A Blue Seaside House

A House by the Sea

The missive had arrived three days earlier. For all three, Tsuru had said nothing. “This can only be bad,” she whispered at last, her breath barely stirring the air between them.

“I must go.” Seiichi’s jaw tightened. “There is no choice.”

Tsuru pressed her hair against his neck and drew herself closer, as if proximity alone might delay what was coming.

“You will come to Shuri,” Seiichi said. The two sat in silence for a while longer.

At first light, they boarded a working boat with a short mast and square sail. Tsuru had only the means to hire two oarsmen, and though it was a clear violation of ceremonial norms, he took the tiller himself. In his youth, he had worked on fishing vessels. The salt spray reminded him of what he would later call his carefree days. The weather cooperated. The sea was calm. Tsuru found the dull, rhythmic thud of chop against hull calming. She reclined, comfortable despite the heavy stink of tar and fish. Seiichi stood unmoving, a black silhouette cut against the cloudless sky. To pass the time, she counted the stones of prayer sites, white in the sunlight, on headlands that broke through the jungle green.

The wharf near Shuri was unassuming. Wooden hulls of working craft like their own brushed lazily against the pylons of the dock, creating a constant low moaning. The only sign of the wharf’s importance was a deep-bellied tribute ship, its hull marked with the court emblem. Tsuru was impressed by Seiichi’s skill as he maneuvered alongside the dock, barking orders at the oarsmen with practiced ease. Above them, a vermilion roofline, its sweeping curves and painted beams echoing styles imported long ago from the Middle Kingdom, lifted above a green ridge. Seiichi and the oarsmen straightened their colorful robes, long and loose garments cut in the Ryukyuan style. Tsuru followed their lead. A short walk uphill followed. Their procession struck Tsuru as humble and distinctly informal, which compounded her unease. This was not how heroes were received; this was how servants were summoned.

At a small shrine midway up the hill, where a dragon’s head spouted water into a small pool, they rinsed their hands and mouths. Again, they straightened their robes, though travel had already taken its toll. Tsuru tried her best to push her deep embarrassment from her mind. A small host waited near the gates. Their appearance was similarly haggard, and that comforted Tsuru a bit. Yet the men greeted them with militant formality, and she watched as Seiichi surrendered his side blade. One of the oarsmen carried a spear, which was also surrendered. They were met, just before a sequence of vermilion gates, by a short man with piercing eyes, unmistakably an administrator.

“Uezu Seiichi-dono and Uezu-dono no o-tai?” He asked.

Seiichi said a few words, and the man motioned for them to follow. Seiichi stopped several times as they passed through the gates to admire their craftsmanship. Though usually a restrained and quiet man, on this occasion, Seiichi seemed inflated, larger than life. Tsuru thought he must be trying to feign politeness, but the administrator seemed to care very little. He led them to a small office outside the main court building where several attendants waited. They immediately set to work on Seiichi. He was fit with an ornate sash embroidered with cloud patterns, worn over his layered court robes in the Chinese style, wrapped twice around his waist and finished with an unobtrusive square knot. Tsuru knelt to the side, awkward and observant.

“You have been summoned to receive commendation for your service,” the administrator explained, “and to receive a small token of Shō Nei’s appreciation.”

“When the screens open, you will approach and kneel at the white stitch in the tatami, with eyes lowered,” the administrator explained.

“A brief statement of commendation will be conferred, and a small token will be placed before you,” he continued.

“The only acceptable responses are ‘I humbly receive’ or” the administrator paused here long enough for the silence to assume gravity, “regretfully, I must decline.”

Then, turning to Tsuru, he added, “And, of course, Uezu-dono no o-tai will remain behind the screen.”

Seiichi bowed and replied that he understood.

They were then shown to a cool anteroom adjacent to a smaller building of the main court. There, Seiichi and Tsuru were left alone except for a scribe who would periodically ask Seiichi to confirm small details of his service. Between these punctuated questions, silence reasserted itself. They were led to another darkened room, considerably more ornate than the one before, from which they could hear voices. Seiichi was instructed to wait near a screen. Time passed without measure. From the garbled voices, Tsuru discerned that formal proceedings were underway. Then, the screen before Seiichi opened ever so slightly, and a ray of light entered along with clear voices.

“We will next hear the case of Uezu-dono,” a booming voice called, “a loyal retainer who is reported to have spotted the invasion ships before they made landfall and who, as a matter of record, reported this as quickly as any man would be able.”

“Shō Neo, upon his return, instructed that we bestow commendations and tokens of merit upon those retainers who, rather than aiding the invaders, displayed bravery and loyalty to their house.”

“Uezu-dono,” the voice called. The screen in front of Seiichi opened fully. He stood quickly and, with head bowed, rushed into the room. The audience was modest. Five men in royal garb knelt at the far end. An administrator stood near the screen and motioned for Seiichi to proceed. From the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of ornate pillars and painted screens. The room smelled sharply of ink and old paper.

“You, Uezu-dono, have displayed admirable service, for which you will be commended in a note of record,” one of the men in front of Seiichi said.

“At Shō Neo’s behest, as sanctioned by the court, you have been awarded stewardship of a parcel above your village, Aose-mura, Nagahama-ura, Aose-no-Hama,” the man continued. A court attendant moved from behind a screen and placed a scroll bearing a royal seal and a wooden box beside Seiichi. Tsuru gasped; the sound caught and smothered behind the screen. She knew exactly which property they were referring to.

Seiichi prostrated himself before the court, forehead to tatami. With his voice trembling slightly, he answered, “I humbly accept.”

The court member who had spoken gestured toward the wooden box. Seiichi opened it with great care. Inside was an object wrapped in paper. He took his time unfolding the paper, careful not to rip its delicate surface. Beneath, a single red tile. Behind him, he could hear the audible rasping of a scribe’s brush against parchment.

“You are dismissed,” the man said.

Seiichi backed away on his knees, then rose at the behest of an usher. He collected the box and scroll.

The village elders were, at first, resistant to the decree. Their reticence wasn’t due to any ill will toward Seiichi. They were simply slow to change and annoyed that they had not been consulted. Several practical considerations worked in Seiichi’s favor. The home was already abandoned, and so it wasn’t as if his reward were ejecting one of the village’s respected residents. The extensive grounds surrounding the house were overgrown, long untended. The elders, after brief murmurings, fell in line. Besides, it wasn’t as if they would defy a royal decree on a whim. The noro came by to offer a brief blessing at the home’s threshold, murmuring prayers older than the kingdom itself, before Seiichi and Tsuru found themselves alone before a new home with a red tile roof. A heavy timber frame supported finely constructed walls. Over the next few days, they carried their meager possessions from their old home in the village and set about the business of moving in.

Tsuru performed a simple consecration of their new home while Seiichi watched and rested. She made offerings of rice, salt, and water. The ritual was restful enough that Seiichi slipped into a deep, unguarded contemplation. They ate their evening meal without speaking, but both were at peace in their unfamiliar surroundings. After their meal, they walked down to the water together to watch as the sun set behind a low shelf of clouds along the horizon. Illuminated from behind by a glow the color of hot coals, the clouds resembled pillars of thick smoke. Seiichi took Tsuru in his arms. In the evening calm, with the lapping of waves, both felt as though they had been given a new lease on life. They had a chance to start anew and make something of themselves; something more than their younger selves would have imagined.

“Do you remember just after we married?” Tsuru asked. “You said you’d give me a blue house by the sea.”

Seiichi shook his head, “No.” He did remember, but when Tsuru asked him about a past memory, he would pretend not to. That way, she would tell him the story, and he enjoyed listening to her speak. This had become a ritual that they shared.

“You did,” she said softly. “And now you can.”

The Edict of Red

Preparations were neither swift nor easy. Simply finding someone on the island capable of producing blue roof tiles required extensive travel and negotiation. They were prohibitively expensive; the necessary dyes imported at great cost from abroad. More than once, Seiichi became frustrated and tested Tsuru’s resolve. Did she truly need a blue house by the sea? Wasn’t a grand house enough? Alas, he found her steadfast. Seiichi found himself spending days away from home in distant villages seeking out craftsmen. His royal stipend, which arrived monthly in greater quantities than a commoner could imagine receiving, was stretched thin by the endeavor. Seiichi sought to uncover the reason for Tsuru’s oddly profound attachment to the color. When he asked, he was met with deflection.

“You are a man of your word,” she would say, as if reciting something already settled.

“It is simply what I desire,” she said.

Seiichi realized he was no closer to understanding why blue mattered so deeply to her. Eventually, he accepted his task and stopped asking. He found a way to balance his responsibilities in the village, which had become largely managerial, with his search. Having identified several youths of promise, Seiichi declared himself their tutor, and their parents accepted with unmetered gratitude. Tsuru would supervise them during the day, teaching them what little she knew about Chinese calligraphy and arithmetic. Occasionally, Seiichi would take them into the courtyard for lessons on breath, posture, grappling, and physical discipline. In time, they assumed indispensable responsibilities within the household: managing stockpiles, overseeing village legers, serving as couriers, and performing other similar tasks. This freed Seiichi’s time.

His quest was partially successful. First as a trickle, and then as a babbling brook, blue began to arrive. A few heavy cloth bags of roofing tile first. Then household ornamentation. A painted wooden door. Each arrival invigorated Tsuru, who insisted on playing an active role in assembling their dream. Aside from crawling onto the roof, a task she deemed fit only for workmen, she stood beside the workers and directed every minor detail. Seiichi was happy to sit back and observe. As the months passed, a patchwork of blue crept over the house. Splotches of rust-colored tiles were replaced with deep blue tiles, nearly black at dawn. Vases of blue and white sat on shelves and at the edge of the tatamis in larger rooms. With each addition, it seemed as though Tsuru grew more peaceful, and Seiichi’s supervision of village affairs became more efficient and less prone to disruptions. This attracted attention from the court.

Under Seiichi’s supervision, village records became unusually complete. Monthly reports were sent to Shuri. Their small village became a model for success and a prime candidate for royal investment. Before long, royal emissaries began to arrive to study the methods Seiichi had employed to help the community prosper. Seiichi and Tsuru received these visitors with all the pomp and formality they could muster, though, of course, it was measured. The meetings always proceeded smoothly. Tsuru suspected there was little for the emissaries to study beyond diligence and luck. Their success was due almost entirely to a handful of young people who worked tirelessly, a group of elders who spoke with everyone about their trade and reported back to Seiichi, and to the fact that the village’s endeavors were not particularly complex. Yet the emissaries always listened curiously and were generous with their praise. Without exception, they would thank Seiichi for his hospitality and inevitably comment on the house; still a patchwork of native materials and imported blue. Affairs progressed in this manner for some time.

One evening, just before dark, a scroll arrived. Its exterior was wrapped in fine fabric, patterned with birds, trees, and flowing water. The ornate wooden handles left no doubt. This was a royal missive. No other party on the island could muster such a luxurious document. Seiichi knelt on the tatami with Tsuru at his side as he untied a red knot and unspooled the scroll. Its contents were brief and as clear as the mountain springs that fed the stream near the village.

“Red tiles will be delivered shortly,” the first line read.

The second stated, “All members of the court, royal retainers, and other persons of employ are hereby ordered to adorn their place of dwelling with the red tiles.”

Seiichi didn’t react. He was puzzled. Tsuru began to cry, quietly at first, as if unsure whether she was permitted even this. Seiichi dropped the scroll and slid along the floor so he could sit beside her. Together, they sat in confused and somber silence until the evening grew very late. Neither could fully comprehend what this document, this edict of red, had done to them. Their project, now spanning years, was not destroyed, as there was no mention of the walls, rooms, and decorations. Yet the roof, perhaps the single greatest testament to blue, was to be erased with the stroke of the Sho’s brush. It felt as though they had taken a glancing blow from a tiger’s paw: tearing, bruising, yet not fatal. Neither wanted to give voice to this hobbling of their vision.

A dismal and pervasive mood hung over the home for several weeks. The red tiles arrived. Workmen installed them. The stripped blue tiles sat piled beside the wall. The process was mechanical. Seiichi felt numb as he stamped the workmen’s documents, verifying completion of their task. It was the same numbness he had felt when he first saw the ships. It was the numbness of carnage, of battle. A feeling that soldiers know. Tsuru, however, did not go still. She arranged the blue vases in more obvious locations. She planted butterfly peas along the sea-facing wall, where salt wind would test them daily. Without Seiichi’s knowledge or consent, she commissioned a painter to decorate the inner walls of their home with murals in deep blues and greens. Her fervor was redoubled, while Seiichi slipped back into routine.

They sat together one evening, a single lamp illuminating the room, feeling ocean mist through a gap in the shoji. Insects screamed outside.

“We will keep blue alive,” Tsuru whispered into the dark.

Borrowed Walls

Nabee’s back was bothering her again; it always worsened in the heat. Not that she let it slow her down. There were plenty of chores to do. A broth simmered on the stove, it’s pot large enough to feed several families, the fishy aroma settling into the floorboards. Hunched, Nabee swept the boards, coughing in the dust she kicked up. Sōta had seen another ship in the harbor that morning, and it meant that men were coming. Men brought money. Money, for canned coffee, for freshly caught fish. Money for the stupid potatoes the men insisted on in their stew. Nabee sighed and set aside her broom. Where was Sōta? She’d sent him to the garden for herbs more than an hour ago. Her thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of gravel.

Nabee took her place by the stove, as she always did, stirring the brew like a rite. The men told her it made her look like a “witch”. She didn’t know what a “witch” was, but from the snippets of English she was able to understand, a “witch” was something like a malevolent, crazed Yuta. Nabee had never been very spiritual, but for some reason, the men treated her and her home with more respect when she stirred the pot and cackled occasionally at nothing in particular. Staff Sergeant McAffy’s shadow entered first, stretched thin along the wall, before the man himself followed. He took off his cap and stepped inside.

“Afternoon, Obaa,” he said in a quiet yet firm voice.

From the stove, Nabee called, “Konnichiwa, sājento-san. Dōzo.”

Sergeant McAffy stayed by the door. He said, “Eight more this evening.”

“Hachi,” Nabee exclaimed. “Hachi!”

She explained to the sergeant that there was room for only five, plus herself and little Sōta, who shouldn’t be around fighting men anyway. Then she sighed. Nabee knew he understood none of it, and that it did not matter. Eight men would show up that evening. There was nothing she could say.

“Money,” she said in stumbling English. “Paper money, no token.”

This McAffy understood. He took several steps toward her, and she met him halfway. He handed her a few crumpled notes. Then, from a satchel he wore, McAffy produced a bottle of brown liquor. He offered it to her. As she reached for it, McAffy retracted his hand and said, “Only if they stay calm… calm.”

“Hai hai,” Nabee replied as she took the bottle.

“Well,” Sergeant McAffy said, turning to leave.

“Men stay calm and drink salt water,” Nabee said, holding the bottle up. She let out a cackle.

“The men stay calm when they drink the salt water,” she continued.

Sergeant McAffy shook his head. He knew Obaa didn’t speak English. Nabee, of course, knew the difference between salt water and liquor. She simply enjoyed giving the sergeant a hard time; it was one of the few liberties she took. Eight men! She’d have to dilute the broth. He put his cap back on and left – his shadow stretching slightly longer than it had before. Nabee ambled to a large table whose top bore evidence of extensive use. At its center stood a blue-and-white vase, the flowers within of an even more defiant blue. She set aside the flowers. They’d make excellent tea. Oppressive sunlight met her as she stepped outside to empty the vase. Sōta came running up the sandy lane.

“Where have you been?” she called to the boy. His bare feet were sandy.

“I was in the garden,” he replied with a happy grin.

Nabee glared at him, “Sure you were. Come inside now.”

The two went back into the shade of the house. Nabee carefully wrapped the blue vase in paper and hid it in a high cabinet. Then she set about lighting kerosene lanterns that hung around the main room. The tangy scent burned her nostrils. Sōta sat cross-legged on the floor and watched her work.

“I hate that smell,” he whined.

“Go stir the broth,” she commanded.

“Why do the men have to stay with us?” Sōta asked.

Nabee sighed. She thought about an answer that would satisfy him, but she, too, was at a loss. Everything had become twisted, as though the narrative strands of her long life had been pulled loose by careless hands. She wasn’t sure why she did anything anymore. Nabee clung to kindness, she supposed, because she knew nothing else. She tried to do the kindest thing in each moment. It was a weakness, she realized. Her benign kindness seemed to bring her strife, and worse, to Sōta as well.

At last, she turned to Sōta. “This house was once great. Many important families stayed within these walls as guests. It is tradition, I suppose.”

Typhoon Lantern

Dark clouds stretched across the ocean toward land, like fingers of a grasping hand. Though far off, Nabee could see lightning bristling within their voluminous depths. Pattering raindrops began, softly for now. She prayed Sōta was safe; it would be another week or two before his ship returned to harbor. Open windows along the front of the blue house let in the breeze, and Nabee set about closing their heavy storm shutters. Only one of the original latch mechanisms still worked, so Nabee lashed the windows shut with nails and strips of heavy fabric. She did the same for the windows facing the ocean, but left one, nearest the kitchen counter, open so she could watch the storm roll in. Beside the window sat a blue ceramic vase, again filled with flowers.

Back inside, Nabee took a pinch of salt from a cloth sack. As she sprinkled a thin line along the lower frame of each window, she chanted softly. Her mother had done the same. From a drawer in the kitchen, Nabee retrieved matches. She lit the wick of a kerosene lantern, which hissed and began to glow. The lantern light fell across the stern face of a man in his forties, who had introduced himself as Kiyoshi. He’d explained that he was a fisherman who needed a place to stay after the storm had caused him to put in at a nearby dock. Still dripping, he leaned against a pillar and watched the sky through the window Nabee had left open. Nabee was about to offer him something to eat when a bang struck the door. Kiyoshi glanced over toward the door, but he did not move. Nabee sighed and hobbled over. She was surprised Kiyoshi was her only guest on such a gloomy evening, and relieved another had arrived. Kiyoshi was pleasant enough, but she detected a certain unsettling intensity in his gaze. Her relief was short-lived. When she opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with a young man. An American. His dark olive shirt and jacket were soaked through.

“Evening ma’am,” he said.

“Soldier,” Nabee replied.

She surveyed him with a neutral expression. He racked his brain, searching for the basic phrases drilled into him during training. Eventually, he assembled a rough phrase that translated to, “wind has teeth, stay here?”

“Money,” Nabee replied in English.

The GI produced a handful of sodden paper notes from his jacket pocket.

Nabee accepted these and held the door open so he could enter. The soldier stooped and passed through the door into the dimly lit room. He locked eyes with the fisherman and gave a quick nod. Kiyoshi rolled his head in a circle and looked back toward the window.

The soldier shed his soaked jacket and put it on a hook affixed to one of the support pillars. Then he took off his shirt and attempted to ring it out over a basin in the kitchen. Nabee grabbed the shirt from him, shook it once, and set it to dry next to a humble brick-and-stone stove. Kiyoshi inspected the soldier’s boots and muttered, “kuroi kane de hara o mitasu no ka?”

Nabee turned to Kiyoshi, gave him an icy glare, and clicked her lips at him.

He looked up at her and growled, “shizukesa o utta na.”

“Easy there, friend,” the soldier said to the fisherman, sensing tension.

The wind set in, and the shutter slats began to rattle. Nabee closed and lashed the final set, near the kitchen, in place.

She ladled a watery soup, miso with bits of bitter gourd, into chipped bowls. The three sat around a short table on a tatami in the amber light cast by the kerosene lamps. The soldier accepted his soup with a nod but said nothing. Nabee was grateful he had taken off his sopping boots. Many of the wayfarers she housed refused to remove their shoes. Kiyoshi looked at his soup, disappointed.

“Fish?” He asked.

Nabee shook her head, “No.”

He grumbled and began slurping loudly from the bowl. The volume of the wind outside increased slowly, then exponentially, developing a bass rumble. The rolling sea was audible somewhere outside, and a loose slat ticked rhythmically against its frame. Kiyoshi finished his soup in minutes, even though it was still steaming, and wandered over to the kitchen while the other two knelt by the table. He began rummaging through the cabinets.

“Ey!” Nabee called from the table, but she was too tired to stand.

Before long, Kiyoshi found what he was looking for – an unopened bottle of brown liquid, whiskey. He took a slug directly from the bottle. It made him cough. Then he took another.

“Wouldn’t mind some of that myself,” the soldier said.

“No!” Kiyoshi said, surprising both Nabee and the soldier with his English, “You boys cut our nets. Make my son leave for factory work.”

“You pay, but take too much,” he continued. He took another swig.

Nabee watched with obvious discontent. She had been saving the bottle, though she didn’t know why. The shutters rattled again as a gust swept over the house.

“I will check the sea,” Kiyoshi roared with sudden intensity. He staggered toward the sea-facing wall and shoved one of the closed shutters. The old latch gave way, and the shutter came free from one of its hinges. Wind and grit exploded into the room. Kiyoshi stumbled backward, shielding his eyes, and bumped into the shelf that held the blue vase. It fell. Shattered ceramic splashed into the rapidly forming puddles on the floor.

The soldier stood and yelled, “Close that window, sir!” He rushed toward the window. As he approached, Kiyoshi shoved him with one hand, holding the bottle away with the other, completely misreading the situation. The soldier stumbled back against the table. The soup sloshed over the rims of the bowls, washing across the tatami like a brown tide. The soldier grunted. His jaw set. Nabee clapped once, sharply.

“No fighting,” she cried, “enough!”

Kiyoshi looked from the soldier to the bottle, and then to the open window through which droplets of salty rain pummeled him. His shoulder drooped in realization. The soldier stood, more slowly now, and approached the window. Nabee was on her feet as well. She found a basket containing a hammer and nails, which she handed to the soldier. Then she went to find a basin and some rags. The soldier pulled a long rusty nail from the basket and held it up to the light. Its surface was cratered, like the moon’s, with ugly brown depressions in the otherwise smooth terrain. Kiyoshi watched him closely and hiccupped.

“Please hold,” the soldier growled to Kiyoshi, his tone low but powerful, as he gestured to the shutter that hung loosely by a single hinge.

Kiyoshi swallowed hard, but after a moment’s pause, carefully pulled the flapping shutter back into its frame. Salted rain battered his face, set in a drunken grimace of determination, so hard that it felt as though it might tear his skin away. The soldier reached through Kiyoshi’s outstretched arms, held the long and rusted nail against a small hole in the hinge, and began gently tapping with the hammer.

“Storms don’t care which side you’re on,” the soldier whispered to Kiyoshi.

The ancient wood of the seaside house had lost much of its original rigidity, and the nail found perch easily. When the nail was set, the soldier took a bundle of twine Nabee offered him and made several loops around the small handles of the two shutters until they held firm. Finally, with both shutters holding, he untangled himself from Kiyoshi, who replied, “Storms don’t care, but death remembers who falls beside you.”

Nabee cleaned the water from beneath the window with rags, wringing them out into the basin she had retrieved earlier. When the floor was mostly dry, she swept up the pieces of the broken vase and set them carefully, one by one, into a burlap sack. Neither Kiyoshi nor the soldier saw where she had deposited the sack, nor her pained expression, as they had already returned to the tatami and were finishing what was left of the soup in tired silence.

The next morning’s dawn was the color of milk. Gravel and leaves from the nearby forest glistened after the rain. The knee-high grass was bent over, as though something large and heavy had been dragged through it by the wind. Several uprooted trees were visible from the front door. The soldier leaned against the open doorframe and smoked. Kiyoshi sat on the tatami with his knees up and his hands on his head. Nabee, somewhere in the back, was turning over the pieces of the shattered vase in her hands. A number of tiles had been ripped from the roof and littered the yard near the road. On the sea-facing side, a stand of vibrant blue flowers stood unperturbed, their petals salt-beaded and reflecting the light.

Clipboard

Shun Miyagi loved his little truck more than he cared to admit. The dash was littered with papers, cups, cigarette butts, and other artifacts that even he could not accurately categorize. A crumpled newspaper in the passenger seat carried a headline about the ongoing boundary dispute. Shun didn’t care much, or told himself he didn’t. He just enjoyed the whine of the motor, like an annoyed cat, as the truck climbed a steep hill on the island’s east side. Shun had grown up nearby and had always considered himself adaptable and entrepreneurial, though many who knew him would have disagreed. After the occupation, he found a government job conducting surveys. This, he thought, was far superior to the work his brothers had taken as a farmer and a lorry driver. At every opportunity, they teased Shun about his “soft hands.”

After the steep incline, the lane narrowed considerably, and Shun had to stop at a grassy patch along the roadside. The spot abutted a recently harvested field, probably sugarcane, with a view over the surrounding countryside. He could see to the foot of the next mountain over; its surface covered in dense green foliage. Retrieving his clipboard from the truck, Shun set off along the road. Thick brambles of sugar palms and banyans grew along one side of the road, but from the other field-facing side, it became apparent that he was rounding the crest of a hill. The field sloped downward both ahead and behind. Behind lay the foot of the mountain, and ahead, the ocean. It was a bright day, and lazy wisps of cloud drifted across an otherwise muted palette. Shun felt a brief sense of smallness before the expanse, then trudged on. This kind of thinking made him uncomfortable, and he pushed it aside.

The lane began to descend, cutting its way through the hillside toward the ocean. Its gravel surface had been badly rutted by three-axle trucks, impassable to most civilian vehicles. As he walked, the dense vegetation on his left receded from the road, and below he could see the lane curve to the right and continue down to a pleasant-looking beach. Several homes lined the lane, but he immediately recognized the one he was looking for. It stood apart from the others, on a larger plot bounded by short walls of dried coral and limestone. Its red-tile roof was unique; the others were constructed from reinforced concrete. Shun widened his strides as he descended. The going was easier.

As he approached the home, he saw that it was a monstrosity. The red roof tiles were badly faded, clashing with blue paint that appeared to have been applied carelessly to the walls. The walls themselves were a patchwork of ancient wood and newer concrete blocks. As he neared, Shun frowned. There were bits of coral masonry incorporated into the walls at irregular intervals. The house clearly had not been maintained in its original form. He knocked twice on the door, which opened almost immediately. A young girl in a loose dress peered around the door from inside. Her long black hair was tangled, as though she had just woken from a nap.

“Good afternoon,” Shun said. “Is this the Uezu residence?”

“Jii-chan!” the girl screamed over her shoulder. She darted away inside the house.

Shun scratched his head and waited for a full minute. The sun was hot. Sweat darkened the front of his shirt. He signed and glanced down at his clipboard. Then, the door opened fully. Shun found himself face-to-face with an elderly man. His resemblance to the little girl was striking.

“Mr. Uezu?” he asked.

The man nodded. “I am Sōta Uezu,” the man replied.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Shun explained, “but I am here on official business.”

Mr. Uezu looked annoyed, but he gestured for Shun to come inside. After Shun had removed his rubber boots, Mr. Uezu led Shun down a short corridor to a large living area with a tatami at its center. There was an old stove at one side, where Mr. Uezu set a kettle to boil.

“We will have tea.” Mr. Uezu said, leaving Shun no option. Shun nodded politely and found a seat near the center of the tatami. Mr. Uezu brought over a tray with two teacups and the kettle. As he prepared to put leaves into the kettle, Mr. Uezu asked, “What is this about?”

“Well, sir,” Shun began, “I am here about your property, the house specifically.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Uezu. His stare was intense; Shun felt the unbroken gaze probing, scanning, trying to read his real intentions.

“It has been in your family for years, no?” Shun asked.

Mr. Uezu sighed and nodded.

“Again,” Shun apologized, “I’m very sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I should have called. But there was no time. Official business, you see.”

“You said that!” Mr. Uezu replied, his stare still intent, bordering on menacing.

“Well, with the reversion, the Development Agency is conducting a survey of cultural sites and property,” Shun explained.

“Yes, yes, I read the news.” Mr. Uezu snapped, his tone definitively rude, “Get on with why you are here.”

“I apologize, I go on sometimes,” Shun continued. He took a sip of the tea, still too hot, that Mr. Uezu had set before him.

“It is my job to determine which residences are important for our heritage,” Shun said, “and it appears your family has dwelt here continuously for hundreds of years. Is that right?”

“More or less,” Mr. Uezu replied with a chuckle. Shun did not understand the reason for his sudden change of attitude.

“Tell me, what does it mean for a site to be considered important for our heritage?” Mr. Uezu asked, now sipping his own tea.

“Well, it could qualify for restoration grants,” Shun said, “and forgive me, but I can tell your home is in need of repair; it could help!”

Shun felt a strange, almost paternal authority emanating from Mr. Uezu. It was as though his own father was sitting before him, and Shun desperately wanted to please him, to make him proud. It wasn’t a feeling he could explain or even recognize in the moment, but it was there, nonetheless.

“Of course, the repairs would have to be in accordance with regulations concerning the appropriate period,” Shun continued, “and the resident would agree to make the place accessible for occasional use for tours, research, and the like.”

Mr. Uezu coughed as he swallowed a gulp of tea.

“Tell me more,” Mr. Uezu commanded.

“If you could just tell me about the house’s history, and any traces of its original form, I could help you with an application for the cultural property designation,” Shun continued.

Mr. Uezu was silent. He looked out one of the open windows, toward the sea, and sat for a moment as though he had forgotten Shun was there. The little girl peeked into the room from the doorway they had entered. Then he began to speak again, “traces of its original form,” repeating Shun’s words.

“Yes, sir,” Shun said, his voice barely keeping from shaking, “we would need some documentation of its ownership.”

Mr. Uezu pondered this and then asked, “So, in the case of these cultural properties, does the person inside own the home, or the government?”

“The inhabitant, of course, we don’t confiscate property,” Shun replied happily, “but there are a few restrictions.”

“In exchange for help with the restoration,” Shun said, “we simply request occasional access, for study, photography, and such. And of course, the inhabitant would agree that the building be used for no commercial purpose. It should serve as a memory of the past.”

“Anyway, do you know anything of the home’s past,” Shun asked, “records of ownership or inheritance, for example?”

Mr. Uezu finished his tea.

“It is true that my family has maintained this property for generations,” Mr. Uezu said flatly, “but the records you seek do not exist. There was a fire, you see. These might as well be borrowed walls.”

“But, sir,” Shun interrupted. “The tiles of the roof suggest the abode was once that of a family of great importance. Surely, they would maintain an archive outside the home, with records at the village office.”

Mr. Uezu laughed, “Great importance… great importance.”

“No, unfortunately, I don’t think so,” he said, “those tiles could have easily been scavenged from a neighbor, or a fallen temple, or anywhere really.”

“You’re saying you know nothing of the home’s history,” Shun asked, a bit bewildered.

“No, I don’t suppose I do,” Mr. Uezu said. Then, standing, “I appreciate your offer. You are welcome to look around. Truly, I hope you find something useful. But there are no records. This place isn’t important to our heritage. Please, enjoy your tea, look around, and show yourself out. I am tired.”

Mr. Uezu left the room. Shun finished his tea. He felt uncomfortable inside, unescorted. He performed a perfunctory inspection of the old stove, then the sagging wooden beams, and then he walked the perimeter of the property. There was no solid evidence that the house was anything more than a patchwork of materials that, by chance, included some relics of a bygone era. This disappointed Shun. As he walked the grounds, he felt a sort of reverence, the way he sometimes did when he visited the local shrine for his prayers. But this reverence was immaterial; he couldn’t latch onto its cause. He thought, with some relief, that he was not qualified to make these judgements. His job was simply to ask the residents on his list about their properties and hope they would reach the correct conclusion. As he left, he supposed the funds would be better used elsewhere. No application would be filed.

The Divide

The knocking at Kama Uezu’s door startled her, even though she had been expecting it at any moment. She was curled on a small couch upholstered in rough fabric, a shag blanket over her, one hand resting on her stomach. For several hours, she had promised herself she would vacuum the apartment and clean the dirty dishes in the sink. Yet chimes from her phone, erupting over the grating drone of her failing air-conditioning unit, were ceaseless. Their piercing cry shook her soul and kept her adrenal glands pumping cortisol. Now Haru was at her doorstep, and the time she had set aside to put her life together had evaporated. Kama slinked from the couch, marveling at how far her once enviable balance had decayed. She was not yet used to her new body.

“Hey!” Kama extended the word as if in excitement, but her blunted tone caused the attempt to fall flat. That, and the fact that she hid behind the door as if her brother were an intruder. Haru entered with leonine confidence, gave her a brief, totally unreciprocated hug, and strode into the main room. Surveying her apartment as if through new eyes, Kama saw its disorder, an obvious reflection of her mental state, set out like an exhibition of domestic hopelessness. Her blanket formed a deflated mound at the center of the room; an unplugged, oddly angled television and an unfinished konbini bento sat on the coffee table. Haru stole a nugget of cold fried chicken from the bento and sat down on her bed, smiling.

“How’ve you been, Kama? You still in school?” His tone sounded smug. Kama tried to force the thought away. Her brother had become a good man. He wasn’t chiding her.

“Okay,” Kama said, bereft of confidence.

“Uh-huh,” he said, snagging another chicken nugget.

“You?” Kama asked.

“I’ve been great!” Haru cried. “Business is good. Aoi is healthy.”

He was married. Kama had forgotten.

“Dad left us this stack,” Haru said, handing over a massive, overstuffed binder. The papers were among the few relics left by her late father, but she could not imagine reading even the first page.

“And not much else,” Haru continued. He flipped open the binder, which Kama had not even reached for, and pointed to a line on the fifth page. The figure was less than one million yen.

“A few odds and ends,” Haru continued. “Dad had a sword,” Haru said. “Did you know Dad had a sword? No idea why. He left it to me. Probably a cheap imitation. He left you mom’s comb.”

“I didn’t know Dad had a sword,” Kama replied quietly. She sat back on the couch, closed her eyes, and stretched her arms overhead.

“Kamakko,” Haru said, his grin fading, “you are not yourself. What is going on?”

There it was. He saw through. She knew that he would. Kama thought for a moment of lying, of telling him that everything was fine, that she was happy and well-adjusted in her new life. But he had always been able to see through her.

“Work is hard,” she replied simply, but tears came, and she began to tremble. Unconsciously, she moved her hand across her stomach. He stared for a moment. Then a look of surprise overtook his face.

“Are you…” He began. Her tears started flowing freely.

“Oh, Kama, what a blessing,” he cried.

She said nothing. His face changed. There were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but Haru restrained himself. A few minutes passed. Haru took the final piece of chicken and ate it contemplatively, almost philosophically, staring into a void somewhere beyond Kama’s face.

At last Kama spoke again. “Can we sell the house?”

“Ah,” he exhaled.

Now it was his turn to feel pain. Their father had indeed left him the house. It was his, by right, to do with as he wished. Between them, there was an unspoken understanding that he didn’t really need the money and that a sensible arrangement would involve him somehow passing the benefit on to her.

“It is difficult,” he said, as though ruminating on an ethical quandary.

“The house is...,” Haru began, then paused. “The house has been in our family for so long. It has almost become the family. The house is the family.”

“What do you mean?” Kama gasped.

“How can you say the house is family?” Kama snapped. “The family is me. It is us.” Again, she caressed her stomach, which had not yet billowed in blossoming life.

“The market is not so good,” Haru said, as though brokering a transaction, “the taxes could make a sale meaningless.”

“We need the money,” she said.

“Kama,” Haru whispered, “I have told you that if you ever need anything, all you need do is ask.”

Kama looked away. She held back the tears. Self-reliant. Always.

“I think we should sell the house,” Kama said through clenched teeth.

Haru stood. Moving to the window, he crossed his hands behind his back and looked out. There was nothing to see. Another high-rise blocked the sky. The neighbors’ laundry was the only detail.

“Let’s take a drive,” he said at last, “fresh air will help clear our minds.”

Kama was grateful to lead Haru out of her cave and into the open air.

Haru had a blue BMW, the current year. The leather seats had some kind of cooling technology that, together with the powerful air conditioning, dispelled the summer heat with ease. They rode together in silence. An hour of stop-and-go traffic melted into longer stretches where even the slowest travelers exceeded the speed limit by twenty kilometers per hour. Past the bases, cut like unfinished statues into the marble of dense jungle. The ocean, wide and eternal, was stationary on their left. A solid white line where the waves broke on the reef. Haru tried putting on music, but the upbeat pop felt inappropriate, and he switched it off. They arrived in their parents’ village to find it occupied by an easy-going invasion force. Tourists in straw hats and patterned short sleeves patrolled the sidewalks in a leisurely stroll. Where in their youth sat only beaches, woods, and sky, there were now several resorts with red-tiled roofs and cabanas. The torrents of Western currency were visible, tangible, baying like hounds hidden behind a thin tapestry of economic development.

The house’s exterior had been improved since she’d last visited. The chipping paint had been replaced with a smooth layer of dark blue. Kama felt guilty. She had ignored her parents’ invitations to return home on national holidays. Her friend’s parties and late nights off campus had made time drift away like a falling feather, but after graduation, life’s weight had lent time a new and ponderous certainty. Haru fumbled with the mailbox affixed next to the door. It was an ugly black metal thing whose lid had been jammed open. He had a key. Inside were a pile of envelopes that Haru struggled to keep in one hand. Inside, the shades had been drawn, and dust had made itself at home. There was a clear path carved in the sediment from the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room, like a stream’s offshoot cutting its way across a sandy beach to the ocean. Her father’s path. His sunset promenade. Kama felt ill.

Haru roamed freely through the house. He visited his childhood bedroom and retrieved a belt from his karate days. Then to the attic, where in heavy chests his old yearbooks and trophies resided. Kama took a seat on the couch. The lights were off. Her father hadn’t made a contingency plan for the electric bill, and it had likely been shut off. Dense motes of fine particles were illuminated by sunlight filtering through cracks in the shade, making her sneeze. From the couch, she inspected a stand of framed photographs atop a low shelf across from her. There she was, smiling, dressed in her pale blue uniform with a necktie. Her brother, holding some sports implement while showing off a medallion. Mother and father are together, two sets, one younger and one older. Agony. A short way off, nearer the window, was another short stand. Atop the stand was a vase, a silhouette against the feeble light. It felt familiar. Kama stood and approached the vase.

Its glazed surface was cracked. Vibrant blue even in the gloom. There were spiderwebs of golden fault lines all along the vessel. Kintsukuroi. The vase had been shattered, repaired with lacquer dusted in fine gold particles. It must have cost her parents a small fortune. Haru returned.

“Look at this,” Kama said, gesturing.

“An old vase?” He asked. Knowing his sister had little artistic sentimentality, Haru leaned forward for a closer look. Kama imagined she could see his breath lift dust from the surface of the piece.

“Ah,” he exhaled, realizing that the vase had value, “this wasn’t mentioned in the will.”

“We could sell this,” he said, “it is probably worth quite a bit!”

“I’m not so sure,” Kama said, placing a single finger on one of the vase’s handles and tracing its contour. Something about it felt alive and modern, as though it had yet to serve its purpose.

“I think we should keep it,” Kama said.

“Right,” said Haru, with growing disinterest, “we sell that house and keep the vase, got it.” He laughed. Kama didn’t understand the joke.

He resumed his exploration, causing small dust gales to rise from the floor in rooms as still as death. Kama stood next to the vase. She inspected it from all angles. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, speaking words that were comforting but indistinct. A low mumble from across a great distance – like what a child might hear in the womb. Forty-five minutes passed before Haru had exhausted himself. They moved to the front porch and sat on the concrete steps.

“What do you think?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Maybe we should keep the house,” she said slowly, “you said we couldn’t make very much on a sale.”

“There are a lot of expenses, no matter how you cut it,” he answered, taking a drag, “either repairs, inheritance, and property taxes, or sales and income taxes.”

“I really can’t help,” Kama whispered.

“No matter,” Haru said, “you have other things to worry about,” as he stared at her abdomen. She could feel his questions rising, bubbling up from his subconscious, nameless emotions taking on linguistic form.

“I’ll handle the taxes,” he said at last, “but I want to keep the house.”

“You’re not going to live here,” she said in disbelief.

Another puff. The smoke smelled nice. It made Kama hunger. She couldn’t. Maybe one… no.

“No,” he said.

They watched as a huge truck with failing suspension squealed along the pot-marked road.

“Listen, I have some friends,” he continued, “we’ve been fixing up Akiya and renting them.”

“Tourists?” Kama asked, holding back her disgust. She couldn’t fathom that her kin had a role in the unholy conversion of their small fishing village.

“Maybe,” replied Haru, thoughtfully, “or locals. We had good margins this year. It would be a small project. We’ll fix the place up real nice. Put the booking in Japanese only. That would dissuade most of the… annoying ones.”

“I want the vase,” Kama said, surprised by her own sudden forcefulness.

“That’s fine,” Haru replied. With the belt laid across his lap, if she squinted, she could almost see him as the man he saw himself to be.

“You’d get a portion of the revenue,” he said, “of course.”

He extended a hand. Kama stared at his hand for a moment. Calluses. She took it in her own and shook tensely, briefly. The handshake felt cold.

Listing

Haru’s friends operated with a businesslike precision that felt almost unnatural. The cleaning crew showed up a day after Haru and Kama’s conversation, as if it had been arranged months before. A repair crew started work the day after the bank had formally assigned the title to Haru. Her brother knew just who to call. Kama tried to stay involved but often felt she was only slowing things down. Haru, perhaps out of necessity or perhaps out of pity, insisted that she take photographs for the advertisement. She had some interest in photography when she was younger. While, by her own admission, not skilled enough to qualify as an artist, Kama knew enough about image composition to make the place look appealing, at least in photographs. A shot of the fresh tatami. A low table, a tea set still steaming. The ocean, visible from behind the house, carefully cropped so as not to reveal the new high-rise that brutally hacked apart the sky. The shattered blue vase, fixed with gold, returned to a locked display case shortly after the photograph was taken. A stand of low leafy bushes with vibrant flowers along the ocean-facing wall. They installed a pair of shisa to guard the entrance.

Yet Haru hadn’t been completely honest. When he told Kama their rental property would serve locals, he had omitted a very important detail. The property had become jiko bukken, a stigmatized property. The law required that, in their rental listing, they disclose the fact that their father had passed away there, unattended. Kama was only vaguely aware of the superstition surrounding such properties, thinking it a relic of the distant past. But the home itself was of the distant past, a thing kept alive far beyond its natural life, sustained by an intravenous drip of cement, caulking, paint, and sealant. It stood against the salt breeze, a grotesque momentum hiding behind a beautiful façade, as if waiting for a purpose yet unfulfilled. That purpose, it turned out, was something other than serving as a vacation spot for visitors from the mainland. Not a single booking. Not a single inquiry written in kana. Only garbled, semi-coherent phrases from English-speakers using online translators.

In the days after the initial listing, Kama checked the email account Haru had set up for the rental each night. Its contents were mostly spam, pushing insurance options for renters. There were invitations to join groups, for a small entrance fee, of course, that promised to funnel vetted “safe customers” to their property. At first, she had taken these offers seriously and even approached Haru about the invitations. He explained that they were just trying to wring cash from first-time hosts. The customers they promised were illusory – listing traffic generated by bot farms in India or Bangladesh. The excitement Kama had felt when she first saw the full inbox quickly melted into disappointment, and it wasn’t long before she stopped checking. She began to feel as if their efforts had gone to waste, but when she confronted Haru about their lack of business, he couldn’t be swayed. His common refrain, always: “The house has been in our family for generations. We can’t sell it. We can’t part with our legacy.”

A turn in the tides came when, without Kama’s knowledge, Haru updated the listing. English. The language offered a peculiar flexibility in its dealings with death. There was no jiko bukken, simply “our family’s home renovated into a stylish ocean-side getaway,” or “experience true cultural immersion in this historical landmark passed down through generations.” The law took on a grayer veneer when it leapt across the language barrier. The new listing made its way onto popular rental apps, and bookings began to roll in. Kama noticed a small sum had been deposited in her account by her brother’s company a few months after she’d given up on checking the email account. She asked Haru about the sum, and he explained it was her share. He said nothing about the clientele.

While it was never enough to fundamentally alter her lifestyle, Kama came to rely on the steady income. She felt more relaxed at work knowing that, if she were to lose her job, she could probably afford her bills long enough to find new work. Ironically, her new ability to step away made little difference in her position with the company. If anything, her manager praised her progress even more often. In the back of her mind, Kama knew something had changed. Eventually, this curiosity, which began as a small spark, blossomed into a defined question. How had income, nonexistent until months ago, suddenly become constant, even growing? Kama checked her email once again and found that its contents had morphed from kana to English. She investigated and uncovered an email with a direct link to the rental’s listing. It was entirely in English. She triple-checked that the translate feature of her browser wasn’t activated. Under the listing, there were numerous reviews. Many 5-stars. They were entirely English except for a few cute phrases such as “arigato gozimas.” Instead of the rage she expected, there was a vast, unyielding sense of inevitability, then acceptance.

First Blue

Eduardo carried himself with the confidence of a headlining actor, perpetually aware of his own spotlight. From the moment I met him in graduate school, I looked up to him. He was the type of person who reminded you that life still bursts with possibility, and that, if you play your cards right, you still might be the protagonist of an epic story. Eduardo liked to describe how he had backpacked in Africa, near enough to a rebellion that the distant rifle fire made him worry about strays. Yet he always emerged from his solo travels unscathed, and he liked to extol, “Danger is often more real in the mind than in the body.” And “our fear responses are overactive, an outdated evolutionary vestige leftover from our caveman days.” I, bored with a life that seemed to be rushing headlong into a cubicle, was desperate to believe him. That’s why, when he invited me to visit Japan with him, with no plan beyond the idea that we would “travel south to north,” I leapt at the opportunity.

We landed in Okinawa at the end of the tsunami season, before the first wave of tourists. I thought I was clever for bringing waterproof outerwear, but the humidity was staggering, and the polyurethane coating made them feel like wearable saunas. Our plane arrived around 9:00 AM, but we were exhausted after the fourteen-hour flight and after no sleep the day before. Yet Eduardo insisted we power through and sleep normally that evening. He seemed light, almost carefree. He did not worry about our accommodations for the night. “We’ll find a place,” he said, “or we’ll camp. It doesn’t matter.” I wished I could share his certainty and was somewhat desperate to be the kind of person who could just go with the flow, so I let him drag me around Naha. We took the bus and stopped at a castle. It looked just as Western cinema had conditioned me to expect. Then a series of temples and shrines. Again, they looked much as I had expected. But the crucial detail movies fail to convey is the stillness itself. There’s a solemnity, a sort of royal silence, that permeates those spaces. I felt my ability to maintain a coherent train of thought begin to dissolve. Eduardo seemed nonplussed. For the first time, I didn’t envy him.

Around nightfall, we found ourselves in a small village on the island’s east side. There was almost certainly a bus route that would have taken us somewhere with more amenities, but both of us had fallen into a sort of stupor, entranced by the exotic foliage and stunning glow during golden hour. So, when Eduardo proposed that we make camp on a deserted beach, blocked from the main road by a thick wall of vegetation, I agreed. There was a downpour. The tent’s rain cover proved useless. Waves pummeled the nearby shore, their rhythmic drumming making the sand buzz. The thought crossed my mind that we had arrived too early, that another major storm was brewing, and that we should be worried. But when the sun’s first rays crested the horizon and slid along the ocean’s glassy surface like lasers, we remained intact. Several inches of water had accumulated in the bottom of our tent.

Eduardo, despite his main-character energy, grew despondent. Packing the tent took an unusually long time, and he sighed heavily every few moments.

“I don’t know if I’m feeling this,” Eduardo said. “We could try to change our tickets and go to the mainland earlier.”

It was not until we reached civilization and found a konbini that our phones regained reception. We selected some packaged pastries and bottled coffee and sat at the tiny dining counter, looking out. Sunlight caused unseen droplets on the lush vegetation to sparkle, like a wall of emeralds catching the light. From this admittedly air-conditioned space, I felt paradise waiting just on the other side of the thin glass.

“It costs about $300 to change each ticket,” Eduardo whined.

I found his attitude ironic. So purposeful and self-assured back in the office, but just another floundering tourist when the rubber meets the road. Hell, I was in better shape than he was, at least for the moment.

“Look, man,” I tried, “I’m not feeling like another night in a tent either. Maybe we could find a hotel or a rental?”

Eduardo shrugged and stared out the window while I searched on my phone for something that might work. I suspect the shimmering jungle must have had the same effect on him, or perhaps it was his coffee, because when I showed him the rentals I found, he concluded, “Looks great.” I tried to pay, but my credit card initially declined the transaction because it looked suspicious. After about twenty minutes of fighting with the app, it went through. The confirmation email, or perhaps the promise of dry clothes, did much to lift our spirits. Though our check-in wasn’t for several hours, we decided to head to the house at once. Even if we couldn’t get in right away, we could snooze on the nearby beach, as both of us were still exhausted from our night of fragmented sleep. This turned out to be a wise choice, as it took us the entire duration to navigate the bus routes to the rental, which were non-consecutive and seemed to equally balance forward progress with backtracking.

At last, we arrived, a mere kilometer from the rental. We were more than happy to hoof it the rest of the way, but in so doing, we became sweaty, and our aches intensified. Just as we began to flag, we came upon a vibrant blue reinforced-concrete house. It was larger than I had expected, but it seemed deserted, as though it hadn’t housed occupants in several years. The check-in instructions were simple: a lock box containing a key. The interior gave the impression of a tomb, despite its spotless surfaces. The air was still and stale. Eduardo and I, without speaking, began opening windows and turning on ceiling fans. Our hosts had left two bottles of water and a few small yogurt cups in the refrigerator. We’d need provisions. Eduardo lay down on the carpet in the center of the living room and closed his eyes. His expression was gaunt.

“Hey,” I said to him, “I’m going to run out and grab some food.”

“Ehhhh,” he muttered back. I could tell he just wanted to sleep.

“Do you want anything?” I asked.

“Fried chicken,” he called back.

As I made my way out, I admired the house’s decorations. There were framed paintings in a traditional Japanese style. A ceramic vase in a glass cabinet also caught my eye. Glistening fissures ran across its glassy blue surface. I could not tell whether it was an antique, a recent work by a local artisan, or a cheap imitation from a thrift store. Nevertheless, I found it beautiful and wished I could bring something like that back to my apartment. Of course, there was nowhere in my five-hundred-square-foot space that could reasonably accommodate such an artifact. It would be in the way, and I was sure I’d knock it over at some point. At the very least, I was grateful that artworks like this existed, regardless of their provenance.

A short walk down the street sat a konbini with posters of ice cream cones in its windows. There, I purchased a pile of snacks and premade meals, some electrolyte beverages, and beer. The shopkeeper was pleasant and spoke English. When our exchange was done, I relished the opportunity to say “arigato gozaimasu,” the single phrase of Japanese I had memorized well enough to use in conversation. The shopkeeper seemed impressed and bowed farewell. I returned the bow, though I had never done this before, almost automatically. Then back out into the sunshine. Walking back to the house, I came upon a souvenir stand. It was a small stall, all flapping red canopy and poorly scrawled signs. Usually, I ignored such stores. I thought them traps meant to relieve dumb foreigners of their dollars, but I spied a ceramic piece on a high shelf near the back. Inside, there was an impossible trove of keychains. There were small sculptures of lions and even an imitation samurai sword.

One of the small lions closely resembled the guardians I had seen by the rental’s entrance, and it was small enough to fit in my pocket. I grabbed it and brought it to the teller. He sent a paragraph of indecipherable words tumbling toward me. My confusion must have been evident, for the shopkeeper hurried from behind the counter and went back to where I had found the small lion. He retrieved another very similar lion and brought it back to the register. He didn’t charge me extra, and I realized the price must have been for the pair. Then the man delicately wrapped the two lions in thin paper, placed them in a small paper bag, and handed them over to me. I thanked him, and was turning to go when he said, “Where you come from?”

I turned back around to face him and saw that he was holding out a laminated map of the world. I pointed at the United States, which had been colored in yellow. The man nodded before asking, “How you like it?”

I assumed he was referring to the island and tried to respond. Suddenly, my mind was stuck somewhere between English and bits of Japanese. The only reply I managed was, “Good, good!”

This didn’t seem to satisfy the shopkeeper, who continued pressing, “Where you stay?”

I gestured down the street and said, “Rental.”

His face made me shiver. It was like that of a man learning his father had passed away, yet without grief. Fear, disbelief, and horror mixed in an arrangement of muscle and skin that passed away almost as quickly as it had emerged. The expression conveyed far more than his words could.

“Blue?” He asked. I knew what he meant and nodded in response.

“It is uh… very bad,” he said.

“What is?” I asked.

He tried to explain, but I couldn’t understand. I left his shop feeling less elevated than when I had come in, though I was happy with my new pair of lions. I walked back along the wide street, which was busier than before. I passed fields of shoulder-high grass that obscured small concrete burial sites in their depths, set close to houses and shops, as though they possessed some right of eminent domain. The people I passed appeared happy, and the whole scene took on a glowing and light characteristic that led me to believe everyone was joined in some sort of shared vacationer’s pact. By the time I made it back to the house, the strange behavior of the shopkeeper had been forgotten.

Eduardo had regained some energy by the time I returned. His traveling bag had been opened in the living room, and his wardrobe had been dispersed across the furniture, presumably to air out. I found him working in the kitchen, where he had collected a small pile of bright blue petals and was boiling water in a kettle.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Butterfly peas,” he said. “You can make tea from them.”

“There’s a row of bushes outside,” he continued, pointing lazily toward the ocean.

When it had finished steeping, Eduardo added a touch of lemon and honey, giving the brew a purplish hue. We sipped in silence. It was lightly herbal, but lemon was clearly the dominant flavor. Refreshing, but I doubt I would have remembered it were it not for the luxurious stretch of beach, white and sandy, that I gazed upon as I drank. We did little that day. We needed to recover. Despite our inactivity, which elsewhere might have slowed time to a crawl, the afternoon hastened toward evening. The sun’s descent over the horizon made the cumulus clouds explode into hues of blue and pink. I finally understood what people meant by “cotton candy skies.”

We had to leave early. The buses to the airport came and went at their leisure, their timetable a forgotten suggestion. My clothes, sodden from the miserable night two days earlier, had dried on the patio, and I sensed on them a layer of salt. I passed through the kitchen on my way out and noticed a few vibrant blue petals, their edges curling, scattered where Eduardo had worked. I selected the most intact petal and pressed it inside the traveler’s journal I carried. There really was something about this place, I thought. It was as though someone had recreated the very image that came to my mind when I thought about paradise.

Fault Lines

The rental appeared unchanged in the photographs. I made the booking with some apprehension. Candice was the type of person who liked resorts, mostly for their convenience, and she was skeptical when I insisted that we choose a very particular accommodation, which delayed our trip by almost a month. She was still wrapped in the bliss of recent matrimony, and I suppose this increased her willingness to go along. The fourteen-hour flight was taxing, to be sure, and our luggage was a burden during our transfer at Haneda. Yet we made it. Where I had expected friction, there was just a sleepy response, “What next?”

We took a cab from the airport, surprisingly expensive.

“I thought everything was cheaper over here,” Candice mused. I held my breath.

The blue seaside house was, to my great relief, as it had been in my memories. Its paint hadn’t faded, or it had been given another coat. The interior was as clean as I had remembered, all transparent glass and unblemished tatami. Once again, the glistening vase, locked behind wood and glass, demanded my attention in the way some Christian relic atop an altar might. Candice gave it an appraisal in passing, “Oh! That’s cool!”

We were both exhausted, but I was so excited by my return that I went outside and began collecting petals from the butterfly peas growing in a neat row. In my haste, I didn’t realize that there was no lemon or honey in the kitchen. Without them, the brew was pale, almost like water. I sipped several cups greedily; Candice did not finish hers. She offered a compliment, of course, but I could tell that she was utterly indifferent. The only thing that roused her from the stupor of extended travel was the beach, glowing like a gemstone necklace draped carelessly along the water’s edge. Almost empty except for a few fishermen with impossibly long poles positioned in the distance, on a rocky outcropping that reached into the waves. We lay on beach towels. Though the water was as temperate as a bath, we only went in once, for about ten minutes. It seemed easier to float here than in the cold lakes back home, and I wondered if the salinity played a role, but only briefly. Relaxing under the sun’s rays demanded all my strength.

As twilight fell, the sand came alive with motion. Translucent crabs scuttled around us, leaving in their path a thin thread of disturbed sand. I was amazed at the speed with which these tiny creatures moved, but they unnerved Candice. She watched one for a moment and then decided, “Let’s go back inside.” Our hosts had left butter and bread in the kitchen, and it was the first meal of our honeymoon. Humble, yet somehow more satisfying than anything the nearby restaurants, their entrances marked by burning torches, could have offered us that night. We slept the sleep of the dead.

The next morning, I made more tea. I sweetened it with a paper sugar tube I found near the coffee maker. It felt as though the steaming liquid was melting away the subdued pain that had taken up residence in my knees and elbows while I was busy paying attention to other things. Its earthy tang felt drawn from a distant past, and I imagined I was somehow connected with the people across time who must have enjoyed the same brew.

“We should go to a tea ceremony,” I suggested.

“Hun, that’s more of a mainland thing,” Candice answered. She had done her research and, as always, was a bit grumpy in the morning.

That day led us to a nearby resort. Its sweeping stairs descended to a café and bar with fake palm trees and indoor pools that could have been found in Florida or California. The receptionists spoke English. The only reason I allowed myself to be drawn there was an online advertisement for an authentic onsen. It felt odd to be separated from Candice by the spa’s gender segregation. Yet that strangeness yielded to relaxation. We both left after two hours, in shared confusion about why we didn’t have this sort of luxury back home. A quick lunch, western style, at a food truck near the resort, done up in chrome to resemble a 1950s diner. I wanted to hike. She was interested in a snorkeling experience that promised to reveal the mysteries of the coral reef. The snorkeling was fully booked for the day, and so we decided to hike. We visited a beautiful cape that towered above rocky cliffs overlooking a booming sea. The heat bordered on unbearable, and I sweated more than I imagined was possible, having been depleted by the sauna that same morning. I spent the hike preoccupied with Candice’s comfort. I supposed it wasn’t possible for her to be enjoying herself in such conditions, but she wore a determined grin and made the best of the situation.

Our activities left us dehydrated and lethargic. We napped on the couches back at the rental. Once again, I was taken aback by the house’s stillness. Occasionally, a car would pass, or a group would walk along the beach outside, but the sounds they produced seemed distant. They posed no distraction, contrary to what I expected. It was as though they were part of another world, as if the house were enveloped in a strange bubble that had transported us to the most remote location imaginable.

“Can you shut the window?” Candice asked. “The noise from the street is bothering me.”

That evening, we had a late dinner at a yakiniku place that catered to tourists. In a strange irony, it had been done up with a variety of traditional mainland decorations: paper screen dividers, kana everywhere, statuettes, and landscape paintings. Yet the predominant language was not local. For the first time, I found myself distinguishing between Mandarin, Cantonese, and Korean. Candice grew animated. Her energy had returned. She began planning, like always.

“Have you heard of an HSA?” She asked me. I nodded. She’d told me about them before.

“Well, I think you need to set one up.”

I nodded and smiled.

“And we should get ready to set up a 529 plan,” she continued, “we should start setting aside some savings, so that we can open one, as soon as we’re ready.”

I tried to steer the conversation back toward tomorrow and what we would do after snorkeling.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Candice replied with just a hint of an eyeroll. Before long, we were back to career advancement and the long waiting lists for private school enrollment. The drinks were flowing. I had developed a taste for a local beer, named after one of the few constellations I could recognize in the night sky. Candice stuck with her usual mixed drink, but insisted it be served with a miniature umbrella, because this was a vacation after all. Her energy grew as the night went on. I watched as she went from type A to positively manic, not that I minded. As the moon rose, we fell into each other’s arms again, two exhausted bodies positively frantic in the tropical air.

The days and nights passed in this same energetic pattern. Slow mornings, slow afternoons, energy that built as evening fell and then erupted across the night sky. We swerved haphazardly between a Westerner’s idea of vacation activities and slower reprieves that could be described as cultural enrichment. On one of our final days, we came across a street parade. Men and women in colorful clothing danced in a rectangular formation. Some beat on drums, others sang, and one near the middle hoisted a giant pole adorned with leaves and a bright red crest. Their endurance was staggering. I couldn’t imagine summoning that degree of vigor in the sweltering afternoon. My enthrallment was total; even after the routine repeated for the third time, I kept watching. Candice had to pull me away to get us back to the rental.

On our last evening, I made another pot of tea. It left a faint blue veneer on my teeth, and I went to brush them. The three-way mirror in the bathroom gave me a panoramic view of my own face. A startling fuzz covered my chin; I hadn’t shaved, and my hair was ragged. I looked as though I had been surviving on a deserted island for weeks. Had someone with my visage stopped me on the street to ask for directions, I would have been terrified and suspected a robbery. Glancing down, I saw two glass cups sitting side by side. One was upside down, in the same orientation as when we arrived. The other was upturned, its contents our toothbrushes. Their bristles were mere inches apart. The sight left me with a quiet, inexplicable sadness.

Golden Fissures

Eduardo, my friend, died five years ago. He’d been picking his way along a narrow ledge above a gorge in Thailand when the rock gave way. I named my second son after him. Candice agreed, reluctantly, and months of debate ended as abruptly as a door shutting. Our first son had been named Josh without any such dispute.

“I told you they were too young for this flight,” Candice whispered, angry now. Ed had yanked the hair of the woman in front of us, and Candice had just finished smoothing it over. Luckily, the woman turned out to be a schoolteacher, unflappable, practiced, and kind. I agreed with her about their age. Long flights were one of those ordeals that, once you cut your teeth on them, you could survive again and again. I liked to think I was giving my sons the chance to become worldly, sophisticated even, though the thought felt faintly absurd. I handed Ed a tablet, the peace offering of modern parenthood.

Once we were outside, they became cooperative again. Josh was amazed by the little cars and debated endlessly about whether he’d be willing to drive one someday. The sight of kana on buildings astounded them both, and it reminded me of a time before I had realized life goes on here much the same as it does anywhere. A fighter jet roared overhead, and the boys gasped. I still looked at the machines in awe, at what terrors our engineers had unleashed, though my gratitude for their presence had begun to fade. We rented a car this time, the old threshold crossed. I was comfortable driving on the left.

Later that evening, I sat alone on the house’s balcony. Candice had taken the kids swimming. From above, I watched them as distant specks along the sandy strip below. This trip felt like a homecoming, though I had no right to the word. Ever since my first visit, I’d known I wanted to stay longer. Long enough for the sun to dehydrate me entirely, to tan me into something unfeeling and unbending. I checked the prices of similar homes nearby, as if curiosity were harmless. We could afford one, no question, but Candice would never agree. We’d have to empty one of our many accounts, all of them somehow perpetually underfunded. We had no clear path to residency, and having a second home we would visit once or twice a year felt like an absurd luxury. Besides, the kids had started school, the real anchor.

I wondered whether the blue seaside house would still have its hooks in me if I were able to return whenever I wanted. Maybe the enchantment was distance. Maybe it was longing. I didn’t have long to think. They would be back soon, spilling wet sand through the entryway and into the main room before they could be herded into the shower. Their crumpled water shoes sat in pairs, like shisa set to guard the door. Ed’s sand pail and miniature shovel found their way onto the kitchen counter, sitting with the dirty dishes as if they belonged there, too. I wouldn’t have much time for reflections this trip; our days were fully booked. At the end of each day, I’d collapse beside Candice on the queen-size bed with blankets that smelled like my grandparents’ guest room. We’d begin our nightly routine. Candice would pose questions that betrayed her anxiety about the future – worry as a form of planning.

“Do you think he’ll get into a good school?” She asked. “Ed, I mean. All he wants to do is play in the sand. Is eleven too old to play in the sand?”

“Hun,” I’d replied. “Ed is five. Josh is eleven.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, already half-asleep.

The kids loved visiting the castle ruins. They couldn’t care less about the breathtaking heaps of stone enclosing those flattened expanses. The intrigue of the ancient stairs, still doing their job after a millennium, was absolutely lost on them. They were disappointed that climbing on the precarious walls wasn’t permitted. What drew them in were the stalls selling shaved ice. This enticement alone was sufficient to inspire a day’s worth of exploration and travel on foot. Ed always ordered red; Josh, blue. They’d argue over whose was better, yet they never considered they could switch, nor had they considered that the coloration might be the only difference. Instead, they devoured them greedily, their teeth crunching, sending tiny crystals across their shirts. I delighted in their excitement at even the most routine activities.

Of course, I tried to show them the butterfly-pea tea. They weren’t old enough to appreciate it.

“This tastes like grass,” Josh informed me.

“How do you know what grass tastes like?” I asked. He went back to his tea, sheepish.

Candice didn’t want any. Maybe it did taste like grass. Nevertheless, when I found some dried seeds tucked in a kitchen drawer, left behind by another guest, missed by the cleaners. I stowed them in my luggage and vowed to grow my own bushes. In that way, I could at least bring a little of the peace I felt here back home. As the end of our trip approached, the kids grew restless. Candice and I tried to warn them we’d be heading back soon. The thought seemed to trouble them. In their own way, they’d found something here.

“Promise we’ll come back soon,” Josh begged. It wasn’t a promise I could make.

“We’ll see,” Candice assured them. How often those words meant no.

The last evening at the blue seaside house, we all went out to the beach after dinner. The sun was setting, casting thick rays like those on the 1870s Japanese flag, piercing the cloud cover and lighting the ocean like spotlights. I propped my phone against driftwood and ran back to Candice and the boys as the timer counted down. The result was less than I had hoped for. I captured the sun and the boys; Candice was looking away, and the house appeared only as a sliver of roof. I never sent the photograph to anyone.

Voices in the Storm

Apparently, Kama had never been entitled to the maternity leave the company promised. A few short weeks after returning to the office, she’d been placed on a performance improvement plan, along with two hundred other employees, by a newly arrived managing director. Several months later, regardless of her efforts, she and her entire cohort were terminated. The damage was more emotional than material, for Haru had kept his promise to support her. His assistance was subtle, masked with business-like titles that slowly brought her into the family business and, on paper, had her managing an expanding portfolio of rentals and even a small resort. Yet all she ever did was arrive with her camera, snap a few photos, and write appealing descriptions. This was enough to keep her pride in check, and so coming to rely on this income was a transition she was willing to accept. Besides, it allowed her to spend more time with her son in his formative years.

Her small apartment remained untidy, almost willfully so. The effort of putting things in their places didn’t seem justified, yet the clutter always bothered her. When she complained about this in one of their irregular reunions, Haru had suggested she assign one of the cleaning crews to her place – she had access to their scheduling system. Though Kama wanted to, something about it felt wrong, and so she lived with the mess. But this way of life irked her, never quite leaving the back of her mind, never quite allowing her to relax or slip into the peaceful motherhood she had imagined. Its effect was compounded by her termination, leaving her perpetually at home. After a few months, she needed an escape. One evening, after putting Minato down, after a bit of wine, Kama did something out-of-character. She reserved a weekend at her parents’ house.

The whole thing felt wrong, yet also, strangely just. It felt wrong that she should need to block off a date in a calendar so that a random stranger couldn’t use the house as a home base on a subtropical bender when she wanted to visit. However, she had passed up so many offers to visit on holidays, on so many opportunities to sleep in her childhood bed and pretend to love her mother’s cooking. It felt right, on a cosmic level, that she was now barred from entry by a procedure. The separation from her childhood by the networks, code, spreadsheets, and accounts by which the rental was managed felt warranted. A punishment, or maybe a form of rehabilitation.

Still, she made the booking and crossed the island so she and Minato could spend some time in her childhood home. She expected the return to be emotional. Maybe it would be grief, or perhaps nostalgia. Crossing the threshold was underwhelming. She carried Minato into the living room, then returned for her single suitcase. While she unpacked, Kama waited. While she made a small meal from the groceries she had purchased earlier, the premonition of something significant hung over her. But it didn’t come. There was only stillness: generic eastern prints hanging on the walls and rectangles of orange sunlight through the large, ocean-facing picture windows. At least Minato was content.

She silenced her phone, promising herself that for the next few days, she was stepping back from life. This was an opportunity for some much-needed rest. Kama grew bored. Boredom, she realized, was a comfort. She’d often felt bored within these walls as a girl, but then she’d longed to escape them. Now boredom was rare and welcome. Kama meandered aimlessly. She stared out the window at the crashing waves. For almost an hour, she sat on the front steps and watched traffic pass. Then, for a time, inspected the blue vase fixed in gold. A single spot of white light reflected on the vase’s surface, and when Kama closed one eye and moved her head, she could align that spot of light with any part of the vase. The spot seemed to change position as she did. This became a kind of game: Kama attempted to trace each crack on the vase’s surface – imagining the light as a soldering iron, reconnecting the fractured pieces.

Minato cried from the other room, and she hurried over. He just wanted her attention, and so she placed him in a carrier. Together, they went out the front. A narrow strip of concrete sidewalk led her around the side of the house, then toward the ocean. A thin strip of exposed earth separated the house from a retaining wall with a steep drop-off beneath which waves splashed over white sand. Along the ocean-facing wall, under the large windows, was a row of butterfly peas. It was early in the season, and their blossoms were just beginning to open. Kama admired them for a moment, and she pointed so that Minato could see. He didn’t care. No doubt a budding warrior, she thought. No time for flowers.

Kama paced the beach for a time. She thought about how eons had pulverized the chunks of dried coral, common on other beaches, into a fine powder that felt like a gentle massage on her exposed feet. Their promenade did not last long. Heavy clouds had formed on the horizon, and the wind began to tug at her hair. Kama shielded Minato’s face from the gusts, fearing they might carry sand, and hoped that they would dissipate. It became obvious they would not. The rolling waves sprouted white caps, and their dissolution upon the shore grew violent. Kama returned to the house and checked her phone. There was a weather advisory, but little information about its anticipated severity. Light faded, and with its demise came a pounding rain. She set up a portable travel crib for Minato in the living room and lay on the couch. Eventually, sleep overtook her.

Her rest was interrupted by howling wind and driving rain. By now, it was completely black outside. Her cellphone revealed the advisory had been upgraded to a warning. Minato was still sleeping peacefully. Kama went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She felt bits of sand still clinging to her feet as she crossed the tile floor. There was a small window in the kitchen that looked out over the beach. It was too dark to see through, but Kama wanted to know how intense the storm had become. She pushed the window open, finding it heavy but cooperative. The ocean’s fury leapt through the window. Heavy droplets splashed across her face, and loose hair slipped into her eyes. Kama frantically wrestled the window closed and stood there, aghast at her sudden drenching. Back in the living room, she changed her t-shirt and went to Minato’s side. He was sleeping despite the high-pitched whine that had begun as powerful winds swept across the exterior surfaces. There were strange creaks and the occasional clatter as small pieces of debris ricocheted against the reinforced concrete walls.

Kama began to worry. Multiple alerts from her weather app had gone off, but she’d slept through them. They described high winds, debris, and damage. She read through these carefully. There was no mention of sea level rise, and the only guidance was to shelter in place. A sudden crack made Kama jump and scream, a sound she suppressed immediately, lest she wake her sleeping child. She located the source of the noise. A piece of debris had collided with the massive picture window, sending a spider’s web of cracks radiating from a crater at their epicenter. Kama lifted Minato as gently as she could and shuffled into the kitchen’s walk-in pantry, the only room without windows. Barren shelves, where her parents’ provisions had once lived, still held the faint scent of dried noodles and dashi.

With her back against the wall, Kama slid down into a seated position with Minato breathing rhythmically against her chest. Her heart rate slowed. She looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Kama couldn’t fall asleep, nor was she fully awake. Her head nodded and felt fuzzy. The gale outside was muted by the heavy walls around them, and the sounds reaching them were oddly familiar. There was a rustling sound, like leaves carried along a sidewalk by an autumn breeze, but more rhythmic. As Kama listened, the storm’s gasps began to take the shape of words. And they weren’t just in one voice. There were multiple voices that seemed to be engaged in a conversation. Only then did Kama feel some of the emotion she expected upon arrival. Neither guilt nor shame. The realization that she would never be carefree again settled on her like a heavy blanket, and with it, a certain acceptance. The future unfurled before her as a great and terrible expanse, and she was acutely aware of how all the possibilities she had imagined when she was younger had been closed to her. Tears came to her eyes, and the whispers of the storm swelled, as if responding, or perhaps offering consolation. At one point, Minato woke. His lucidity was evident in his breathing. Kama looked down at him and saw that he was also listening. His eyes moved curiously about the darkened space, no doubt trying to locate the source of the ghostly interlocutors. She held him tighter.

The morning sky was the color of a long-healed scar. Fresh debris littered the street outside the house. A metal stoplight lay toppled like so many palm trees further inland, its roots a tangle of metallic cables. The house had sustained heavy damage overnight. Multiple windows were broken. The cable dish had been ripped free and was nowhere to be found. Kama circled the house, taking pictures that she was sure Haru would request when filing an insurance claim. A paddle board and a deflated rubber raft had been lofted into the backyard. The only thing left utterly undisturbed was the row of butterfly peas, somehow sheltered from the wind and rain. Kama picked a flower and tucked it behind Minato’s ear. He giggled softly, and she rubbed her nose against his.

Hearing

The representative from the preservation committee took the podium and cleared his throat, a small, practiced sound. Haru poured himself a glass of water from the nearby pitcher. It tasted faintly of plastic. He adjusted the nameplate in front of him, nervously. In business, he knew, risk could be minimized in myriad ways, but never eliminated. There were always unforeseen events, so-called unknown unknowns, that could change everything. He listened as the representative spoke, but it felt as though he already knew their central thrust. The representative’s words formed in Haru’s mind an instant before they were spoken. Nothing surprised him. The narrative arc of the presentation incorporated themes Haru knew all too well, reimaginings of the stories his parents had told him as a child, repackaged for the most bureaucratic audience imaginable.

“The blue tiles,” the representative said, pausing for effect, “found on the grounds of the residence in question date back to the 17th or possibly the 16th century. The rarity of blue tiles cannot be overstated. Such artifacts are exceptionally rare, vanishingly so. Their acquisition remains mysterious and suggests the residence was once of great local importance.”

The representative advanced to the next slide. It showed a picture of the vase, repaired in gold, that Kama has posted on the house’s rental page. Haru lowered his gaze. “We also have reason to believe that several artifacts from this period remain in the owner’s possession.”

“Uezu-san, do you dispute any of the claims presented to us today?” The elderly gentleman running the meeting asked. Haru was grateful Kama was not in attendance. He felt guilty about hiding this proceeding from her, but her presence would have made the affair far more painful.

Haru stood and said, “No,” quietly before sitting again. He felt as though he were on trial, as though he were facing great legal trouble, but that was not the case. There was nothing overtly punitive in the proceeding.

A protracted negotiation followed. The preservation committee attempted to buy the house outright, offering far above market value. Haru protested for a time, feebly. The sum was enough to secure Kama’s future, and Minato’s, for many years. In his mind, Haru tried to balance two competing obligations. First, Kama would never accept the sale. She had grown strangely attached to the house, abruptly, in May two years past. She spoke about voices in the storm. He had read about postpartum mental health issues online. The search results worried him. If he took the money, she would hate him. On the other hand, he was responsible for his younger sister’s well-being. His nephew’s as well. Sometimes, Haru thought, love took on the appearance of cruelty. It was time for him to act the part of the older brother.

A Blue that Stays

I was heartbroken in more ways than one, though at the time I pretended it was only geography that hurt. My return to the island was less about vacation than about feeling young again. I wanted to believe my life was still an open expanse of possibility and mystery. I wanted to escape the dry-mouthed mornings that had begun to define my days. The rental was no longer listed anywhere I could find. I wanted to contact the owners, but digging through old emails revealed nothing. No names. No threads to pull. A pressing anxiety had settled in, and even mundane difficulties began to resemble monsters demanding immediate attention. I saw black ships on the horizon, imagined, but no less convincing. For that reason, I settled on a room in a resort, as close to my seaside haven as I could find.

Its rooms were angular and smelled faintly of steam. My first order of business was to walk to the house, just to be sure it was still standing. Standing it was, unchanged. There, a solid block against the sea and sky, like an ode to time itself. I wondered about its new inhabitants, those lucky souls who owned my dream, but it looked empty, inscrutable. That day, I just wandered. The beach was still sunny, the water still warm. The vegetation remained dense and lush. The shopkeepers were cheerful, or at least performed cheerfulness well. My mind was distant. The fracture was too fresh, too extensive, for healing to begin. I went to a nearby temple and butchered the ceremony, clapping at the wrong time, pulling the rope the wrong way so that the bell’s ringing was choked. Then, as night fell, I returned to the house. Walking along the path by the beach, I saw the butterfly peas in bloom – perpetual.

Dried pods hung from the stems. I remembered taking the same pods from a kitchen drawer years earlier. What had become of those? I suspected they had long since been ground into a fine powder in one of my suitcases’ pockets. I looked on either side, my pulse quickening. The beachside path was empty, aside from two locals, far away, wading into the surf. I doubted even my gaijin status would excuse the trespass, but I hopped the low wall into the blue seaside house’s yard. The dark pods came free easily, rough against my palms, and I carried them back to my room at the resort like fragile pearls. They made the trip home with me, delicately padded, illicit.

From the pods, I extracted the seeds. After our separation, I had downsized considerably. My new apartment block had a single lot, a badly overgrown half-acre, for all residents to use, though no one ever did. In the corner of the lot, next to the cinderblocks, I tended a small patch of earth. This became the seeds’ final resting place. Over the following months, I lavished them with attention. Half of me feared the tan earth would become another grave, yet another place where I had buried the past. The other half was still free enough to hope that they would grow and blossom one day. I clung to the image of a blue that stays.