From the night of the summer festival, the season faintly crossed three more.
In September, Sakurai and I walked together down the avenue of ginkgo trees on campus. At the foot of the trees, a yellow carpet was laid down one layer at a time, and when we stepped on it, it gave back a low sound. She talked about how she was dividing her senior thesis into chapters. Her voice had the same firmness it had when we met at the library. In the wind, she tucked her hair behind her ear, just once.
On a night at the end of October, we met in front of the research building. Sakurai took a bundle of navy yarn out of a paper bag.
"I tried knitting this. Just to see," she said briefly, and held it out toward me. The scarf still smelled a little of knitting yarn. Since winter came, I have worn it around my neck almost every day.
On a morning in November, the day of the first snow, I ran into her by chance in front of the library. With a thin powdering of frost still resting on the shoulders of her coat, Sakurai said only, "I saw the first snow." I answered, "I saw it." No more words were needed.
On a weekday afternoon at the end of November, I went alone to the shrine the two of us had stopped at on the night of the summer festival. I had waited for the day the shrine office, which opened only a few times a year, would be open. Among the omamori charms lined up in its small window, there was only one with a design of navy cord on white. It was the same design as the charm at the base of the stone lantern that Sakurai had pointed out with her finger that night. I bought one, had it put in a paper bag, took it home, and put it away in the top drawer of my desk.
At noon on December 23, I sent Sakurai a message.
"Let's meet tomorrow at five, at the intersection in front of the station."
A reply came right away.
"I'm looking forward to the restaurant you booked."
After a short pause, another followed.
"If you'd like, would you come over to my place tonight, just for a little while? Before tomorrow."
"I'll come," I replied.
At the convenience store in front of the station, I bought two warm cans of tea. I remembered choosing the same two in front of the same shelf on the night of the summer festival.
A four-story building the color of brick, along the canal. The nameplate beside the door at the very end of the third floor read only
Sakurai,
and nothing more. When I pressed the bell, a low chime sounded twice.
"Come in."
"Thank you for having me."
Sakurai was wearing a thin knit sweater for around the house, and thick socks on her feet. The low sound of a heater in the room leaked out in a single thread through the gap in the door.
"You must have been cold."
"No. On the way, I got some tea," I said, and held out the two cans. Sakurai took them with both hands.
"They're warm," she said, bringing one close to her cheek, and then hurriedly returned the other to my side.
The lower half of the window glass was faintly fogged, and two streaks of condensation had drawn vertical paths of droplets down it.
The meal was simple. A small single-serving hot pot carried in from the kitchen. Napa cabbage and chrysanthemum greens, and thinly sliced pork. The movement of her fingers as she lifted the lid was at the same angle as when she handled books in the library. She took the vegetables first and quietly set them on my small plate.
"Please, before it gets cold."
"Thank you. I will."
On the end of a small shelf in the kitchen sat a small white box. Its lid was closed. Still steadying the lid of the pot with one hand, Sakurai stroked the corner of the white box once with the fingertips of the other. She stroked it the way you might without noticing you had. One each month—I did not count.
After the meal, she made tea. On the two-seat sofa, she sat on the right and I sat on the left. The same order as on the shrine bench.
Sakurai set a book on her lap. It was cloth-bound, just slightly larger than a paperback. The deep blue cover was fading to gray from the corners, and the gold leaf on the spine had almost all worn away, so the title was hard to make out.
"That's quite an old book."
"Yes. It was a book my grandmother treasured."
"When I was in middle school, she gave it to me. She said it was one she was fond of."
Sakurai stroked the corner of the cover once with the pad of her finger.
"It's an old story, from abroad. About a musician who lost his wife. He goes down into the underworld to bring her back."
"He's forbidden to look at his wife's face in the underworld, but at the very last moment, he looks."
There, Sakurai broke off.
"...I'm sorry. I've told you the plot."
"Not at all. It sounds interesting. I'd like to read it."
Sakurai gave a small nod and gently held the book out toward me.
"If you like, please take it home and read it."
"...Are you sure? Something that precious?"
"Yes. You can give it back whenever."
Her voice was level.
I took it with both hands and opened the cover on my lap. The paper was slightly browned, and the smell of ink and old glue rose to my fingertips. Sakurai leaned her head against the back of the sofa, her hands wrapped around a steaming teacup.
When I had read for a while, a voice came softly from beside me.
"Say, Seto."
My hand, about to close the book, stopped.
"Since when have you liked me?"
"...Where should I, begin answering from?"
"From the very first part. Do you really remember?"
Behind my eyes, I checked the top shelf of that bookcase in the library, just once.
"That time, in the library, there was a cherry petal on my shoulder,"
"and you picked it off with your fingers and handed it to me. That evening."
Sakurai was quiet for a moment, then laughed, her voice pitched a little higher than usual.
"Heh. You really do remember."
"I was sure you'd say the night our hands touched at the shelf."
"...That was, well, a little later, I think."
"You haven't got the order wrong."
"The cherry petal came first."
I turned the book face down on my lap and looked over at Sakurai.
"I'm glad you're someone who really remembers, Seto."
She set it down lightly. Her eyes drifted once toward the window.
Beyond the steam of her tea, Sakurai gave a short laugh.
"Please don't be late tomorrow."
"I'll be waiting, at five."
After that, the conversation was turned back toward the book. Sakurai set her teacup on the low table and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. I opened the book on my lap again and followed a few lines from where my finger had kept my place. Before long, the breathing beside me settled into calm.
Her weight tilted toward me little by little, and Sakurai's head touched my shoulder. It was lighter than I had thought. In the hollow of my shoulder bone, the weight of her head fit exactly, just one head's worth. The smell of yarn that had lingered at my neck had, at some point, been replaced by the smell of her hair. The same shampoo as that rainy day stayed close, and this time it did not move away.
I tried not to move. I made my breathing shallow. Even the slight rise and fall of my chest seemed as though it might wake the weight on my shoulder, so I breathed out at half my usual pace. I gently drew up the gray lap blanket, only as far as I could reach, and laid it over her knees. I kept my fingers from touching her. I closed the book and set it on top of my bag. Only three things remained in the room: the low hum of the heater, the breathing beside me, and my own. The clock was ticking farther away than usual.
After a while, she opened her eyes.
"Oh. I'm sorry, I dozed off."
"It's all right."
"I've already got everything ready for tomorrow," she said, sitting up and tucking her hair behind her ear.
At the entrance, I put on my shoes and settled my bag on my shoulder again. A corner of the cloth-bound book peeked out a little from the mouth of the bag.
I wrapped the scarf around me again. The navy yarn made two light folds at the front of my neck.
"Tomorrow, at five, at the intersection."
"Okay. See you tomorrow, then."
"Okay. Tomorrow."
Inside the door, Sakurai leaned half a step toward me, and stopped. At the last inch of the gap as the door closed, her fingers held the edge of the door once. The sound of it closing came that much later.
Once I was out on the road along the canal, I stopped and looked up at the window at the very end of the third floor. I thought a faint shadow swayed once behind the curtain.
Back in my room, I turned on only the desk lamp. I set the book she had lent me on the desk.
Outside the window, the faint rustle of the street trees' leaves brushed once across the night and was gone.