The slight breeze dropped away, and the room became still. Rintaro turned to see that the fusuma door had closed again.
“Do y—”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but stopped again right away. The room was quiet again as he searched for the right words. Finally, he seemed to settle on a phrase.
“Do you love books?”
It wasn’t the abruptness of the question that surprised Rintaro. It was the sincere light that radiated from the man’s eyes. It was such a difference from the coldness, the overbearing attitude he had demonstrated until now. It was a light that showed a new kind of consideration, along with a deep sense of loneliness.
“Despite everything, do you still love books?”
The phrase “despite everything” held so much meaning. Rintaro took a moment to consider all its implications.
“I do,” he said firmly.
“Me, too.”
The man’s voice was softer; the steely edge was gone. He sounded almost spiritual.
Suddenly Rintaro heard a curious sound that reminded him of the gentle whispering of a breeze. He looked around to see that the whole room had begun to transform. All the giant display cases—once the man in white’s pride and joy—were beginning to collapse like sandcastles. One by one, the books soared into the air, like birds taking flight.
“I really do love books, you know.”
And with that, the man carefully closed the book he’d been reading, tucked it under his arm, and stood up. As he did so, the nearest display case crumbled into dust, its books now a flock of migrating birds. Rintaro watched in awe as the whole room filled with flapping books. The man in white looked at him.
“You’re an impressive young man.”
“I’m not really—”
The man held up a hand to cut him off, then glanced to the side.
“It turns out you invited in the most troublesome guests,” he said, with a smile.
Rintaro realized he was addressing the woman in the kimono, who had materialized out of nowhere. She looked different. Back when she’d met them at the gate, she’d had no expression, almost as if she were wearing a mask. Now there was a smile on her face.
“You don’t need any help getting home. You’ll find your way,” said the man.
His voice rang out over the flapping of the winged books.
As the last of the bookcases turned to dust, a pale, bluish light began to fill the room, reflecting off the pages of the migrating books and turning the air into a whirl of whiteness.
The man looked at his wristwatch.
“Well, you certainly took up a lot of my time. But I must confess it was the most enjoyable I’ve ever spent. I’m very grateful to you.”
The woman handed him a white hat, which he placed on his head, and he turned to leave.
“Au revoir,” he said.
The woman beside him had just started to lower her head in a bow when a sudden flash turned everything blinding white.
*
At 7:00 a.m. the following day, Rintaro was in the kitchen. He finished his breakfast and opened the door to the bookshop. He went in, turning on the lights, raising the window blinds, and letting some air into the space. The cold breeze that poured in blew away the old, stagnant air. Rintaro swept off the stone steps that led to the door, then switched his broom for a feather duster and set to work dusting off the bookshelves.
This routine was one his grandfather had performed every morning. It was the same scene he’d observed every morning before going to school, but today was the first time he’d ever performed the routine himself. He’d picked up and read so many of the books in there, but he’d never once helped with the cleaning.