The Story of Buying a Book Without Knowing Its Title

I bought a book at a used bookstore. I bought it simply because I was drawn to its beautiful lapis lazuli-colored cover, without having the slightest interest in what was written inside. That's strange. I usually buy books because I want to read them, so why did I do that today of all days? I brought it to the register without even looking at the title, the author, or the price.
And in exchange for a thousand-yen bill, it was handed to me in the usual brown paper bag, stamped with the Mimosa rubber stamp of "Mimosa Used Bookstore." If I were to run into a friend right now and they asked, "What kind of book did you buy?" I would probably turn bright red and stammer. If I couldn't answer, they would surely look down on me, thinking, "What! You bought a book without even knowing the title?"
Imagining this, I walked home with a slightly springy step, happy to have bought the book, while praying that I wouldn't run into anyone.
I started to feel more cheerful and, for no reason at all, cut through the park.
"Excuse me."
I was addressed. I stopped in my tracks, startled. Oh no.
"That book..."
Oh no. It was about the book after all.
I looked down, closed my eyes to avoid seeing the person, and pressed the brown bag I was holding tightly against my chest. The paper bag crinkled.
What should I do? Should I just bolt? Should I run away?
Wait? Why would I run away? Huh?
I suddenly calmed down, looked up, and saw the person.
The person was a pigeon-human.
In other words, a person (?) with the head of a pigeon and a human body from the neck down, just like the figures often seen in picture book illustrations, was standing in front of me and had called out to me.
The human part was dressed in a gray men's suit. When I looked down again, I saw they were also wearing proper black leather shoes.
But when I looked up again, the face was no longer a pigeon's. I must have misseen it. It was because I had been walking around feeling nervous and thinking strange things.
I tried asking, "May I help you?" with an exceptionally composed face and voice.
Even when the person was a pigeon-human, for some reason I felt completely fine, and now that they looked like an ordinary, harmless young salaryman, it was easy to act sophisticated. After all, I was wearing a cute dress today and my hair was neatly styled. The only problem was that I didn't know what book I had bought.
To my composed self, he said this:
"That book... that book is actually..."
When he mentioned the book, I became flustered, and in my eyes, he turned back into a pigeon-human.
I hugged the book bag tightly again.
"What about the book?"
I asked, suddenly sounding confrontational. But somewhere in the back of my head, I heard a friend's voice saying, "Your confrontational tone isn't scary at all." I brushed that aside and glared at his pigeon face.
"Actually, that book is my precious, precious, special book. It was stolen by a bad person and sold to the used bookstore. I am a pigeon, so I cannot enter the used bookstore. I also have no money. After much hardship, I managed to get myself dressed properly and was trying to go buy it back, but I still don't have the money. My face also turns into a pigeon's very quickly. So, every day, I worried that the book might be sold, and I would peek in through the shop window. That was when I saw you buy that book. Before you take it away to your home somewhere far away, I am begging you to please let me have it."
I am famous for being very kind and gentle. I think so myself.
Hearing that a pigeon had gone to such lengths to get the book back, I immediately decided to give it to him.
"Yes, here you go!"
I tried to hand him the book along with the paper bag, but I hesitated and took the book out of the bag. I thought I would at least look at the title before returning it.
When I took it out, there was no title written on it at all. That was why I hadn't known the title. It was just a cover entirely in a lapis lazuli color, like a deep night sky.
"Ah!"
The pigeon groaned.
"Thank goodness, that's it, that's the book!"
"What kind of story is in this book?"
I thought about opening the book I had taken out of the bag, but I stopped and handed it to him as it was. After all, it was his precious book.
"If you don't mind, let's go to that bench over there."
He pointed to a bench right there, so I sat down. He sat next to me. Once seated, he gently opened the book on his lap to show me.

When he opened the book, his world was packed inside.
The sky turning red at dawn, the blue sky of the day, drifting white clouds, a gentle breeze, a fierce wind, the park full of cherry blossoms, the voices of birds, the voices of children playing, the voice of a mother calling, the sound of insects, the sound of cars driving in the distance, the sound of trains even further away, the sound of helicopters flying even, even further away, the rustling of trees, the dappled sunlight of summer, the scent of yesterday's rain, the scent of soil, someone's joy, someone's sorrow, someone's singing voice, the school chime, the recorders played by children on their way home from school, the sound of a dog, the brakes of a bicycle, the tissue exchange truck, the trumpet of the tofu seller, the sound of a wind chime seller passing by, twilight descending on the park, stars scattered across the sky, the crescent moon at dusk...
Everything—those scenes, sounds, and scents—overflowed from the book into my five senses, as if they were memories in my mind or right before my eyes.
Snap.
He closed the book, and I let out a sigh.
Something still lingered, filling my chest.
"Thank you. For showing me something so precious."
I finally found my voice to thank him.
"Thank you, too. Thank you for giving the book to me. I'm sorry I can't pay you back. But someday, I surely will."
I shook my head.
"The money is fine. I just saw something worth more than a thousand yen. I read that book properly."
Yes. I felt like I had read it. It wasn't just scenery; I felt like there was a story. I felt like there was poetry written in it.
"Oh, please. At least take this."
The pigeon found something that had fallen out of the book, gently picked it up with his fingertips, and offered it to me.
"It's a dandelion that was pressed in the book."
I accepted it with my fingertips as well.
"It will never wither."
I stared at the pressed dandelion in my hand.
It held a light like a slightly hard star.
"Thank you."
When I looked up, the pigeon-human was gone.
I saw a pigeon flying off into the dazzling sky.
I thought to myself that I would write a poem when I got home.

(The End)