#kenji ueda

The Pillows | My Girl (Fiction Version)

After passing two sets of traffic lights, I turned down an alley near the third. In contrast to the glitzy main street, this alleyway was crammed with buildings and felt a bit maze-like. After walking for a little while, I turned at the second corner and found a cylindrical postbox. It must have been getting repainted regularly; the brilliant vermilion really jumped out at you. I had only ever seen postboxes like this in movies or old TV shows; I could see why it made a good landmark. Behind it was the shop I was looking for. ‘I guess this is the place . . .’ I murmured to myself. I must have been walking for ten minutes or so. Now that I had arrived, I could see it was just as the map had described, but for me, still new in Tokyo, it had been a bit of an adventure. Kijima-san had told me it was a venerable old stationery shop, but though the three-storey building gave off an air of history, there was nothing run-down about it. It had style, but with restraint – there was something mysterious about the atmosphere. On the glass doors at the entrance, it said Shihodo, in gold kanji characters. A mild scent greeted me as I entered the shop. Maybe it was incense? Unlike a self-asserting cologne, this aroma wrapped me in a tenderness that soothed me amid all my struggles getting used to Tokyo. A beat later, a man’s voice sent an Irasshaimase! from the back of the shop. The greeting was gentle in the same way the incense was, and I felt like he was genuinely welcoming me from the bottom of his heart.

In Ginza, bij het grote treinstation in Tokyo, is een winkel voor schrijfwaren. In vijf losse verhalen komen mensen naar de winkel, die moeite hebben met een boodschap voor iemand die veel voor ze betekent, en waarvoor ze de juiste schrijfmaterialen zoeken. De manager van de winkel, Ken Takarada, helpt hen vooral door het aanhoren van hun verhaal, waardoor de klanten beter begrijpen wat ze precies willen uiten.