Yuichi Hisakawa rode to the same spot every day. He enjoyed the feeling of wind and sun on his skin. 

But it wasn’t always sunny. 

On this day the sky was heavy with a sheet of clouds – low and thick, undulating like dunes over his head. The droplets that spattered his jacket and the chill that invaded his knuckles reminded him that a life was not made of single beautiful days – it was punctuated with storms and humidity, sun and snow. 

He could navigate the streets of Ueno with his eyes closed. The dense populace, tight under their umbrellas, knew when to move and when not to – just as the taxis and the private vehicles edged from one space into another effortlessly. His bicycle knew the path like an old dog might and he let it guide him – his hands carefully adjusting the wheels, his feet providing impetus, his heart and lungs burning fuel. 

Shinobazu Pond was exactly seven minutes from his home. After he had retired, stepping away from the family business that delivered bento boxes to corporate offices – handing the successful venture into his son’s eager hands – he had felt a great weight lift from his tired shoulders. The price of success was time, and time had been particularly costly to his marriage. But it was not the only pressure that drove his wife to seek solace elsewhere. Yuichi was a sad man and that had been the essence of her departure. 

Work had given him a block of maple to shape, using everything at his disposal that could distract him from the sickness in his belly. All of his efforts had refined a great statue for his son, and yet each chip, each whittle of the deep red fiber, took from his wife. 

He had taken refuge in its creation and he had cast her out to sea alone. 

When he reached the pond he flipped the kickstand down and retrieved the small bag from his basket. The chilly wind had cut through his thin clothes and his knuckles ached when he made fists to warm them up. He tucked his hands up into his armpits, the damp of his jacket clinging to him and seeping through with his touch, and made his way to his usual seat. 

Sparrows and insects flittered about beneath a roughly constructed roof that stood over a small cluster of tables and chairs. At their edge, one at either end, stood two short bench-seats directed so that the attendant might look out over the lilies and meditate on the problems plaguing his soul. Yuichi took one of these bench seats, lowering himself carefully down as his knees popped in protest. 

Behind him, a couple with a small girl whispered and pointed out over the rain dappled water. The wide leaves of the densely clustered lilies swayed as droplets collected on their vibrant faces before being drawn downwards – streaks of glittering life – into the plant’s great maw. Mosquitos and spiders skipped across the water, their feet clinging to the delicate skin of the surface with just enough traction to propel them further in their unknowable quests. The little girl was giggling, her fingers spread excitedly as small birds hopped mere inches outside of her reach. The creatures were almost tame, but wary of children – careful of unpredictability. 

Yuichi settled his weary bones and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The rain in the distance thickened into a sheet of grey, its sound making a shushing noise against the water and the plants. He was tired and his heart ached.

He opened the small bag he’d brought – the little birds suddenly recognising him, or the symbolism of his position, or the sound of their salvation being unpacked. In a weathered hand he flicked a small bundle of seeds onto the gravel near his feet before creating a cup containing more within his two overlapping palms. 

He closed his eyes.

The chittering of the sparrows increased and when he focused he could hear the little shuffle of their feet as they danced about their afternoon snack. He imagined them smiling and thanking him for his generosity – a gesture entirely unnecessary, or so he had tried to explain on days past. The whistling of insects grew in the middle-range of his ears occasionally punctuated by the soothing trickle of water shaped from the mouths of giant carp gumming at the surface of the pond. 

He heard his son and with the vision inside his head, saw the boy bowing gracefully, accepting the fruit of his life’s labour. He was a beautiful boy – he had become a beautiful man, shaped by his mother’s long face and delicate cheeks and given character by his father’s thick brow and playful eyes. When Yuichi looked at the boy he saw his wife and smiled.

His lips quivered with the movement. 

The smile, as much a show a recognition and pride as a wound of remembrance, wavered and twisted. In the corners of his old eyes, amidst the lines of his sun-weathered face, water blossomed as carefully as a flower opening to the light. The tears grew slowly – wider and heavier – and then tumbled clumsily over his cheeks to the ground. 

She had left for the same reason that he had taken refuge in work. 

She couldn’t bear to see him. 

She had tried so hard at first – lying awake beside him and tracing the contours of his skin, whispering sweet nothings, and rationalising the depths of their combined strength. But what Yuichi had suspected had been entirely true. The strength was all hers and it was impossible for him to explain. When their eyes met, she had seen a rock that she could cling to – someone she could weather the storm of their loss with – something that could shield her while withstanding the barrage of their tragedy. 

He had seen their daughter. 

Her dark eyes, filled with love and secrets, and a mouth and nose hinting, just enough, at the face he knew from the mirror. The trace elements of a masterpiece that could never be copied or recreated. The little girl that reached out from his wife’s beautiful face to remind him never to forget her. To haunt him with the knowledge that, in his heart of hearts, she was his – and she was gone. 

When his eyes finally creaked apart, their vision awash with the blur of his sorrow, a shape sat majestically on the tips of his fingers. Its movements were so quick as to appear instantaneous. Its beak twitched with nervous chittering. Its great dark eyes watching him – first one, then the other, as it turned its head from side to side. 

He wondered if the bird could advise him. Would it share the secrets that it undoubtedly possessed? How might he overcome his grief? Could the little creature carry away a message to his daughter and tell her of his enduring love and beg to be set free from the yoke of her passing?

His eyes implored the soothsayer.

The sparrow said its words in the language of its species. All the secrets of a carefully observer locked away behind the sounds that held no meaning to his old ears. It bent its head, its beak grazing the skin of his palm, and nibbled at the trap he had set.