Kazuo and Iwao were at the table for their morning meal, waiting to see whether Papa would join them that day. Foster Mother encouraged them to begin without you, and they did, taking heart in her suggestion that, perhaps, Papa will join them tomorrow. Kazuo then came to the writing room to wish you “Good morning, Papa,” before he and Iwao headed to school.

“Pleasant dreams. The same to you,” you replied and kissed Kazuo on both cheeks, as if he were Suzuko or me. He pulled away from such an open show of affection, and he looked over at me to explain your words and your action. I had nothing to offer him, except to signal with the eyes that it was time for him to go.

You spent the day in your writing room, looking out at the garden. The cherry blossoms had dropped their petals overnight, transforming a small patch of Ōkubo into a silver world. You asked me to walk with you out to the West Indies.

“Tomorrow, Husband,” I replied.

“Yes, tomorrow,” you agreed. “It is too cold today, Sweet Wife.”

It was not, Yakumo. I shivered all the same.

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.