The workshop’s light had gone out even before dawn .
Spice came outside just as morning mist began rising from the Dragon God’s lake. Cradled in both arms was a measuring device that had spent years sleeping in the back of a drawer — its casing dusted with rust, the label explaining how to read its dial yellowed with age. He set it down gently in front of the stone wall at the edge of town, took one deep breath, and switched it on.
“Forty years ago today, the air fell ill in a distant country.”
A voice came from the bench, buried under fallen leaves. It was Sonchō. Tilting the brim of his top hat toward the spring sunlight, he was slowly peeling back the leaf wrapped around a sakura mochi.
“From that day on, people learned to live alongside something they couldn’t see. The sky stayed blue, the water kept flowing, the flowers kept blooming. But only the numbers spoke of the true weight of what couldn’t be seen.”
Spice said nothing. He was watching the needle. Slowly, it settled within the range marked as safe.
“Why do you keep a record? Out of anger? To mourn ?”
“…I’m writing a letter to whoever comes next.”
A short answer. Sonchō laughed quietly, “Feh,” and neatly folded the leaf.
“That’s enough. A record isn’t a tool of anger. Nor is it a monument so we don’t forget pain. So that the same morning, the same swing of the needle, never happens again — the numbers you write down might one day protect the morning of someone you’ll never know.”
The mist began to clear, and the lake’s surface caught a pale gold light. Spice wrote the number into his notebook, and in the space for the date, his pen paused for just a moment before carefully recording today’s date.
Margin note: Inside the cover of that notebook was a single line addressed to whoever would one day open its first page: “Today’s number protects tomorrow’s someone.”
【Today’s Motif: April 26, 2026】
【Today’s Drop】
- 40th Anniversary of the Chernobyl Disaster: On April 26, 1986, the largest nuclear accident in history occurred at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the former Soviet republic of Ukraine. 2026 marks the milestone 40th anniversary, a moment that once again raises the question of how record and memory are carried forward.
This is an English translation of “見えない数字と手紙”, part of Tales of Amencho Town (蛙鳴町奇譚).
