The attraction to the novels by Soseki Natsume led him to the fate to work as an English teacher of the language school in Matsuyama, the left upper side of the western island of Japan. With the gray hair, the blue eyes, the fair skin, the black jacket and the big blue marker in his left hand, he stood in front of the whiteboard of the room 303 every Thursday. That was Roy. After all, he was just an English man. The question of his age was the silent taboo of the class, just like the fact that Soseki meant nothing more than the previous man on the 1000 yen bill to this girl who only lived for 10 years. His tall figure and foreignness to Japanese culture were often seen as coldness to the eyes of hers, but he always enthusiastically hand wrote earthworm-like words on her report cards, which nobody but he could decode. On Saturdays, passing right in front of her house, he joyously rode his bicycle down the road, always heading for Dogo, where Soseki lived and loved. For her, all of these were the charms of his.

In 10 years, Roy was, of course, still an English man, but he retired from work and eventually returned to England. With the white hair, the red sweater, the outstanding stomach and his favorite novel, Kokoro, in his arm, he slowly sat down on the old brown wooden chair on the night when the snow decorated the view from the window of his apartment. In the early morning, when the snow was still there, he opened up his old-fashioned black leather notebook and wrote down his memory of Matsuyama with the earthworm-like words, which nobody but he had to decode. When the sun boldly painted the gray sky of London, he took Bakerloo line from Paddington to Waterloo to see his wife’s smile in the hospital, thinking how Piccadilly Circus changed since the time he dated her. As always, as soon as he arrived to her room, he sat on her bed with his black leather notebook and spoke of his memory to her, which she loved more than anything.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

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