The House Where You Can't See What's Missing

It was when my best friend, Leo, moved to a depopulated village that I started to wonder what true abundance really is.

Leo's new home is a solitary house deep in the mountains. When you open the veranda, you can see the mountainside across a wide garden, but there isn't a single other house in sight.
Leo became the owner of that mountain, too.

Living in a depopulated village was a dream he had chased and saved money for for over ten years.
He reached this point after speaking directly to a pioneer YouTuber, receiving their advice and encouragement.

The house is about 165 square meters, and the garden is four times that size.
It is a single-story house with an attic, and when you enter the entrance, there is a dining table in the dirt-floored area of about 14 square meters.

The previous owner reportedly let go of the house just last year. It was well-cleaned, and signs of a life lived with care remained everywhere.

What surprised me was that even after moving into this house, I couldn't think of a single thing that was missing.

Everything necessary for daily life was already there. Some items were even brand new and unopened. It was a luxurious beginning, as if he were simply taking over the previous owner's life.

I truly thought it was luxurious.

The newly papered shoji screens were a light-filled white, resonating softly with the whiteness of the paulownia chest of drawers.
When you stepped out onto the veranda, there was a single wooden rocking chair facing outward,
sitting there as if to say, "Take it easy."

The bedroom is about 21 square meters. Aside from the bed, there is nothing else.

In the adjacent room, which is about 7 square meters, there were three vacuum cleaners. Or maybe there were four.
A kotatsu, a heater, and an electric fan were all neatly organized and placed there.

The kitchen stove didn't have a single trace of a spill, and I could tell at a glance that the table made of a single board and the cupboard made of the same material were high-quality items.

In the outdoor shed, there was a barbecue set, a rice milling machine, a Kärcher high-pressure washer, and a lawnmower; some of the brand-new tools still had their packaging on them.

Next to the shed, there was an antique bench with thick legs, and what I want to call a chicken coop—but it was a chicken palace with beautiful wood grain, varnished edges, and transom carvings.

Perhaps these luxurious items, which I hesitate to call just an old folk house, only shine so brightly because Leo and I are the ones looking at them.

To others,
"It's a nuisance. It's still new, let's just sell it at Second Street."
I feel like they would just throw it away, saying, "This is just trash."

Looking around, I couldn't think of anything that was missing. At most, it's inconvenient because the convenience store is far away,
or the lack of public transportation like trains.
The neighbor's house is just incredibly far away.

From a corner of the shed, a driver's license belonging to a 107-year-old person was found. They had a kind-looking face. I could tell from the name that it was the original owner.

According to the town office that mediated the house, it seems the owner let go of the house before they passed away.

When I imagine the thoughts the owner and their family had as they repapered the shoji, wiped the tatami, furniture, and floors, and walked out the front door, I hesitated to put it into words.

It was I who had been looking for what was missing.

#KonishiKinoko-san
#NannoHanashidesuHouse