Chapter Twelve

Love is resolve.

It all came down to how deeply one could feel for another.

To those who merely watched from the sidelines, anyone who remained true to their love must have appeared as an eccentric—out of step, even deviant. Even if love were to succeed, one had to endure the criticism and cynicism that inevitably followed from others.

Love was not simply sweetness; it was something one could stake their life on.

Those who couldn’t comprehend that would scoff and belittle it.

The bystanders stayed uninvolved, safely removed from love itself, laughing at it from a distance. But true love existed on a plane far beyond their mockery.

There was beauty in setting sail upon love’s stormy sea—even if it meant drowning. There was beauty in being consumed by the very fire of love.

That high school boy had been the same.

Without anyone knowing, without anyone ever truly reaching him, he had quietly sunk alone into the sea of love.

To those who mocked him as weak, love had never been something worth risking one’s life for.

I found myself fascinated by his actions.

He had rowed a boat into the wintry sea and taken his own life. But where had the boat come from? Was it just there by chance? Had he bought it? Did he know it was there? Had he planned this, or was it impulsive? Did he leave a note? One question after another began to arise.

I asked Nao to copy the newspaper article about the boy.

Several papers reported the event as follows:

On [Month] [Day], [Year], the body of a seventeen-year-old high school student, A, was found floating in the sea by a local fisherman. The boy was pulled ashore, but showed no signs of life. Authorities believed he had rowed out in the early morning hours and jumped into the sea in an act of suicide. The cause of death was determined to be hypothermia from plunging into the frigid water.

All the newspaper articles were of similar length and tucked away in the corners of the local editions.

The boat had been used for beachgoers at a seaside hut until a few years ago and had since been left to weather in the open. Though it had rotted somewhat, in the face of death, such damage must have seemed inconsequential.

He knew the boat was there.

He took it, rowed out to sea, and jumped in at an appropriate distance. Signs of deliberate planning were evident.

Following the incident, the remaining few old boats were disposed of. The local government had decided it was to prevent children from accidentally losing their lives.

But in truth, it was also an act of quietly laying his "vessel" to rest in this world.

I searched online for boats.

They were expensive, but an inflatable boat was within reach. White would have been ideal, but no suitable ones came up.

To me, the inflatable boat was not merely a boat—it was a white burial robe worn by a samurai preparing for seppuku.

If I could get one, I’d also buy white paint and plan to repaint it entirely.

Layer by layer, without a single blotch or uneven patch, I would paint it into a flawless white.

It would become the perfect white coffin for this plan.

Entrusting my body to the pure white boat, I would let it sink among the waves—as if quietly retreating from the filth of this world.

“Looking at boats? Nice. Will you take me for a ride?”

Nao peeked over my tablet.

“Shut up.”

She pouted and drew back.

“You’ve been grumpy lately.”

“Because you’re always interrupting.”

“Well, if you’re gonna say that, I won’t tell you something good. About that high school boy.”

I looked away from the tablet and at Nao.

“That boy?”

“Yeah. A classmate of mine knows him well.”

“What do you mean?”

I leaned forward, eager to know more.

According to Nao’s classmate, here’s what happened:

He was an only child who had gone on to a local high school. His grades weren’t bad, and national universities were within his reach.

However, in his third year, his rankings plummeted after a mock exam, and around that time, his relationship with a girl came to light.

His father found out and complaints reached the household.

He was harshly scolded by his family and accused of letting the relationship hinder his studies.

Both families forbade the relationship, but the two continued meeting in secret.

When it was discovered again, he despaired and chose suicide.

There was no note, but a single line remained on the edge of the boat:

“Ah, life is an enigma.”

A bottle of ink and a brush were found inside the boat.

The local government claimed it was “for children’s safety,”

but beneath that façade lay a clear intent to erase his presence from this world.

The boy was a martyr of beauty.

His act was pure to the point of being ascetic, a silent gesture of severe beauty that judged the ugliness of this world.

The single line left on the boat’s edge:

“Ah, life is an enigma.”

That was his clearest philosophy—his swan song, penned not with a voice but with brush and ink.

That’s why he chose sumi ink and classical Chinese style.

Had he written in ballpoint pen, marker, or in hiragana, its weight would have diminished.

He clearly knew of Fujimura Misao’s suicide note and deliberately modeled his act on it.

Society could not forgive him.

The reason was simple: it was too beautiful.

Beauty is always a threat to the majority.

Purity exposes the darkness in institutions, stripping off the mask of mediocrity.

His boat was both “coffin” and “sanctuary.”

Behind the decision to remove it was not cold malice, but rather an intense fear.

A society that glimpses a martyr cannot bear to remember it.

Thus, his boat was quietly executed and vanished from the sea.

It was not the boy who was condemned,

but the truth embodied in his death.

And the real defendant was the atmosphere that sought to deny that truth.

It was society itself that was the criminal bystander.

A martyr unrecognized by others is, inevitably, alone.

That loneliness was the guardian of his doctrine, a fortress of the soul built from stones of silence.

Those who protect solitude become taciturn, cutting ties with the world.

He refused to become one of the parasites clinging to doctrine under the banner of religious institutions, merely seeking handouts.

What the world finds unnecessary ought to perish.

He never intended to save the world.

Rather, it was the world that ought to be rejected—by him.

“It’s already Obon,”

Nao said as she placed the paperback she had been reading on her lap and turned to gaze out the window.

“I want to see the Daimonji bonfire.”

Just imagining the great “大” character burning on Mount Nyoi behind Ginkakuji sent a chill down my spine. On this night, the skies over the ancient capital would be lit with flames forming the characters for “Left Daimonji,” “Myoho,” “Funagata,” and “Torii.” Across those five mountains, the spirits of the dead lay hidden, scattered among the darkened slopes. Through every alleyway and street, in every corner of the night, one could sense the breath of the dead. The frustration of being unable to experience that in this rural town twisted painfully inside me.

“I want to go to the Bon Odori. We’re already practicing. There’s going to be a district-wide dance festival on the first day of Obon.”

“Are you going to wear a yukata?”

“My mom’s going to help me put it on. Since she has the day off during Obon, we’re going in matching yukatas.”

I pictured people dancing in circles around the raised platform to the rhythm of the Bon dance songs. Surrounding them were colorful food stalls, filling the air with mouth-watering aromas. The dancers’ faces were all aglow with joy and laughter.

“Why does everyone look like they’re having such a good time?”

I wasn’t being excluded—I was the one doing the excluding. I had no intention of blaming those who danced. Rather, I chose to walk the path of solitude. That image—the solitary seeker—was the one that deserved praise.

“I hope you get better soon, so we can go to the Bon Odori together.”

Nao’s words were steeped in the decay of reality. There was no trace of idealism in them.