You joined us at the evening meal, your first with the children since Dr. Kizawa’s visit. You pushed away your supper, uneaten, and asked for a small glass of whiskey instead. “With water, if you must, Sweet Wife,” you said. You laughed, like a boy of ten and not a man of fifty-four, at Kazuo’s stories about his classmates and their efforts to learn the game of cricket. Iwao wanted to entertain you too, but his story got him a mild scolding instead, as it was about his teacher who had mocked a student for stuttering. “A monster!” you cursed Iwao’s teacher. Kiyoshi climbed onto your lap, like an overgrown house cat. Suzuko contributed to the conversation by repeating her first and most favored word, until foster Mother hastened her away.

“Pleasant dreams, Papa,” the boys said to you, as I helped you to your feet.

You wanted an hour alone in your writing room, before you turned in for the night. “I want to write a letter,” you explained.

“But I am right here, Husband,” I teased.

“You are, Sweet Wife, you are,” you replied, smiling.

Yakumo, when I returned to check on your progress, you were slumped over your high desk. The piece of paper in front of you was blank, not yet touched by the nib of your pen. “The sickness is back,” you whispered, your face an apology.

Upon arriving at the house of Koizumi, Dr. Kizawa had nothing to listen to. Your heart had joined your spirit, Yakumo.

Your body became ash and bones, and their destination was Zōshigaya Cemetery, which will be mine as well. We will call that village of the dead the last shared country. We will wait there for many years, if the gods are merciful, before the children will join us, one by one.

Until then, Yakumo, your memory lives with me here in this Ōkubo house.

I have kept all of your letters, even that final pristine sheet. I tell myself that I was its intended recipient, that “Setsu” was the name on the tip of your pen. I will lock the letters away until there is no one left who is fluent in Herun-san’s language, until what is lost will render your words and mine immune to judgment and ridicule. How many generations will it take, Yakumo?

The pages of this second telling will keep your letters company. I must learn from your example, Yakumo. What was once fact—because you alone claimed it to be—can lose its lacquer, chip and blister over time. What was once opinion—or the echo of the prevailing winds—can take on the weight of conviction. What was a matter of taste can reveal a lifetime of foibles and faults. What was a term of affection can disclose a failing of character. What was love can be read as mere proximity.