Before he could move, his father came to him. He shoved him to the ground. He took a wooden rod and hit the boy over and over. From the corner of his eyes, the boy saw his mother, standing still at the corner. His gentle, beautiful mother. Tears flowed down her face and her trembling hands were clasped in front of her chest.

I’m okay, he wanted to say, but no sound came out.

The man yanked the boy and dragged him into the shed. The man shouted something. He was asking a question. The boy shook his head. The man shouted again, but the boy shook his head once more. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know what had happened. The man shoved the boy and the child landed in the corner.

‘Stay there until you remember what you’ve done,’ the man said, this time his voice audible. He slammed the door and secured it with a lock.

The boy shivered and cried. No, he wouldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember.

And then something flashed into his mind. A red dot?

No. It was a red balloon.

Finally, he remembered.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

The sun was at its peak as the boy rinsed laundry alone in the backyard. Despite being under the shelter, Shoji was melting in the heat. Sweat tickled his face as he dipped his hands into the giant plastic bucket. He wiped the sweat off with the sleeve of the old T-shirt he was wearing.

‘Brother Shoji,’ a small voice called. A toddler, walking unsteadily, came towards him. He held a red balloon in his hand. ‘What are you doing?’

Shoji looked at his young cousin. ‘Washing the laundry. Mrs Sakamoto is away visiting her family, so I need to help out with the housework. Where is your father?’

‘My father is talking to your father.’ The little boy peered into the bucket. ‘Is it difficult?’

‘Not really, but it’s tiring.’ Shoji stared at the balloon. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘The white-gloved man.’

Shoji frowned. ‘Who?’

‘A man who wears white gloves. He said today is a special day.’

‘Oh …’ What was so special about it? Perhaps the man had said that to make his cousin happy. Ichirou, with his chubby cheeks, looked adorable in his denim dungarees. But white gloves? How odd. Why would anyone wear a pair of gloves in such hot weather? Perhaps he was a taxi driver.

The summer breeze carried over the sound of a string instrument. Each note had a high degree of precision. The composition was simple, yet captivating.

Entranced, Shoji stood. He left his chore unfinished and walked towards the house. His mother was sitting behind her seventeen-string koto, wearing a green kimono. They exchanged smiles.