Evening.
Sawako had her color back completely and was helping me tidy the living room.
Old photo albums and the kitchen smock Tomi used to wear kept turning up from the back of the shelves. Each time, Sawako would say, "Oh, this," and narrow her eyes fondly.
"Amane. It's the equinox week, so why don't we make some ohagi? Mom was good at them."
"Sounds nice. I happen to have azuki beans on hand."
We stood side by side in the kitchen and cooked the beans. They simmered and simmered. Sweet steam filled the kitchen.
We cooked the sweet rice, pounded it lightly, rolled it into balls. Wrapped them in the bean paste. Our fingertips turned a faint red.
Lumpy ohagi lined up one after another in the bamboo strainer.
"Mom's were much neater," Sawako said with a laugh.
"But these are nice in their own way, aren't they? You can see the marks of the hands."
That was when it happened.
Sawako suddenly stopped and looked at me.
"Say, Amane. The things Mom left you—did you open all of them? Properly?"
I stopped rolling the ohagi.
"The letter. I read the letter, the one she left as her will."
"Yes, I heard about that. ...But was that all?"
Her eyes grew a little more serious.
"Before she passed, Mom said, 'There's still something I haven't given Amane.' Something separate from the letter. I don't know what it is, either."
Somewhere deep in my chest, something gave a small knock.
The box of her belongings. The box I'd been too afraid to open for half a year, tucked away at the back of the closet.
I'd read the letter. I'd made up my mind. I'd thought that was everything.
But had I really looked properly at the bottom of that box?
"...Nothing comes to mind, though."
"I see. Then never mind. Whenever you feel like it, open it up once and take a proper look."
She said nothing more. She just picked up one of the ohagi with her bean-paste-covered fingers and held it out to me.
"Here. Taste test."
When I put it in my mouth, the sweetness slowly spread across my tongue.
The daughter carrying on her mother's flavor. And me, receiving the daughter's flavor like this.
There really were things that carried on, one to the next.
That night.
While the residents back from work cheered over the ohagi in the strainer, I stood in front of the closet in the manager's room.
The box was at the back.
I thought about opening it. But in the end, my hand never reached for it.
I wondered why. The night I'd read the letter, I had thought there was nothing left to be afraid of.
There was still something at the bottom of the box. The moment I knew that, I felt as if I'd slipped back a little into the person I'd been back then—the one six months ago who'd been too terrified to open it.
"...Tomorrow, then."
I murmured it to no one in particular and quietly slid the closet door shut.
From the living room came the laughter of Sawako and the residents.
Listening to those warm voices, I glanced back just once more at the darkness behind the sliding door.
At Obon, this house always grows a little quieter than usual. Because the people who have somewhere to go home go home.
Mid-August.
The habit of writing your plans on the living room chalkboard had taken firm root. In this house, where nobody could text "On my way home" or "I'll be eating dinner," the residents chalked up their plans. It was Nightlight's message book.
Two names were lined up on that chalkboard.
Nanase: Visiting my family (13th–16th)
Odagiri: Going home (until the 17th)
Mahiru and Yume. For several days now, the two of them had been restlessly packing.
"Mr. Manager, I'll bring you back a souvenir! My hometown is famous for its sweet buns."
Mahiru said it happily at the front door, hugging a big duffel bag. She seemed to be looking forward to seeing the dog at her family's house more than anything.
"Be careful. Give my regards to your family."
"I will!"
Yume, for her part, was grumbling at the door.
"It's not like I want to go home or anything. My parents just keep nagging me to show my face."
I pretended not to notice that the bag of souvenirs she was hugging as she said it was the biggest of all.
Once I'd seen the two of them off, the entryway went silent.
That left Rei, Ms. Makabe, and me.
Rei had said she'd be working through Obon.
"There's no such concept as an Obon holiday at an ad agency. As long as the clients are moving, so are we."
With that, she'd left first thing in the morning.
Ms. Makabe was still wrestling with deadlines as always and hardly came out of her room.
"I don't have a family home to go back to."
I remembered her saying that once, quietly, while drinking water in the kitchen. I didn't ask what she meant. It was probably the kind of thing she didn't want asked about.
Those with somewhere to go home, and those without. The Obon season divides them, whether anyone likes it or not.
In the empty living room, steam from the boiling somen noodles drifted up. That night, the half-empty dinner table would come surprisingly close and quietly touch my past—but at the time, I hadn't the faintest idea.