That feeling of security, that sweetness, that pain, that gentleness. I felt sure that every time I saw the green of the trees in my garden awash in light from the street, I'd be struck by a sudden flicker of remembrance—the tail of that soft melody—and I'd chase along behind it, as if sniffing my way forward in pursuit of a pleasant scent.

And then I'd stop wanting to remember, and I'd forget.

Walking with Mizuo's hand on my shoulder, I realized this.

Asleep

When did I start sleeping so much whenever I was alone?

Sleep would rush over me like an incoming tide. There was nothing I could do to resist it. And this sleep was infinitely deep, so deep that neither the ringing of the phone nor the rumble of the cars driving by outside found their way to my ears. I didn't feel any sort of pain; I wasn't even particularly lonely. Nothing existed but the free-falling world of sleep.

I'd feel a little lonely when I woke, but only for a moment. I'd look up at the overcast sky and realize just how much time had passed since I'd fallen asleep. I wasn't even planning to sleep, I'd think vaguely to myself, and now I've gone and wasted the entire day. Suddenly the heavy regret I felt, a regret that was almost shame, would be pierced by a cold blade of fear.

When exactly did I give myself over to sleep? When did I stop resisting . . . ? I used to be so lively, I was always wide awake—but when was that? So long ago it felt like ancient times. Like scenes out of the most distant past, panoramas of ferns and dinosaurs that spring roughly to the eye, vividly colored, my memories of that time always appeared to me as images shrouded in mist.

* * *

But even while I slept, even then I could tell when my boyfriend called.

The telephone sounded completely different when it was Mr. Iwanaga. For some reason I could just tell it was him. Every other sound came to me from far away, but when he called, the ringing of the phone reverberated deliciously inside my head, the way music does when you listen to it through headphones. So I'd go and pick up the receiver, and that voice of his—a voice so deep it always startled me—would say my name.

“Terako?”

Yes, I'd reply in a tone so empty he'd chuckle.

And he'd say what he always said.

“Perhaps you were sleeping?”

He generally spoke more casually, so I loved to hear him say that, really loved it, those polite words coming out of the blue. Every time he said them I'd feel like the world had snapped shut. I went blind, as if some curtain had dropped. I savored the echoes of his voice for what seemed like an eternity.

Then at last I'd be completely awake.

“Yes, I was asleep.”

Last time he called it was evening, and it was raining. The roar of the downpour and the leaden tone of that heavy sky had put a pall over the entire town. Just then, in the midst of all that, it occurred to me how extremely important his phone call was. I realized that nothing but that single line connected me to the outside world.