Nyomi tilted her head, listening.
"That’s the uguisu." I stopped us and scanned the foliage, searching for it and hoping I could show her the bird. "It’s the Japanese bush warbler.”
“What does it look like?”
“Small brown bird with an olive-green back. Nothing much to look at, but the song. . ." I paused as it called again, clear and melodious.
Ho-ho-kekyo. Ho-ho-kekyo.
"The song is why people have kept these birds for centuries."
“Wow.” Her face brightened with intrigue. “And these birds are native to this island?”
“Tora.” I laughed. “Do you not know me?”
“Kenji. . .you brought the birds here too?"
"Ten breeding pairs.” I had us head toward the pavilion again. “They've thrived here."
“Okay. I think you may have taken it a bit far."
“If I’m bringing sand, Tora, I’m definitely bringing birds.”
She snorted.
“Besides, Basho wrote about them.” I thought for a minute and then recited what he said, “‘The uguisu sings, hopping from branch to branch of the plum tree.’”
“And what does that mean?”
“He meant that even the most beautiful song moves on. Nothing stays the same."
She was quiet for a moment, listening to another call drift through the warm air.
Ho-ho-kekyo. Ho-ho-kekyo.
She lifted her gaze to the trees and spotted the bird singing to us. "Flowers that bloom for a short time. Birds that sing, yet move on. Things that don't last for too long. And then all of that surrounding a modernized temple of worship in the middle of a small, isolated island."
She moved her gaze away from the bird and studied me.
I could see it in her eyes that she had shifted to journalist mode. Her intense attention felt like she was zipping me open and peering at the contents on the inside.
She tilted her head. "Were you going through something when you decided to redesign this island?"
The question landed like a blade between my ribs.
Very smart, Tora.
Of course she'd seen it. The journalist in her could read the architecture of trauma—how every imported flower and relocated tree was just another way of saying I couldn't save them, but I could save this.
I tensed. "I was still battling grief over my mother and brother’s death. I’d bottled it up for so long that it finally began to spill out and I found that. . .I needed a place to go where. . .no one was around to see me. . .break apart.”
"So, you were building a sanctuary?"
"I told myself I was creating a place where I could escape from everyone—my enemies, father, men—somewhere I didn't have to be the Dragon." I gestured toward the beach, where waves lapped gently at the shore. "I envisioned myself here alone. Walking these shores at dawn with only waves and my ownthoughts. Reading in the pavilion while rain drummed on the roof. Swimming in absolute silence."
My voice roughened. "No complicated entanglements. No mafia politics. No voices. No one requiring pieces of myself I wasn't willing to give."
"A curated fortress of solitude."
