Page 1 of The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop

The shop was tucked away in a place beyond anyone’s understanding.

There, a thick fog, neither white nor grey, hung heavily in the air. But oddly, the space surrounding the shop, which was enclosed by neatly trimmed hedges, was as clear as crystal. It was almost as though the fog was parting for something, as if it had no choice but to keep its distance.

In the centre of this enclosure was an old wooden building. Atop its green, triangular roof, a bronze weathercock stood proudly with its chest puffed out. Its beak stretched wide towards the sky, but its voice, meant for announcing the hour, would never be heard.

In the front garden, which led to the entrance of the shop, was a weeping cherry tree.

Its great age was evident in its height.

Rising above the ridge of the roof, its branches hung over the weathercock, arching all the way down to the ground.

In full bloom, the branches were bursting with blossom.

What made the tree unusual were the strange colours of these flowers.

The nearer they were to the tips of the branches, the deeper they were in shade, gradually transitioning from the white and pale tones of a somei-yoshino , or Yoshino cherry, tree to the vibrant hues of a bell-flowered cherry.

It seemed as though this single tree was painted in every imaginable shade of pink and red.

From time to time, a gust of wind swept through the branches, creating marble-like swirls of white, scarlet and light coral on the ground.

Suddenly, a bell chimed and the door to the shop swung open, disarranging the mound of petals that had gathered by the entrance.

A girl appeared in the doorway. Wearing a burgundy pinafore dress over a starched white blouse, she heaved a sign outside.

Written in double-lined lettering in red and white chalk, it was a simple sign with just the name of the shop on it: 咲良 – Sakura .

Sakura. Had the shop been named after the cherry blossoms in the garden? Or perhaps it was somehow linked to a person who went by the same name. It’s possible that the girl was named Sakura, but she certainly didn’t look old enough to be the owner or the manager.

Once she had finished putting the sign out, the girl gave herself a quick stretch, disappeared inside the shop, and re-emerged with a broom and a dustpan.

She began carefully sweeping the petals scattered on the pathway between the sign and the hedges.

Then, all of a sudden, three small branches wreathed in blossoms quietly landed in front of her.

Looking up at the tree in surprise, the girl said, ‘Three? You’re feeling generous today, aren’t you?’

The cherry tree did not reply, of course. But the girl wore a knowing expression on her face as she tucked the broom under her arm and picked up the branches. She made her way back inside.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air as the girl headed straight to the kitchen.

Using a pair of floral shears, she swiftly trimmed the branches before wrapping the snipped ends with tissue soaked in plenty of water as well as a thin sheet of paper, holding them in place with a rubber band.

Then, one by one, she put them into three individual vases.

‘Done,’ the girl said out loud.

Stepping out of the kitchen, she scanned around, apparently looking for a good spot to arrange the branches.

As you would expect from the exterior, most of the shop’s basic features were made of wood.

The distinctive grain pattern on the walls and the tables gave the atmosphere that cosy feeling you can only get in a traditional coffee shop.

Using a stepladder, the girl began placing the branches along the walls as well as on the pillar.

There were more branches all around the room, adorning the shop with further splashes of pink.

Decorating the shop with cherry blossoms was apparently an essential part of her daily routine.

Satisfied with her work, the girl climbed down the stepladder and cleared the petals that had fallen on the floor.

Then, using a damp rag, she wiped the place down.

It seemed that she was preparing to open the shop.

Once she had made some progress, the girl took a short break.

Standing with one hand on her hip, she rubbed at her forehead with her wrist.

‘You know, I could really do with an extra pair of hands right now,’ the girl muttered as she glanced down at the table next to her.

On the table was a calico cat. Unlike typical Japanese cats, this one was long-haired.

The cat, which had been sitting comfortably in a loaf pose, gazed sleepily at the girl.

Pushing its front legs forward, it lifted its bottom, stretching out its whole body before lowering its left shoulder and rolling onto its back.

As if to say, Is this what you mean? the cat extended its front paws towards the girl.

‘Kobako, that is absolutely not what I mean,’ the girl said dismissively.

For a brief moment, the cat stayed in the same position, but soon got to its feet and returned to its original pose. On the nametag sewn on to its brown leather collar were the kanji characters for incense box: 香箱 – Kobako.

Shifting her gaze from the cat, the girl walked towards the wall to a set of speakers and a record player.

Even the audio equipment featured wooden frames.

A record had been left on the turntable – the bright red label at the centre of the disc stood out against the black.

Crouching down, the girl switched on the amplifier, setting off a faint electrical hissing.

Pointing her finger, the girl checked that the dial on the turntable was in the correct position before gently pressing the start button.

The record began to spin, and the tonearm lifted automatically.

The vinyl crackled briefly before the distant, hypnotic beat of a snare drum began to play.

The unusual drumming – a triplet-infused rhythm in three-four time – slowly intensified, as though the beat was drawing nearer and nearer.

A flute entered with the first melody, adding a sense of courtly elegance and exoticism to this distinctive rhythm.

Boléro by Ravel. A composition of simple structure featuring two repeating melodies passed between different instruments, the piece maintains a steady, rhythmic drumbeat as it gradually builds towards a climax.

The girl, who had been listening contentedly to the opening flute solo with her hands on her hips, suddenly turned away from the record player, and began spinning around the shop as though she was dancing to the music. The cat, on the other hand, didn’t so much as move a whisker.

Aside from the kitchen, there were bookcases along all the walls.

Some of them were even set on top of tables.

Although they varied in height and width, they featured the same grain pattern, similar to that of the tables and audio equipment.

Still, the place seemed to be lacking in a sense of consistency, thanks to its eclectic collection of books.

The girl eventually stopped in front of one of the shelves.

Using her index finger as a guide but taking care not to touch the books, she scanned the spines one by one, going from right to left, then left to right: The Neverending Story ; In the Forest, Under the Cherry Blossoms in Full Bloom ; Rashomon ; The Glass Menagerie ; The Parent Trap ; The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman ; The Sound and the Fury ; Ten Nights of Dreams .

They were all works of fiction, but that was the only thing they had in common. The books came in various sizes, and there seemed to be a book for every age – even large format picture books could be spotted here and there.

Out of nowhere, the girl’s lips started to move.

‘More intensely than the wind-instrument of noon,

When traces of amber are poured,

The bitterness of anger, the blue of anger.’

She muttered the words – seemingly lines of poetry she had memorised – almost hypnotically, as though she wasn’t aware that she was reciting them.

The melody of Boléro was now being played by a trombone. Outside, white rays of the sun glinted off the cherry-blossom petals dancing silently in the air.

‘Hey Kobako, which one should I pick today?’

From time to time, the girl paused her hand and turned towards her companion as she gently placed her fingertip on one of the spines.

But the cat, apparently uninterested, remained completely still.

This exchange went on for a while until the girl, seemingly giving up, moved on to the next shelf, then to the one after that.

Then, just as her finger glided over one of the larger books, the cat opened one eye and let out a short meow.

‘This one?’

The girl turned to find that the cat had lifted its head, its eyes wide open. Its golden pupils had dilated as if to say: That’s the one .

Removing the book from the shelf, the girl brought it to eye level, then opened it in a reverential manner.

‘ Ahem ,’ she said exaggeratedly, pretending to clear her throat.

The book was The Little Prince . Putting on a slightly affected tone, the girl began to read, her resonant voice echoing through the shop.

‘“My star will be just one of the stars, for you. And so you will love to watch all the stars in the heavens… They will all be your friends…”’

As she continued to read, the girl and the calico cat – now in a loaf pose again – faced towards each other.

Every time the girl turned the page, the cat twitched its whiskers and slowly blinked its eyes as though it was nodding along.

Outside the square of the largest window, the petals continued their graceful dance.

Boléro played on, reorchestrating the same melodies, over and over again.