Setsu at twenty-two stood before you on a late January morning in 1891, the 24th year of Meiji, because Father had passed away, five years ago. The textile mill departed with him, leaving unpaid debtors behind to mourn. A year before Father’s death, First Brother had abandoned the physical house of Koizumi, and Second Brother left it for the family tomb. Third Brother now spent his days catching and releasing birds, keeping the favored ones in cages not nearly as well crafted as your “birdcage,” Yakumo. Youngest Brother at fourteen was still a boy because Mother doted on him, an overgrown songbird. Married long ago, Elder Sister was a member of another house, as was a daughter’s fate. Mother would rather waste away than beg on the Ōhashi Bridge, its iron pillars reaching up from the river’s depth, its wooden span painted a bright coat of white, the modern incarnation of a previous bridge that had served Matsue well for three hundred years.

Do you remember why the former bridge had endured, Yakumo, despite the strong currents and the frequent storms? It was the first story of old Matsue that I would tell you. Your fellow teachers were too ashamed to share such lore with you. Too Japanese, they thought.

A young man was buried alive in one of the bridge’s middle pillars. He had disobeyed an edict from the daimyō about the proper attire required of all men who wanted to cross the bridge on its opening day. A single human sacrifice, Yakumo, had kept the whole structure strong.

It was for the best, I know.

If I had recited that litany of misfortune, you would have placed some coins into the hands of Tsune and waved us both away.

Prior to the introduction, Tsune had explained to me what to expect. She called you the “New Foreign Teacher,” as if I did not know your name from the newspapers. She said that you had stayed at the Tomitaya, her family’s inn, upon your arrival in Matsue. You were very content there, she boasted. You moved into the merchant Orihara’s garden pavilion two months ago, but you kept an arrangement with her that brought two of the inn’s young maids, Onobu and Oman, to the pavilion four times a day. They delivered your meals, heated the water for your morning and nightly use, and performed all the household chores. The tip of Tsune’s tongue touched the corners of her mouth, as if she had eaten something salty, which told me that she was profiting handsomely from the arrangement. How much will she receive for this one, I wanted to know.