Chapter Thirteen

Researching white paint and inflatable rafts was as enjoyable as the day before a school trip.

Among the many available products, comparing the durability and price of different rafts gave a tangible sense that I was steadily drawing closer to my goal.

Which paint was the whitest?

What defined the standard of "whiteness"?

Which manufacturer had the best reputation for pure white paint?

I searched for those answers.

What should I wear on the day?

Should I go with my school uniform?

A white suit?

Or something more casually white?

My imagination expanded in every direction.

These days, black is the standard color for funerals, but historically, white was more common. White was the color most closely associated with death.

I thought of buying new white undergarments, choosing the highest quality ones I could find. I searched for ones that were as expensive as possible.

I had already decided to write my farewell note on the rim of the inflatable raft.

But then, a sudden question occurred to me:

Would India ink adhere to water-repellent paint?

After doing some research, I discovered that if I used a matte acrylic paint, it would allow India ink to be written over it.

Moreover, if I sanded the surface with waterproof sandpaper after painting, giving it a rough texture, the ink would stick even better.

I realized I needed to test this.

And if it still didn’t work, I considered using an oil-based brush pen as an alternative.

I wrote all of this down in my notebook.

I passed the time vividly and energetically through these tasks.

A pleasant fatigue wrapped around my body.

Just like how one might feel after a weekend hike—tired, but the more thrilling the experience, the more deeply satisfying that fatigue became.

Wrapped in a refreshing mood, I stretched my arms up toward the ceiling.

Nao glanced up from her book, looking at me from beneath her lashes. Realizing it was just a stretch, she returned her gaze to the pages.

Straightening my back, I looked out the window.

Tall yellow flowers were blooming among the pine trees.

At their base, clusters of low, reddish-purple flowers gathered close to the ground.

“I wonder what those flowers are,” I said.

Nao stood by the window and looked out over the hospital grounds.

“They’re evening primroses. They only bloom from dusk to night.”

Though those tall yellow flowers only bloomed at night, they still flaunted their height arrogantly, as if to boast their presence.

“And those reddish-purple ones are called Yuugesho—‘Evening Makeup’. I like that flower.”

“Yuugesho?”

“It means putting on makeup in the evening. It’s part of the same family as the evening primrose and also blooms at night, but because it’s red, they say it’s like a woman putting on makeup at dusk. That’s why they call it ‘the courtesan’s flower’.”

“You know a lot about flowers.”

“Well, I am a girl, you know. I looked them up. What’s interesting is that even though they’re from the same family, their meanings are a little different.

Evening primrose means ‘silent love’, and Yuugesho means ‘timidness’.

Because they bloom at night, they have these kinds of meanings.

But… ‘timidness’—it feels like… being timid in love.”

The thought of flowers that bloom in the night, quietly and secretly longing for love, stirred something pitiful in me.

“Takehisa Yumeji wrote a poem about it,” she said.

‘Matedo kurasedo konu hito o / Yoi-machi-gusa no yarusenasa’

—“Waiting and waiting, yet he never comes… the helpless sorrow of the evening primrose.””

“You’re good at poetry, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m good at Japanese language.”

“How do you study Japanese?”

“I don’t. People always ask me how I study subjects I’m good at, or why I’m good at them—but honestly, I don’t know.”

“Maybe I’ll try writing a tanka poem…”

I said “tanka,” but what I really had in mind was something more like a death poem.

Something to add a poetic flourish to the plan.

When I looked again,

Evening Primroses were swaying—

a single petal

of summer

saying goodbye.

"How about this?"

"It's nice, but 'When I looked again' feels wasteful. You're already seeing the scene, so you don’t need to say it explicitly."

"I see—since I’m already looking, it doesn’t need to be explained."

"Exactly. With such limited syllables, it’s a shame to waste them."

With Nao’s help, something like a death poem took shape.

Swayed by the wind,

evening primroses redden—

I set out alone

across the sea of the moon

at the age of sixteen.

"I think that’s a beautiful poem, Yu-chan."

Nao seemed unchanged as usual, but there was a brief flicker in her eyes, as if searching for something.

A knock came at the door, and Haruka entered the room.

In that instant, the air changed.

With every move she made, a faint shimmering fragrance trailed behind her, and a subtle radiance seemed to rise in her wake.

If she were the Virgin Mary, this hospital room would be no less than a sacred place.

After Haruka arranged the medicine on the night table and left, silence returned to the room.

Nao read over the tanka again.

“It really is… a beautiful poem.”

Her tone was calm, but a hint of unease crept into her voice.

“You're not… planning a trip or something, are you? It’s a little scary.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Yuta nodded slightly, but his gaze drifted off somewhere far away.

It was as if he was completely absorbed in crafting the beauty of his “final” act, and Nao’s words never reached him.

“Hey… Yu-chan.”

Nao continued, carefully choosing her words.

“You’re not… thinking something weird, are you?”

Her sentence broke off there.

Yuta turned to her, his face suddenly stern.

“Shut up! Don’t say unnecessary things!”

“I’m just worried about you.”

“I said shut up!”

Nao gave a strained smile.

“If you’re really going on a trip, take me with you.”

“There’s no way I could take you with me.”

“So you really are planning to go… Why?”

Nao, with her gift for language, had seen through him.

The “sea of the moon” wasn’t just a poetic fantasy.

To set out across it meant death.

He was once again struck by the sharpness of her intuition.

“If it’s with you, I can go too.”

“Don’t say such nonsense! You just pity me.”

“That’s not true! I mean it—Nao is serious!”

“Shut up! Get out!”

“Yu-chan!”

“I said get out! Don’t ever come here again!”

Without another word, Nao closed the book in her hands.

The sound of her fingers flipping through its pages again and again echoed softly.

She stared out the window at the Evening Primroses and the Blushflowers.

Behind him, he sensed the door quietly closing.

The Evening Primroses and Blushflowers blooming in the pine forest swayed gently, as if nothing had happened.

The moon, now in its "Tachimachi" phase—the evening just after the full moon, when it rises slightly later but early enough to be awaited standing—cast its pale glow over the sea beyond the pines, illuminating the red and violet flowers with quiet grace.