Shoji sat down on the sofa facing the view. He narrowed his eyes, blurring the lights into each other. In the distance, he heard Eri opening the fridge and cracking some ice cubes. The ice clanked against the glass, followed by a gassy sound of soda and a low thud when the fridge was closed.

Eri returned with two glasses of Coke and sat next to him. ‘Tell me which beer you prefer. I’ll stock up next time.’

‘Asahi Super Dry.’ Shoji took a gulp to ease his thirst, but the bubbles irritated his throat and made him cough.

She passed him a box of tissues. ‘You should let the fizz settle first.’

He glanced around the room, clearing his throat. A framed photograph was displayed on top of a cabinet. A man, a woman, and a little girl holding a red balloon. But on a closer inspection, it wasn’t a balloon but a circular traffic sign. The man was Eri’s father when he was young. The woman had the same dimpled smile as Eri. She had to be her mother. He remembered what her father had told him about the accident.

Shoji stared at Eri, who was still holding the tissue box. She had come a long way since then, comfortably settled in a well-paid job that allowed her to rent such a nice apartment. But he wondered if the scar from that incident had healed.

He looked at the photograph again. Eri’s old man was a serious-looking guy, but in this picture, he was laughing heartily. He wore a straw hat and held a fishing rod.

‘Are you an only child?’ Shoji asked.

Eri nodded. ‘Just like you.’

‘How did you know?’

She crossed her legs. ‘Everyone in our hometown knows your parents. Your father was in the military, wasn’t he? And your mother came from a distinguished koto-playing family.’

Her words transported him back to Fukuoka. He remembered growing up listening to the sound of his mother’s koto. The notes she played were tender and calming, just like her. Always kind, always patient, always understanding.

But his mother had stopped playing koto a long time ago and he could no longer picture her with the instrument. When he thought of his mother, he saw a perfect model of a dutiful housewife, cooking delicious meals in the kitchen, tidying up the house, and tending to the garden. She was the mistress of the Arai household, no longer the prodigy koto player she had once been. All that was left was a faint recollection of those beautiful notes, vibrating softly inside him on quiet nights.

‘My father has long retired,’ Shoji said, ‘and my mother stopped playing koto years ago.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Eri said. ‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure. It feels like something I shouldn’t ask. Probably hurt her finger or something.’