a small wooden table on the engawa and basked out in the light.
"Impressive view. The place is pretty, isn't it?" she remarked.
"Mm. I remember."
For a matter of minutes, things were silent as they peered out into the landscape. The usually quiet town was bustling with people lodging for the night, returning to their family home, or simply wandering.
Then, conversation picked up again.
I had expected their meeting to be fraught with emotion, but between the two, there was only an atmosphere of calm placidity and little seemed to be out of the ordinary. Rather than meeting as kin, they had by then recognised each other as people who had only to wait out their end. Neither would confess any of their insecurities or display any weakness.
"So," Nagisa's great-uncle said at last, "this is where you will die."
From where I was seated inside the house, I could see the slant of his side-profile facing away from me, covered in a wash of light and darkness. He was smiling quietly.
Nagisa's grandmother replied sweetly, "It is."
And then, she sighed.
"I wish I could be with you more often," he said.
"At least here you are now."
"True," he remarked, snickering.
Nagisa's grandmother turned her head, her gaze sweeping past me before stopping on her brother.
"It's good that you can finally come," she said, "truly. My health is slowly draining away. I can't get used to all this lying down and lazing about."
"Come on, cheer up. Don't say such depressing things. You've never let small sicknesses like this get you down. Really, what have you to complain about? Here, you've got a little piece of Heaven all to yourself. Look at me. My wife is dead, and I have no children. I cannot walk. I can hardly see. I am slowly getting better, that is true – but what is left of my life is completely meaningless."
I mulled over his plaintive words and imagined the sadness that must have been in his eyes. Then I turned to the girl who had come with him, sitting opposite me across the low table. She had not touched the snacks or ocha before her, and neither had she spoken a word. Rather, unbefitting of her look, she seemed uncomfortable and fidgety. I wondered what her relation was to the old man.
I asked her bluntly, "Who are you?"
"A volunteer caretaker," she answered.
Her eyes were fixed on the tatami, darting slightly to and fro. Her long, bleached blonde hair seemed sickly under the pale glow of the afternoon, with a few careless strands of black visible within. Her lenses were dark-green in colour, but her eyes were dull. Nothing about her seemed to dwell harmoniously. I felt somewhat sorry and disdainful of her.
"How much are you paid?" I asked.
"It's not like that."
"But you are paid?"
She did not reply.
"Where do you work?" I asked again.
"He stays at a tokuyou."
Her speech was halting and stiff.
"I see. How is he there?"
"He is getting by."
"Getting by?"
"Yes. He often tells me how warm and kind everyone is. And how he appreciates the friends he's made."
Her words, though encouraging, were spoken with an air of regret.
"Is he any trouble?"
"Not at all. He gets along very well."
"I see. Does he get lonely then?"
"I think we all do."
She moved her hand tentatively towards her cup and touched its surface. Then, she withdrew it into her lap.
"Go ahead. Feel free," I said, motioning a hand out to her.
"A-arigatou."
She did not move.
"Are you feeling unwell? Do you need any help at all?" I asked, breaking the silence again.
"About?"
"Anything," I said.
She smiled encouragingly to herself.
"Thanks, but it's all good. I can get by."
I felt the bile rising up my body.
Then, she seemed to gather the courage to meet my eyes at last.
"You're very kind. To care this much about a stranger… I – "
Her voice faded out towards the end.
"You too," I muttered, chuckling slightly.
I looked away.
"And you are?" she asked.
"Her daughter."
I said no more.
"Ah, it must be a difficult time."
"It is."
"What do you intend to do after this?"
"What else can I do?" I spoke, with a sudden tone of ridicule and anger.
"S-s… sumimasen."
"It's alright."
We settled again into a brooding quiet.
I returned my attention to the siblings sitting under the sun. They were talking about food, or rather complaining to each other about being unable to eat the foods they craved – each striving to make their problems and inconveniences sound bigger and more dramatic than the other's.
"They do like to complain, don't they?" I mentioned with a chuckle.
"That means they're still genki."
In a rare moment of honesty and compassion, I wanted to reach out to her, to ask her, "What will you do then after he is dead? Is there no one else around you?", or, "You never wanted to be like this, did you?", or, "Why do you stay so close to a complete stranger at his deathbed? Why are you so kind?"
"They really are," I simply said, and we thus fell silent again.
Aside from routine topics, the siblings had remarkably little more to say, but both still lingered on in each other's company. They moved about the house with Nagisa's grandmother pushing his wheelchair, indulging in whatever activity they could, reminiscing of the past. It was only until the sun was descending, when Nagisa had finally returned, that the old man finally decided it was time to go.
He had seen Nagisa at last, and with that, he said he was satisfied.
Beyond that, he did not wish to bother us.
"But you are not a bother at all, you know?" Nagisa's grandmother told him.
Still, he insisted that beyond this, he did not wish to bother us.
As he was about to leave, Nagisa's grandmother asked him, "Can't you stay the night for Obon?"
His only response was a sheepish laugh.
We walked the two down the pavement, out to a crossroads at a soft decline.
There, the siblings shared their parting lines.
"I'm sorry for all the trouble," he said.
"It's alright."
"Thank you."
"It's all fine, it's all fine."
He seemed to be apologizing and thanking her for more than just the day's inconveniences.
Then, I looked at the girl and nodded politely. She returned the gesture with a meek smile. I did my best not to look in her direction anymore.
"And, Tomoe-san," the old man looked at me and smiled. "Thank you too for all the help you've given us."
"Doumo."
His words of appreciation only made me feel guilty. I was again reminded how much of a disappointment I was.
I hugged Nagisa tightly in front of me. Nagisa, in turn, grasped my hands in hers. Her hands were warm.
But something inside me seemed to beckon me to shake her loose. I felt a shiver run down my spine, and my heart began to pump for a moment.
"How will you both be going back?" Nagisa's grandmother asked.
"By train."
"Have you bought the tickets?"
"We've already booked our seats."
"I see. Take care then."
The two walked slowly towards the station.
We waved goodbye until they disappeared into a bend.
Then, Nagisa's grandmother drew a breath, as if she had at last let down an old and heavy burden in her heart. And with a smile, she headed back home. Nagisa and I followed behind her.
"You know, Tomoe-san," she said over dinner, "they say young people are full of dreams. But I've come to think that is a mistake. Young people don't know where they want to go. The trouble about young people, you see, is that they are quick to hope and hope too much. It is something like their addiction. People nowadays are too optimistic for their own good. They cannot see that they are not so much chasing their dreams as they are running away from nightmares. They have too much time but nowhere to run and hide. The elderly, on the other hand, have lived a full and long life. They have many dreams. Wasted dreams, dreams of youth, plans for the future. But they have no more time. It's ironic, don't you think? We only see how precious things are as we are about to lose them."
I nodded.
"If I could," she said, "I want to live a little longer."
I told her it would be good if she could.
At night, I could not fall asleep. The town was uncomfortably quiet. Holding Nagisa in my arms, I caught myself listening again to the lingering sounds of work drifting from the festival venue. They were at their faintest since the start of the week. Everyone had gone off to rest for tomorrow.
"Tomorrow," I said to myself, "tomorrow."
As I looked up at the cobalt sky and the waning moon covered in clouds, I thought back to the girl who had come and gone so swiftly.
"What will happen to her?" I asked myself.
Then, remembering the old man, I wondered, "What will happen to him?"
I could come to no answer. The deeper I searched for one, as though it were a light at the end of the tunnel, the greater I felt my heart sinking into cold darkness.
