Michiko watched Hitoshi setting off to the village. He paused at the corner and waved his walking cane, though he knew his wife wouldn’t go back inside. She’d lower her stooping figure onto the bench beneath their cherry tree, waiting for his safe return.

He bowed to Mrs Okada in the shop, remembering how the boys vied for her attention in high school. On the way out he greeted an old workmate who insisted they went for a beer. ‘Could be our last chance, Hitoshi — we’re in our twilight years now!’ 

He’d been out two hours when he finally set off for home, but Hitoshi knew his wife would still be waiting outside. He tucked the cane underneath his arm so he could carry a shopping bag in each hand. When he reached the corner he placed them on a neighbour’s wall, then brandished the stick to signal all was well. Michiko waved her arms and rolled her eyes as though she thought him an old fool. It was a game they played every day.

A petal had caught in her hair, and he pictured the bloom of her skin when they first met; her body an unfurling flower on their wedding night; their hanami honeymoon in Kyoto.

She took the shopping bags from him — talking, talking. He nodded distractedly, returning to that perfect week: Tetsugaku no Michi clouded with blossom; moonlight on cobbles; swaying lanterns; laughter, sweet as temple bells; the light in Michiko’s eyes as they stood on the platform at Kiyomizu-dera. 

‘Look, Hitoshi,’ she’d said, ‘the city of flowers is spread out at our feet, stretching into the distance like our life together. We’ll live well and long — in fact we’ll live forever.’ 

He reached forward now and plucked the petal from her hair, unaware of the tear on his cheek.

‘You daft old man,’ she said, shaking her head.