[Asha?

Did I really do something wrong? Are you expressing your intentions by not answering? Although I’m quite perceptive, there’s a limit to reading intentions through letters alone.

I’ve examined your last letter many times, but I couldn’t detect any signs or hints.

So please, won’t you give me a clear answer?

I’m begging you earnestly.

If there’s no answer this time too, then you must be trying to trick me just like Miss Aila. If that’s really the case, I’ll be incomparably sadder than before.

To fall for the same trick twice! I’ll have nothing to say even if my brothers mock me for being stupid. Please reassure me.

On a June morning, from a boy soaked in worry]

[To Carol

If I had woken up a little later, I might have lost my newly made friend. I’m sorry for the late reply. You haven’t burned my letter yet, have you?

Though it’s far too hot to light a fire in the fireplace.

I just read both letters you sent in succession. I’ve barely regained enough strength to read and write letters. Until just a few hours ago, I was suffering from a terrible headache.

If grandfather hadn’t placed the letter that fell in the hallway beside my bed, I might have forgotten your existence.

I thought I should reply, but I was barely able to swallow soup, so I couldn’t muster the courage to open the envelope. I could have asked grandfather to read it for me, but I didn’t feel like it.

Because of that stubbornness, I made you wait long. I sincerely apologize for that.

And, for smooth communication in the future, let me tell you in advance. I will, no matter what happens, always reply. When it’s delayed like this, it’s because my body is acting up.

It would be nice if I could predict the timing or duration, but I can’t. Even I don’t know when, why, or how I’ll get sick.

I fall ill when it’s cold and become listless when it’s hot. On days with big temperature differences, I easily groan because of it. So, I can’t blame just the weather.

Still, as soon as I come to my senses and my condition improves, I’ll write back right away. So don’t worry.

Ugh, my pajamas are soaked with sweat. I should wash up soon. If I stay lying down in this state, I might catch another terrible cold. I’ll end here.

June 7, Asha

P.S. Any form of address is fine. But, isn’t “friend” the most appropriate?

P.P.S. Now tell me about yourself! Where you live, things like that.]

[To my new friend who is ill

My heart sank when I heard you were bedridden. While you were suffering so much, I was only obsessing over a single letter, which made me feel ashamed.

Are you feeling better now? I promise I’ll never rush you again. It’s not like I have nothing to do but wait endlessly for one letter.

Fortunately, I didn’t burn all your letters in the fireplace. Though the reason wasn’t that the fireplace was out. The fireplace where I live blazes for half the year.

Because it’s the coldest village in the kingdom.

Where I live, Kasoche, is at the northern edge of the kingdom. There are high mountains piled upon each other, with a small village nestled within. It’s difficult for travelers to reach it by chance.

Now there are winding but maintained roads—though they’re still just as rough—but in the past, the bumpy mountains were tangled without any markings, and even village residents frequently got lost.

Of course, having been born and raised in Kasoche, I know this area as well as the fingerprints on my hand.

Let me tell you about where I live. In return, tell me about where you live. Thinking about it carefully, it seems Miss Aila didn’t talk much about herself. Looking back now, whenever I asked Miss Aila something, she would turn the direction of the question back to me.

Back then, I thought this was her interest in me.

Well, that has nothing to do with you.

Kasoche is winter for half the year. In winter, everywhere is covered with snow, and even in midsummer, you can always see snow if you climb to the mountain peak.

From my room’s window, I can see the tree that was planted on the day I was born, which for some reason has grown large enough for its branches to reach the mansion’s roof.

Father says it’s because it received a fairy’s blessing. He always tells me to be grateful, saying that’s also why I grow taller than other children.

But when there are only my two older brothers to compare with, how would I know? My brothers have been taller than me since I was born.

And I can’t compare myself with toothless infants or mischievous children who have developed a taste for digging tunnels. There’s no honor in being taller than them anyway.

The village is small and lively. Mother says that when she was young, there weren’t proper roads, so they had to be self-sufficient for all supplies. Storing rough bread with jam made from wild strawberries.

Then a large mine was discovered, and thanks to that mine, they established trade with several cities, including the capital. Various goods started coming in, and paintings were purchased too.

On the top floor of our house, the entire hallway is a gallery. I’ve heard that in the past, noble gentlemen showed off their wealth and history in this way.

Though mother simply bought them for display. There’s not a single family portrait, just things that others said were good. Like practice works by a famous painter from over a hundred years ago, or new works by someone who’s recently been gaining value.

I like it. Though it’s a bit pitiful that no one else looks at them besides me.

Thanks to my family, who have not a shred of artistic sense, the spacious gallery has become all mine. When I was very young—just old enough to memorize spelling—I often came up here after being scolded by mother or fighting with my brothers.

No one ever comes here. Except when servants occasionally come to clean. The curtains on the top floor are always drawn so the paintings don’t fade in the light. There’s barely any light, but it somehow feels cozy.

Well, these days my purpose is purely art appreciation. I’m no longer young enough to cry when scolded by mother.

Thanks to that, I found the magical painting placed in the farthest corner, so it worked out well. At first, I was so surprised when the back of the head, painted in stillness, suddenly turned around.

Imagine it! The figure in the painting suddenly changed its pose. It was looking directly at me. Now I’m so used to it that it feels familiar.

I’m writing this letter crouched in the hallway. Mother would be disgusted if she saw me, but there’s absolutely no reason to maintain appearances in this dark gallery.

Finishing this letter by the light of an orange candle.

It’s almost dinner time. The smell suggests we’ll have cream soup filled with potatoes and mushrooms, along with all sorts of blanched vegetables.

How about you?

How was your day?

On a June evening when the cold has somewhat subsided.

Sending luck, your friend]

[To Carol

You seem to like paintings. I don’t have much knowledge about art pieces, but I like artists’ lives. That is, from an observer’s perspective. I don’t particularly want to imitate their ruinous lives.

People who create masterpieces while intoxicated with drugs and alcohol are impressive, but equally frightening. Do you need to be prepared to burn everything—even your own soul—to become an artist?

I’ve thought about this before, but there are no artists to be found in Iota.

There are only furniture craftsmen who make desks and chairs. And there’s my grandfather who artistically weaves nets. But those people don’t show the dramatic, obsessive aspects typical of ‘artists.’

Do you know Datios, the painter and sculptor of the century?

The person whose three marriages all ended with the death of the husband, and who was rumored to have had an inappropriate relationship with a stepson until just before death. I don’t know if Datios really took the stepson as a lover or if it was just a scandal, but it’s a documented fact that Datios worked while intoxicated.

Datios even mixed various liquors to use as paint substitutes, and was an amazing person in many ways. What’s fascinating is that the paintings of someone who lived in such a destructive manner are surprisingly peaceful.

Despite being completed by mixing liquor and tearing paper with knives.

Have you ever seen Datios’s paintings? I heard they’re exhibited in an art gallery in the capital, and I’d like to see them in person someday. Actually, I want the exhibition catalog they sell only there.

The books in our house only introduce a very small portion of Datios’s work. Along with other artists.

Anyway, I don’t have the confidence to destroy my body and soul. That’s probably why I can’t be an artist.

These past few days, I’ve been in better condition than usual. Enough to take a short walk in front of the house? So I wrapped myself in a shawl and walked a little.

From anywhere in our house, you can see the sea. I blankly stared at the gently rippling foam before returning. They say the sea is capricious, but after looking at it for over a decade, it all looks the same to me.

So for me, the sea changes not by itself, but depending on who is there.

For example— ah, I think someone’s coming. I’ll wait for your reply, so send it quickly, okay? I’ll end here for today.

June 15

Sent by Asha

P.S. I like tomato soup.]