Kiyoshi sat at the table in his house. The door was shut, and he was alone.
His notebook lay open on the table, turned to the page beside his hand.
The corners were frayed, the edges soft to the touch.
This was the page he had turned to most often.
He did not turn past it. He simply pressed his palm against the paper, working outward from the crease to flatten the page.
The middle of the page arched up. It took two passes to press it flat.
One name per line, all in his handwriting, light at the start of each stroke, heavy at the end.
On the other lines, each name was followed by half a sentence, a few words that brought it to a close.
Only the last line could not be finished. The space for the name stood empty, with three characters weighing down the end.
Those three characters read: too late.
A neat crease ran across the top of the page, made on the day he had written it, by his own hand.
The edges and corners of the notebook's cover had worn round. Even laid flat, it did not dig into his hand.
Pressure marks framed the notebook's edges. The deepest ones had all come from pressing this page.
He withdrew his hand and rested it on the edge of the table.
The brush lay on its stand, its tip pointing toward the wall.
The inkstone sat at the far end of the table's edge.
Half a cup of water stood at the corner, cold through and untouched.
The window was shut. Its paper covering had yellowed, but the corners were intact.
Someone was talking in the street. Through the door, the words did not form sentences.
When they finished, the street settled again.