I cleared the desk. I put the bundle of letter paper in the drawer, my grandmother's letter behind it, and my grandmother's old charm pouch farther back still, each one put away neatly. Only my grandmother's book I left on the desk. When I rested both hands on the edges of its cover, the feel of the cloth's fibers passed into my palms. My grandmother had rested both hands here too. Toru had rested both hands here too. And now I was resting both hands here. Three generations of hands overlapped on the same cloth.
I boiled water in the kitchen and made tea. When I set the teacup on the desk, its base met the desktop with a low sound. The steam rose slowly, and the outline of the book wavered faintly. Its position, the way it had faded—neither was any different from what I had seen on the desk two months ago. Toru did not open his eyes. My grandmother was gone. I would tell no one.
With both hands resting against the rim of the teacup, I watched the steam for a while. Its outline changed shape two or so times, then bent low and vanished. The cup's warmth passed faintly into my fingertips. Then I turned my eyes back—not to the warmth, but to the outline of the book.
I nodded once.
That was all.