PROLOGUE

Not so very long ago, atop a hill in the Isogo district, there was once a building called the Yokohama Prince Hotel, and near it, the old E209-type trains with sky-blue stripes would click-clack along the Negishi railway line. If you took National Highway 16 south through the Sugita intersection, past the Japan Agency for Marine-Earth Science and Technology building, up the Aoto hill, and a little farther to the southern side of the slope, you would find a row of large houses standing shoulder to shoulder, competing over which was the most magnificent. On a little piece of land squeezed between two of these grand residences, there stood a little house. The little house had a little yard, and in the yard grew a little tree.

One day, a newlywed couple found the property, and the little house with its little yard and little tree instantly caught their fancy. Yes, it was small, but it was plenty big enough for the two of them, and because it was on a slope, the price was low. They signed a contract on the spot, then handed the real estate agent their camera, stood in front of the little tree and their little house, and took a picture.

They packed their belongings into the husband’s red Volvo 240 for the move and began their new life together. Both of them worked in the city until late every day, so they cherished the relaxing weekends they spent in their home. They would read books or listen to music or cook something special for dinner, and sometimes, they would sleep the whole day away and do nothing at all until evening.

The wife, who worked at a publishing house, was a diligent perfectionist with a strong sense of responsibility. She possessed all the personal qualities necessary for making good books, but this meant she was also anxious and prone to worrying about everything, which in turn meant she was quite sensitive to what other people thought of her. Even compliments were interpreted negatively, and she exhausted herself with unnecessary efforts to restore her reputation. These downward spirals were not uncommon for her. All the same, those around her valued and depended on her perfectionism, making it difficult for her to recognize her own nervous temperament.

The husband, employed at an architectural firm, was an artistically inclined individualist. By nature, he preferred solitude. Consequently, while his strengths lay in his original ideas and refusal to yield to the opinions of society, he was also stubborn and reluctant to listen to others. He was insensitive, in a way, and unlikely to pay attention to anything that didn’t interest him. Furthermore, despite his mild nature, he was uncooperative, incapable of taking a hint, and prone to bursts of anger when his rhythm was interrupted, which frequently made him irritable when deadlines approached. In other words, listing his faults was an unending chore.

Clearly, the husband and wife were complete opposites, and they argued over everything from major decisions to the most insignificant trifles. The reason they lived their lives together all the same was most likely because they were compatible—or perhaps connected—by some virtue beyond their personalities alone.

One day, out of the blue, the wife remarked that she wanted a dog. After seeing an English cream dachshund at a pet shop, she had fallen in love. The husband worried that the dog might interrupt his routines, but eventually, he grudgingly agreed. The next week, a puppy joined their household.

The couple never tired of watching their red-collared companion carry around his egg-shaped rubber ball in his mouth. They could talk for hours about how much he’d grown, how much mischief he got into on his daily walks, and how adorable his defenseless face looked when he was sleeping. They felt like new parents.

In their sixth year of marriage, the wife got pregnant.

As her belly grew larger day by day, the husband photographed her progress as if collecting data for a science experiment. They went to the doctor for an ultrasound, and the monochromatic image, striped like a slice of baumkuchen cake, revealed a big head and tiny body. Between the baby’s legs was clear evidence that it was a boy. When the husband saw the beating heart, his own heart thumped louder in response. Would he be able to provide for this soon-to-be child? But the wife’s belly just kept growing, as if to push aside his misgivings.

She took her maternity leave as planned and, in a flurry of activity, began preparing for the birth. A week before the baby was due, she felt her first labor pains. Her mother arrived from the countryside as promised.

Per the midwife’s instructions, the expectant mother took a walk around the park at sunset with her husband by her side to help the baby along, panting all the while. Seven hours later, she beamed triumphantly as she snapped a selfie with her red-faced newborn. “You’ve finally become a mom yourself,” her mother murmured, sounding like a traveler having just completed a long journey.

After standing vigil by his wife’s bedside through her labor, the husband was given an important assignment: naming their son. He stood before the infant, arms crossed, and groaned. Not one of the names they had picked out beforehand seemed suited to the little face. The new father decided to start over from scratch. In the short time he was allowed to spend in the maternity ward, he discussed the matter with his wife and finally arrived at an answer.

“Kun.”

The wife agreed. It was a cute name and uncommon enough that people could remember it easily. She called their son’s name: “Little Kun!” On a piece of calligraphy paper, the husband wrote the character for it with a brush.

There was a photo in their album of Kun’s little one-year-old face wedged between his parents’ larger ones. In another, his great-grandfather held Kun during a visit to his great-grandmother while she was hospitalized in Mom’s tiny hometown when Kun was two years old. Of course, this was the same little boy in the other photograph, but he wasn’t remotely the same. In no time at all, the infant had become a baby, and in another blink, the baby had turned into a toddler.

And that didn’t even consider the countless stages during his infancy or the innumerable phases when he was a toddler. The changes were so astounding that the single word child seemed an inadequate descriptor. As he grew, his parents wanted to remember every moment along the way, but they could hardly keep up with him from one day to the next. It was surprising—unbelievable even—how easily they forgot who he had been just a short while earlier. All they could do was worry about his present and fret over his future.

When the husband and wife considered what life would be like when he got bigger, they decided to tear down their little house and build a new one. The husband sketched out the plans himself, and scaffolding went up around the little house with the little tree in its little yard. They handed their camera to the contractor, and just like they had that summer day years earlier, they lined up to take a picture.

There was the father and the mother and the dachshund and the little boy, now three.

He had no idea that a new life was swelling in his mother’s belly.