#Shirokuma Literature Club: The Soil Remembers Everything - A Short Fiction Story -

I am participating in Kosuke Komaki's fun project, "On a Sunny Day."

The deadline is Wednesday, 3/11, 23:59. Thank you for your support.

*This story is a work of fiction.

A letter arrived from my grandmother, who passed away three years ago.

That message quietly guided me to the "now," which is neither the past nor the future.

This is the story of a letter received in the wind.

The soil remembers everything

That day was dazzlingly clear.

When I opened my apartment mailbox, there was one old envelope.

The moment I saw the sender's name, my breath stopped.

Yae Watanabe.

It was my grandmother's name.

It has been three years since my grandmother passed away.

The postmark on the envelope was dated three years ago.

A chill ran down my spine, but my hand moved naturally to open the seal.

On the stationery, there was only one sentence written in a gentle hand.

"You must not let the persimmon tree in the garden cry."

There was a strangely nostalgic scent of ink.

With university on spring break, I decided to return to my hometown for the first time in a while.

I didn't tell my mother anything.

I hadn't stepped foot in my grandmother's house since the funeral that day.

The house was silent.

Sunlight bled through the shoji screens, and the smell of the tatami mats was just as it had always been.

When I went out into the garden, the persimmon tree had branches that were withering here and there.

The stepladder my grandmother always used for pruning was still leaning against the wall, rusted.

The words about not letting it cry stuck deep in my chest.

What could it mean for a tree to cry?

I put on my work gloves and began pulling weeds in the garden.

From beneath the dead leaves, pebbles, insect cocoons, and a rusted shovel emerged.

The scent of the soil clung to my hands, and my heart felt a little lighter.

As I became absorbed in pruning the branches, the shape of the tree became clear.

That night, while organizing the storage room, I found another envelope deep inside an old drawer.

It was addressed to me.

There was no postmark.

When I opened the envelope, it was written in my grandmother's handwriting.

Listen to the sound when the wind stops.

The moment I finished reading, the wind outside suddenly stopped.

The sound of insects and the ticking of the clock fell perfectly silent.

Instead, a nostalgic humming flowed into the depths of my ears.

It was the lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me on nights when I couldn't sleep as a child.

As if guided, I stepped out onto the veranda.

Moonlight enveloped the garden.

The base of the persimmon tree appeared to glow with a faint, pale light.

When I approached, the soil there was softly mounded.

When I dug with my hands, a small tin can appeared.

Inside were an old photograph and a single note.

In the photo, my grandmother was smiling in her youth.

I was on her lap as a small child.

The note read as follows:

If you ever lose your way in the future, talk to this tree. Because the earth remembers everything.

The moment I traced the letters, my vision blurred.

Suddenly, a breeze blew, and the wind that touched my cheek gently wiped away the warmth of my tears.

It was as if it were whispering, 'That is just fine.'

The next morning, when I went out into the garden, a single white flower was blooming on the tip of a persimmon branch.

I knew that persimmons bloomed, but this was the first time I had ever seen such a small flower.

The sky I looked up at was clear as far as the eye could see.

At that moment, the same warmth as the smile my grandmother once showed me lit up deep within my chest.

On a sunny day, my grandmother's letter arrived.

Perhaps it was a hand-delivered message, lost in the wind.

~ The End ~

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