Tesshi’s been pushing his bike along after us, off in his own world, and he irritably cuts into the conversation.

“Geez, y’all!”

“What?” we ask crossly, and Tesshi gives a creepy grin.

“Forget about all that stuff. Wanna stop at the café?”

“Huh…?”

“Wha…?”

“Wha…?!”

“A café?!” we chorus in perfect unison.

A metallic kachonk! melts into the calls of the evening cicadas. “Here.” Tesshi holds out the cans of juice from the vending machine. With a motorized whine, an old man riding his electric scooter home from the fields crosses in front of us, and a passing stray dog sits down and yawns as if to say, Yeah, why not? I’ll keep you company.

The “café” wasn’t exactly what springs to mind. It wasn’t Starbucks or Tully’s or one of those fantastic, fabled spaces that serves pancakes and bagels and gelato. It was just a neighborhood bus stop out in the middle of nowhere with a vending machine and a bench with an ice-cream sign from about thirty years ago plastered to it. The three of us sit side by side on the bench, sipping our juice, while the dog rests at our feet. We don’t feel like Tesshi tricked us. It’s more like, Well, sure. What else would it be?

“Okay, I’m headin’ home.”

I bid my farewells to the two of them after participating in an exchange I could not have cared less about—“I think it’s about a degree cooler than it was yesterday.” “No, I think it’s a degree warmer”—that lasted as long as it took to finish a can of juice.

“Good luck tonight,” says Saya.

“We’ll come by and watch later,” promises Tesshi.

“You seriously don’t have to! Actually, don’t you dare!” I warn them, but inside, I’m sending a prayer in their direction. Do your best to turn into an actual couple, you two! After climbing the stone steps for a while, I turn back, looking at the pair of them as they sit on the bench with the sunset-colored lake in the background, and I softly layer a lyrical piano melody over the scene. Mm-hmm, y’all really do look good together. Tonight, I must perform my awful duty, but I hope you can enjoy your youth.

“Awww, I wanna do it, too,” Yotsuha grumbles.

“It’s too soon for you yet, Yotsuha,” hushes Gran.

The constant click of spherical weights knocking together echoes in a workroom big enough for only about eight tatami mats. “Listen to the voice of the thread,” Gran tells her. Even as she speaks, her hands don’t pause in their work. “If you keep windin’ threads that way, before long, emotions will start runnin’ between you and the thread.”

“Huh? But thread doesn’t talk.”

“Our braided cords—,” Gran continues, ignoring Yotsuha’s objection. All three of us are wearing kimonos, and we’re finishing up the cords that we’ll use in tonight’s ceremony.

Braided cords are made of thin threads plaited together into a single rope. It’s a traditional folk art that’s been handed down for a very long time. The finished cords are cute and colorful, with all sorts of designs braided into them. That said, the work takes quite a bit of skill, so Gran’s making Yotsuha’s for her. Yotsuha’s spending the time doing assistant work, winding thread around the ball-weights.