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597 — Saying Goodbye to Her
🕑 Added 2025-10-18 18:12:11 +0000 UTCThe second floor of Itoya wasn’t just for buying stationery and decorative paper—it also had a row of tables and chairs by the window.
After choosing your favorite paper and pens, you could sit there, gaze at the bustling street below, and write down your thoughts as cars and people flowed past on Nihonbashi’s Second Avenue.
Hojou Kyousuke and Miyamizu Mitsuha waited in line for a bit before finding two empty seats.
They sat down, took out their new fountain pens, and began to write.
Several envelopes were already laid out in front of them—it seemed both had quite a few people they wanted to write to.
On Mitsuha’s side, she’d started by addressing all her envelopes first, worried she might forget someone later.
Sayaka and Teshigawara were there, of course, but Kyousuke also noticed two unfamiliar names—both with the surname Mizoguchi.
He figured they must be Mitsuha’s grandparents in Nara.
There were a few other names he recognized too, like Grandma Kobayashi—people Mitsuha used to know back in Itomori.
When Mitsuha caught him sneaking glances, she didn’t mind. She blew lightly on the ink to dry it, then slid the letter over for him to see.
The contents were simple and warm—she wrote to her hometown friends to tell them not to worry.
“The shrine maiden of Itomori is doing just fine in Tokyo,” she wrote, “living happily and working hard. Please, you all stay cheerful too.”
“When I first came to Tokyo,” Mitsuha murmured as she started her next letter, “there were one thousand three hundred and forty-two people at the station to see me off.”
Even though it had been three years, she said, many still couldn’t move on.
She’d tried her best to comfort and console them, but the longing for their lost hometown didn’t fade with time—it only deepened.
She pouted slightly as she blew the ink dry again. Sunlight from the large window spilled over her forehead, casting a gentle glow.
“Do you remember Grandma Kobayashi? The one who used to zoom around Itomori in her electric tricycle?” Mitsuha folded the letter neatly and slipped it into the envelope addressed to Grandma Kobayashi.
Kyousuke nodded.
He remembered her well—she owned a little shop where he often took Yotsuba to buy snacks.
“She donated all the relief money she got from the government,” Mitsuha said softly, shaking her head with a faint, bittersweet smile. “Even though she was one of the victims herself.”
Mitsuha used to hate that land for what it had taken from her, yet now, like Grandma Kobayashi, she sometimes dreamed of the shrine bathed in morning mist.
“Last month,” she added, “they even organized a return-to-Itomori gathering.”
“Return?” Kyousuke looked puzzled. “But… isn’t Itomori just ruins now? Even the bus line’s been shut down.”
“They didn’t actually go in. They just held a small memorial by the roadside.”
Mitsuha picked up another blank sheet and began writing a letter to Yamaoka Shunya.
“Remember him?” she asked.
“Yeah—one of the ‘Trendy Trio,’ right? Later turned into a devout believer.”
“Haha, so that’s what you called them?” Mitsuha chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes curving into crescents.
“After high school, he joined Teshigawara’s construction company. He’s the one who organized that memorial trip. Even Grandma went along.”
“Your grandma? I thought she…” Kyousuke hesitated.
He’d assumed Mitsuha’s grandmother had already passed away, her duty to the Miyamizu shrine complete.
After all, when he traveled back in time through the sacred sake, she had already understood everything.
“Not what you’re thinking,” Mitsuha said, shaking her head.
Her dark eyes gleamed with sunlight, almost as if they could see straight into him.
She smiled softly and began doodling a little drawing on her letter to Sayaka—a simple sketch of the two of them sitting side by side by the window.
“People born and raised in Itomori,” she said gently, “breathe its air, drink its water, feel its wind on their skin… even the soil that has nurtured us for centuries becomes part of us.
All of that seeps into our bodies and connects to our souls. That connection is what we call musubi—the bond.”
When she turned to him, her smile was both shy and radiant.
Kyousuke felt something invisible tug inside him—as if a thin thread stretched across time and space, linking his soul to hers.
“A long time ago,” Mitsuha continued, “I didn’t understand Grandma’s words, or the teachings of the Miyamizu shrine.
But now, even though I’m no longer a shrine maiden and no longer have to inherit the shrine… I finally understand.
No matter how far we go, our souls will always be tied to Itomori. That’s musubi.”
Her voice was gentle and pure, smooth as silk brushing past his ear.
Kyousuke thought, if Mitsuha were to raise a banner now, she could probably start her own religion in three days.
He’d never met her mother, Futaba, but he was certain the Mitsuha before him had grown into an equally wise—and just as dangerously persuasive—woman.
“Each time they hold a memorial, the villagers feel a little lighter,” she said softly. “It’s like saying goodbye to the past.”
She finished her last letter—to her grandmother—reporting on her and Yotsuha’s studies, and even asked Kyousuke to add a few lines of greeting at the end.
“So, I was thinking, Kyousuke…” She lifted her head, her eyes shining with thought.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That slideshow you made for me… could you turn it into a film?”
“Huh? I mean, it’s possible, but… why?” Kyousuke hesitated.
He wasn’t exactly keen on showing their love story to the world.
“Let’s treat it as a gift,” Mitsuha said softly. “A gift to Itomori. Because…”
She drew out the last word, then placed her small hand over his on the table.
After a gentle stroke, she slipped her fingers beneath his, interlocking them together.
Her eyes curved upward, her expression turning playfully alluring.
“Because you took away the most beloved daughter that land ever had.”
“Hah—”
Kyousuke blinked, then grinned. She wasn’t wrong.
For generations, he was the only man who had ever loved and taken a daughter of the Miyamizu family away from Itomori.
Just look at Miyamizu Toshiki—estranged from his mentor, cast out of the family, trapped by the land even after his wife’s death.
Compared to that, Kyousuke thought, maybe the god of Itomori had been unusually kind to him.
“It’s not a dowry or anything,” Mitsuha said with a soft laugh. “I just want you to help me send that land a parting gift—a way to say thank you.”
Her tone carried the same quiet rhythm as her grandmother’s old stories.
And in that moment, Kyousuke understood.
The film wouldn’t just be a tribute to the past—it would be an offering, one last bond tying everyone, one last goodbye, one last thank you to the land that raised them.
“No problem,” Kyousuke said instantly. “Forget a movie—if you asked me to rebuild all of Itomori, I’d still say yes.”
He meant it.
There wasn’t a trace of hesitation in his tone.
After all, Mitsuha wasn’t asking for money—just a film.
A film could even make a profit.
If she wanted, he’d gladly fund the whole thing and donate every yen it earned to rebuilding their lost hometown.
But that wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want donations or reconstruction.
She just wanted to say goodbye—in her own way—to the land she both hated and could never let go of.
“Thank you, Kyousuke,” Mitsuha whispered, tilting her slender neck upward. Her soft lips brushed against his cheek.
‘Damn it,’ Kyousuke thought. ‘Why does this place have a café, a restaurant, but no private rooms?!’
He sighed inwardly, gently running a hand over her hair and smoothing her bangs.
“No,” he murmured. “I should be the one thanking you.”
All right—time to finish writing his letters.
He had plenty of people he wanted to write to as well: his grandparents back home, old man Yagi from next door—he’d even picked out a few small gifts to send him.
Then there was Yuzuru in Minato City, and his old teacher, Mr. Yamamura, to whom he wanted to write about joining the Hokushin Ittō-ryū dojo soon.
They didn’t need to hand their letters to a clerk—there was a bright red postbox right beside the tables, chubby and round, looking oddly friendly.
It was an actual postal box, part of Itoya’s collaboration with the Ginza Post Office.
A real mailman came every day to collect the letters.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Kyousuke said, standing up and offering his hand.
“Mm!” Mitsuha smiled, taking it.
They went up to the third floor.
If the second floor was heaven for stationery lovers, then the third was paradise for fountain pen collectors.
Rows upon rows of luxurious pens were displayed in gleaming glass cases, each one a masterpiece.
The Itoya website even had a list of top sellers—for the indecisive (and rich) customers who couldn’t make up their minds.
As a writer of the modern age, Hojou Kyousuke was a devout follower of Eriri’s school of thought—the keyboard was his weapon.
So, normally, he didn’t care much for fountain pens.
But standing here, he realized how wrong he’d been.
Expensive things often have only one flaw—they’re expensive.
And when it came to craftsmanship, the ever-obsessive Japanese had taken fountain pen artistry to divine extremes.
The one in Kyousuke’s hand, a Namiki Maki-e pen, was decorated with a panoramic design of peonies and tigers—meticulously painted in 360 degrees around the barrel.
From any angle, the image flowed seamlessly, forming a complete work of art.
You could only appreciate its true beauty when holding it in your hand.
The clerk beside him enthusiastically began her pitch.
“This model was crafted by over a dozen artisans from Kokkosha, all masters of traditional lacquer techniques. The pen body uses black urushi lacquer, carved with chisel designs, then layered with gold dust, silver foil, and—”
In short: gold, silver, and every luxurious material known to man, all crammed onto one pen.
The sales pitch could be summed up as ‘worth every yen—buy one and you’ll feel like you’ve made money.’
Take this particular pen, for example—the Golden Phoenix Series, priced at 520,000 yen before tax.
“Buy one, and it’s like you’ve earned 520,000 yen! Buy two, you’ve made a million!”
Mitsuha couldn’t hold back her laughter. “You’re actually listening to that?” she giggled.
Despite their wealth, the country girl in her still found such “luxury items” ridiculous.
“Do I need to pre-order these?” Kyousuke asked casually.
“Usually, yes,” the clerk said quickly, her smile brightening—clearly sensing a potential sale.
Her tone grew even more eager, though she’d already been perfectly polite before.
“I’ll take twenty,” Kyousuke said flatly.
“Tw–twenty?” the clerk stammered.
“Yeah, this series. Two full sets.”
He’d let everyone back home pick one, and the rest could be gifts.
“Wow… someone was lecturing me about sensible spending just ten minutes ago,” Mitsuha teased.
“Can’t help it,” Kyousuke shrugged. “Too much money, not enough ways to spend it.”
He grinned. “If you want, Mitsuha, I’ll let you use my card. You can buy out the whole store and I won’t stop you.”
“Yeah, right not happening” she stuck her tongue out playfully. As if I couldn’t afford it myself, she thought.
‘My grandma could sell one plot of land and buy an entire building in Ginza.’
Meanwhile, the poor clerk, overhearing all this, looked like she might actually cry—from joy or disbelief, it was hard to tell.
In the end, Kyousuke left waving his card, walking out with two full sets of million-yen fountain pens—no engraving, no customization, no waiting.
He didn’t even know who he’d give them to yet.
What truly won him over wasn’t the act of spending, but the sense of order.
Everything in the store—every product display, every neatly stacked roll of colored tape and wrapping paper—was arranged so perfectly that it soothed his mild OCD.
Watching the staff wrap items was practically an art performance: each edge perfectly aligned, every crease sharp and clean.
Utterly satisfied, they headed up to the sixth floor.
This level’s theme was “HOME”—as the name suggested, it was filled with furniture and home goods.
But as soon as they stepped off the escalator, both of them froze.
“Wait…” Mitsuha frowned slightly, squinting. “Isn’t that… Yukinoshita?”
Right in the center of the floor, on a plush fabric sofa, sat a girl in a white dress with long black hair.
[TL Note— Yeah, I’m not going to create an plushie LoRA just to make this image]
She was hugging a panda plushie—rubbing her cheek against it like she was testing the fabric’s softness.
But her flushed face and dreamy expression made her look… more like a weirdo than a customer.
Then she grabbed the panda’s chubby face and gently stretched it apart, as if testing its durability.
But that determined, slightly desperate look on her face only made her seem more suspicious.
When she finally balanced the panda on her head, apparently testing its “stability,” Kyousuke nearly burst out laughing.
‘No. Don’t. Absolutely not.’
If Yukinoshita ever found out he saw this, she’d probably going to kill him.
