Fumiko beamed. “I like you. You remind me of my father. He stopped whatever he was doing, no matter how busy he was, to listen to my stories about insects I had found or a rock that I thought was pretty. He made me feel that they were the most interesting things in the world. His face and the other old treasures I keep in here are the only things I see clearly now.” She tapped the side of her head with a crooked finger. “But I do not have any cause to complain. My family has had the privilege of painting every hope our world has ever had about love. They say that hopes about children are the most colorful, hopes about health the brightest, hopes about happiness the prettiest, and hopes about love the most difficult to paint. And they are right. It is very challenging to capture all the shades love has with pigment. But we do our best, and I have enough memories of all the hope I have painted in my lifetime to fill the largest museum. There is nothing more I need to see. I trust mychildren to carry on our family’s duty.” She pointed to the farthest side of the table. “Mikio is my eldest son and a gifted illustrator.”
A slightly built man with a sparse head of hair glanced up from a hexagonal sheet of washi paper and greeted Keishin and Hana with a polite smile. He returned to his work, painting over the sheet with black ink, using a combination of thick and thin brushstrokes. The image on the paper was less than half done, but Keishin was able to make out the features of a striking face.
“And that is Emiko.” Fumiko gestured to a woman with a face that reminded Keishin of a peach. “She brings Mikio’s drawings to life.”
Emiko looked up from her corner of the table and nodded shyly. She dipped her brush into a small clay pot, tapped it lightly on the pot’s rim, and colored in the delicate blush on a woman’s face. From where he stood, Keishin could almost feel the warmth radiating from the painted cheek.
“Will you be staying to see the stars tonight?” Fumiko said. “It will be quite a sight. I have lived in this village all my life, and yet every night feels new.”
“We do not know what our plans are yet,” Hana said. “But thank you for sharing your work with us. Everything is so beautiful.”
“Every hope deserves to sparkle in the sky.” Fumiko smiled, deepening the lines around her eyes. She patted Hana’s hand. “Even for just one night.”
—
A question was wedged between Keishin’s brows when they left Fumiko’s home. “Were the paintings they were making supposed to be stars?”
“They will be. They are not finished yet. Once they dry, they will be sent to those houses over there.” Hana pointed to an intersecting street. “Those families are responsible for attaching the painted washi to a bamboo frame. The households across from them are in charge of inserting the string and bending the bamboo to make sure that everything is firmly stuck together.”
Keishin narrowed his eyes, imagining the assembly. “They’re making kites?”
“One kite for every hope that is sent to the village. Tonight, they will float in the sky as stars. This is the one place that the Shiikuin are forbidden to go, a place where we can pretend that we are free.”
“So that’s why Haruto told us to meet him here,” Keishin said. “Because the Shiikuin can’t follow us.”
“That, and because the person he trusts most in this world lives in this village.”
“Who?”
A tall woman with white-blond hair whose face bore a striking resemblance to Haruto’s walked up behind Hana. “His mother.”
Hana twisted around and bowed to her. “Masuda-san.”
“Hana,” Masuda Masako said without smiling.
“Is Haruto here?”
Masako raised her hand, silencing her.
Hana nodded, glancing around to check if anyone had overheard them.
Masako narrowed her eyes at Keishin. “Outsider,” she hissed beneath her breath.
Masako said the word so sharply that it sliced through the air and nicked Keishin’s left cheek. Keishin flinched. The word wasall too familiar. It was how he felt about himself no matter where he was. It may as well have been his name.
“Keishin is a friend, Masuda-san,” Hana said, looking her directly in the eye.
“You have no idea what kind of danger you have put all of us in, Hana.”
“I know. I am truly sorry. We will leave as soon as—”
“As soon as,” Masako cut Hana off, her face dark, “you see what they have done to my son. Because of you.”
—
Masako’s home sat in the shade of a large tree. Gampi bushes, mitsumata shrubs, and kozo bushes grew as they pleased over its front garden, nearly covering the path to the house.
“Take care not to step on them.” Masako stepped over one of the overgrown shrubs. “I need them to make my paper.”
