I woke up. Six-twelve.
I sat up and lowered my feet from the bed. On the wooden floor, a pair of cloth slippers sat neatly side by side. When I slid my toes into them, the sole of the left one had worn thin first, leaving a slight step toward the heel.
I went down the hall and stood at the washbasin, washed my face in front of the mirror, turned off the water, and dried it with a towel.
I drew open the living room curtains. The sky was clear. At the very top of the sky, a single thin film seemed to have come down.
The wall of the building across the way, the railings, the laundry poles on the balconies. They were where they had been yesterday.
In the kitchen I filled the kettle and lit the burner, and from somewhere near the bottom a small metallic ringing rose up. I opened the tin of tea leaves, measured them out with a spoon, and put them in the teapot. When I poured in the hot water and closed the lid, the rim of the porcelain set down a single thin sound.
I counted to ten before pouring it into a cup, and took a sip through the steam. On my tongue the sharp edge of the heat came loose, and went on down my throat.
At the front door I put on my shoes. I tied my hair back. I put my wallet and a handkerchief in my bag. I closed the door and turned the key.
I went out through the entrance. The cherry trees along the street were finished. A single petal was stuck to a seam in the sidewalk. I stepped on it as I walked.
Seven minutes to the station. Through the ticket gate, up to the platform. A train came. I got on. I got off at the third stop. Out the south exit, then left. Up the hill. A convenience store, a crosswalk, a gate I recognized. I passed them one by one.
Partway up the hill my stride shortened once, and my breaths grew longer. The young leaves of the roadside trees swayed above my head.
The library's automatic doors opened. The air in the lobby was quiet. The damp paper smell of old books, and the faint chemical smell of floor wax. The quiet of a morning with few people about. Perhaps because it fell during class hours, there were only a scattered few.
At the end of the reading tables, a student sat with an elbow resting on an open book. The dry sound of turning pages rose at regular intervals. I passed the new periodicals shelf, the low shelves lined with dictionaries, the corner of the reference section. I didn't stop anywhere; I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead on the stacks at the back.
I went through the lobby and walked toward the stacks at the back.