One morning in mid-December, I arrived at the hospital an hour earlier than usual.
The night before, I had called his mother. I told her only that there was something I wished to discuss with her. She didn't ask why. She said she would let the doctor know as well.
His mother was standing in the first-floor lobby, beside a potted plant. The light from outside lay thinly on the shoulders of her gray coat. When she saw me, she gave a small nod. I bowed my head too.
The consultation room was at the far end of the second floor. White walls, one desk, four chairs. Through the east-facing window, the low light of a December morning reached straight across the desk. In the middle sat three paper cups. Steam was still rising from them.
Toru's doctor came in after us. Refastening the front buttons of his white coat, he gave a slight bow, sat down, and folded his hands on his knees.
"Mrs. Seto. Doctor. Would it be all right if I took Toru out, for just one day?"
His mother's eyes widened. The doctor looked down at his papers.
"There are a few places he used to go often. On Christmas Eve, I'd like to retrace them with him, just once. One day, in a wheelchair. I won't push him too hard."
Silence settled over the desk. Deep in my ears, my own heartbeat sounded once, distinctly. The doctor was the first to move. He set his pen down on the papers.
"His physical condition is stable. An outing of a day or so shouldn't be a problem. But use a medical wheelchair. And bring thick blankets."
"Thank you. For getting around, I'll arrange a wheelchair-accessible taxi."
His mother nodded. "All right. My husband and I will come along as well," she began.
I looked at her. She looked back at me.
"Mrs. Seto. I'm very sorry, but I'd like to retrace them with him, just the two of us."
His mother held her breath.
I didn't look away. If I looked away, it would be over. For a long time, she looked at my face. Beneath the palm resting at her collar, the pulse in her neck moved at a steady pace. The steam was thinning, little by little.
"Ms. Sakurai," his mother began slowly.
"I can take it that this outing will lead somewhere good, can't I?"
"Yes."
My own voice sounded terribly small. Even so, I didn't look away.
His mother lowered her eyes once. Her gaze came to rest on the rim of a paper cup. She shifted her grip on the hem of her coat, and the fabric at her collar made a faint sound. Slowly she raised her face, and gave a small nod.
"All right. I'll leave it to you, Ms. Sakurai. Please take care of my son."
I bowed until my forehead nearly touched the desk. Halfway to raising my head, I turned my eyes back toward her once more.
"There's one more thing I'd like to ask of you."
My voice was a little hoarse.
"A year ago, in the autumn, I knitted Toru a navy-blue scarf. If it's still somewhere, in a drawer at your home or anywhere at all, would you be able to bring it on the day? I'd like to wrap it around his neck."
His mother looked at my face for several seconds, then gave a small nod.
"I'll look for it. I believe it was put away in the bottom drawer of his desk."
"Thank you."
I bowed again. "I'll give you the forms for the leave request. Once you've settled on a date, please let the nurses know," the doctor said in a low voice, and he filled in the date and his name on the form.
When I raised my head, the steam was no longer rising. On the surface of the tea no one had touched, a thin film was beginning to form. The low light of the December morning fell across the tea on the desk.