THE ONE WITH THE PALE RED FACE RECOVERED from her illness. She was no longer lying down in the classroom either. I had grown three centimeters taller—I was now about the same height as both of the tengu. I had the feeling that time was passing by so quickly, faster than it had last year. When I told my mother this, she laughed off my concern. “For me, a year goes by in the blink of an eye!”

Every so often, Yuko and I ended up together on the way home from abacus school. Whenever we parted ways, Yuko would always direct a “goodbye” to the space behind me. She did it even when neither of the tengu were there, but I didn’t tell her that.

There was something very kind about Yuko’s “goodbye.” I wondered if my voice would ever sound as kind as that. If it did, would the tengu touch me, and would the spot where they touched sparkle? And if my voice ever did sound like that, would the tengu still be following me? This is what I always thought about while I watched Yuko’s retreating figure disappear around a corner.

“SO DOES YOUR VOICE EVER SOUND LIKE that, Tsukiko?” Sensei asked. He was still lying there, faceup.

“Not at all. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not at all, that’s for sure.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.”

Sensei and I gazed up at the ceiling for a while. The grain of the wood resembled various animals. A dog. A snake. A tiger. A squirrel.

“Ah, look, there’s a tengu.” Sensei said, pointing at the ceiling. I stared at the spot where Sensei had pointed, and indeed, a pattern in the shape of a tengu began to emerge.

“HOW LONG DID THE TENGU STAY?” SENSEI asked quietly.

“That’s a secret.”

I see, Sensei murmured with a laugh. The buzzing of the cicadas had grown louder again. The breeze swept in, carrying the evening air with it. Stories from long ago are quite good, aren’t they? Sensei said. I’m the one who told the story, I boasted. But I was the one who asked you to tell the story. Sensei laughed again. The warmth I had felt on Sensei’s palm swelled all around him—I could sense it even without touching him. Sensei would just always be so . . . Sensei. I laughed too, as I stared up at the tengu on the ceiling. In the distance, the evening cicadas had begun to sing.

AFTERWORD

Sometimes I think about stories that have ended.

As the author of these stories, I have created so many different episodes and emotions. In the moment, when I am writing them down, these people and events become just as real to me as anything else that exists in the world.

However, once I have finished writing, all those real things that “existed” for me become part of the past—a memory—just like what happens to things in the present, within everyday real life.