{Greetings Together 1}

On the first day of Miyu’s Obon holiday, August 13th, the weather was perfectly clear.

We woke up a little early and left the house around 8 a.m. After transferring between several trains from the station, our destination was the town where Miyu used to live. It’s also the town where her father’s grave is located.

Thanks to our early start, the train wasn’t too crowded, and we were able to sit together.

Sitting by the window, Miyu narrowed her eyes as she looked at the passing scenery.

“Wow, that town looks so nostalgic…”

It was my first time seeing this place. There were a few buildings in the distance, a residential area and schools typical of anywhere near the tracks, and as we neared the station, more restaurants and shops began to appear, making it livelier — not much different from where we live.

But this was once her home.

Even ordinary streets become deeply meaningful when they hold memories.

“Do you come here often?” I asked her as the train slowed down.

Given her nostalgic tone, I assumed she didn’t visit much. My guess seemed correct, as she shook her head.

“Only when I visit the grave. For the equinox, Obon, and my father’s death anniversary.”

Then she added, looking a bit sad.

“My mom doesn’t like to come. I think it’s still too painful for her.”

Miyu was in middle school, which was only about five years ago. The grief of losing someone dear doesn’t heal in such a short time. Thinking about her mother’s feelings made my own chest tighten with sympathy.

After getting off the train, Miyu led me to a supermarket near the station.

We bought flowers for the grave, incense, and a lighter. Miyu knew exactly where everything was and even had the store’s loyalty card.

“I don’t come often enough to earn any points though,” she said with a smile, which seemed tinged with a bit of sadness.

After our shopping, we hailed a taxi to head straight to the cemetery. The cemetery was on a small hill at the edge of the town, and taking the bus would have involved a long detour through the city, which would take even more time.

“Plus, it gets crowded during Obon,” Miyu pointed out.

Sure enough, as we drove by, we saw the cemetery-bound bus packed with people. It might have been so crowded that people would have had to wait for several buses.

Many people must be visiting the graves of their loved ones.

That realization made Obon, which I had never given much thought to, feel much more significant.

We arrived at the cemetery just before noon.

The sun was already high in the sky, and the intense rays beat down on the rows of gravestones, making them glisten here and there. Cicadas were buzzing noisily in the background — it was a quintessential summer day.

As we made our way to the grave, led by Miyu, we passed several families. Everyone was struggling in the heat, wiping away sweat as they walked, and the children wore hats. The only thing that seemed cool was the water sloshing in the buckets they carried.

We found a water source and filled a metal bucket with water.

Miyu gently poured water over one of the gravestones using a ladle.

As the cold water soaked into the stone, gradually darkening its surface, I saw the inscription:

“Grave of the Sato Family”

Engraved on the side was her father’s name. Seeing his age at death — 40 years old — struck me with the shock of how young he was.

“I’ll arrange the flowers,” Miyu said.

She placed the flowers we bought into the vase in front of the grave.

Then, with practiced hands, she set the incense in place, and I lit it with the lighter. As the fire touched the green tips of the incense, a thin line of smoke rose, filling the air with the familiar scent I often noticed at her house.

“About my dad…” Miyu began as she crouched in front of the grave, hugging her knees.

“I’ve never really been able to talk about him much. Not to my mom or my friends. My mom was even more heartbroken than I was, and I thought that if she knew I was sad too, it would make things harder for her.”

Her mother had lost the one man she loved most in the world.

Of course, it wasn’t something she could bear easily.

But for Miyu, it was also her one and only beloved father. Bottling up those feelings must have been hard for her too.

“I couldn’t talk about it with my friends either. I was afraid they’d think I was gloomy… I’d quietly feel sad when someone talked about their dad, but I kept it to myself.”

She looked up at me with a faint, bittersweet smile.

“Looking back, when you’re a teenager, you’re most afraid of what others think of you. You feel like you have to always be smiling, and you keep your worries to yourself, letting them grow inside you.”

“Everyone feels like that. I was the same way.”

“Yeah. That’s how I ended up almost getting caught up with some guy I didn’t even know—”

“You didn’t get caught up, just almost,” I corrected her firmly.

I had been there to help her out. If her father were listening, I’d want to make sure he knew she hadn’t been in any real danger.

Miyu smiled, more genuinely this time.

“Yeah, I was fine because you were there, Atsushi.”

We both made mistakes and had our struggles during our teenage years. I had hurt Miyu with careless words, and she had taken her anger out on me. It took time and mutual growth for us to understand each other fully.

But we made it through all that, and now, here we are.

“It’s because it’s you, Atsushi, that I felt like I could bring you here.”

Miyu turned back to the gravestone.

Her serene, gentle profile gazed at the stone that had been bathed in water. Her expression, though still bearing traces of her high school self, was now mature. She looked beautiful.

“You’re the first person I’ve really talked to about my dad.”

“…I see.”

I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t find the right words.

I didn’t want to say something like, “That must have been hard,” or “I understand,” as if I really knew how she felt.

“I’m glad you shared it with me.”

So, that’s all I said.