My name is Mio. All my life, I’ve wanted to go to Japan. 

As an orphaned halfer, who doesn’t speak a word of Japanese, I’ve been obsessed since I was a child, but life took over and now I’m forty. My husband suddenly passed away this summer, so I decide to go…much to the horror of my nineteen year old daughter.

I think she forgives my air-headedness only because I’m a writer. I’m setting my new novel in Japan and I need to do some folklore research, so I make that an excuse. 

“It’s a mid-life crisis!” she cries tearfully, expression filled with the residual angst of her teenage years.

“It’s just research,” I say to her, trying not to roll my eyes. “I’ll only be gone for six months to a year, and then I’ll be back. It’s not forever.”

I feel a twinge and rub absently at the birthmark on my chest that is hidden under my blouse.

“But why are you selling the house then?” she demands. I know the fact that I’m moving most of my things into a storage unit bothers her.

“It’s just timing. With you in the dorms and your Dad gone, I don’t think I can live in that house by myself. It’s too hard. Besides, your Dad and I were thinking of downsizing anyway when it came time for you to move out.”

“You’re abandoning me!” she accuses.

“Sai! You’re a spoiled only child and an adult. It’s time you learn about being independent. In fact, it’s time that I learn that too now that Dad’s gone. I promise to video call lots. OK hon?”

It’s the last time I speak to her in person before getting on the plane as her semester ends shortly thereafter and she becomes caught up with December exams. Thus, I arrive in Japan, just after the new year, feeling a little raw and quite lonely.

---

The snow falls softly.

I tilt my head and contemplate the old house I’m considering in a suburb of Tokyo. I go inside with the agent and an acquaintance.

“Can it be renovated? I like the old bones and the old style rooms, but I’m just wondering about insulation and things like that…since I’m going to be here for half a year, I don’t want to leave behind my North American creature comforts…I really hate being cold...”

The agent’s expression flickers a bit as he tries to understand my colloquial English and process what I’m asking. 

It’s not easy to explain my complete lack of Japanese that is so incongruent with my looks. I feel like the megane-san is looking down his nose at me.

Thank God for Mariko from the publishing office. She quickly explains what “Sensei” is going on about in rapid fire Japanese and suddenly the agent is all smiles, nodding eagerly.

I’m still a little uncomfortable being called Sensei…even though it’s the norm for artists and writers in Japan. I try not to think of the Karate Kid movies, otherwise I break into a stupid grin when people talk to me. Perhaps that’s for the best anyway. The persona of an eccentric writer is sometimes a great deterrent to social interaction…which I naturally suck at even at my advanced age.

Mariko explains that since the owners are in a hurry to get rid of it, the agent would be happy to refer a contractor to get renovations done at a reasonable cost as part of the purchase price. It appears that there are debt problems and the property with its beautiful old house and walled garden is being offloaded.

“Are you alright with it though?” asks Mariko, frowning a little. “The agent says that the property’s history is unusual. Originally the real estate company tried to rent it out, but the tenants wouldn’t stay and moved out one after the other. They complained of a….I don’t know how to explain…not a ghost…but something weird about the house?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think I would recommend this to you, Sensei…”

The agent looks troubled, watching Mariko’s expression as she explains.

I don’t really register what she is saying to me. Instead I touch the post, standing on the deck, and look out into the garden. 

“I don’t feel that way…” I say, whispering almost to myself. “The house…feels like I’m…Anyway, I’m satisfied with this, I think. Please help me sign the agreement, Mariko-san…”

I almost said ‘like I’m home’. I’m not sure if I can describe it even now. It’s like the house that had been asleep for a long time is suddenly awake, and welcoming me right down to its old foundation. I’ve never felt more at ease in a place.

Before I know it, I own the house and it’s the start of a frightening, exciting, and marvelous new beginning.

 But I soon discover that I’m not alone.

I realize it about two weeks after I move in...the presence of something in the house. It’s not particularly unfriendly. It’s just there. 

Silent eyes that watch.

I’ve always been sensitive by nature. I’m not afraid of being alone, but the eyes in the dark overwhelm me...did the other tenants feel this the same way that I’m feeling it?

I don’t know.

The ceramic bowl I’m holding slips from my fingers and crashes onto the floor.

I sigh and kneel to pick up the white and blue pieces.

“Please,” I say out loud. “I know you’re trying to tell me you’re here, but I really don’t mean to do anything to disturb you. I just want to live peacefully in this house. Will you please let me stay here?” I plead.

The house is stubbornly silent.

“Look, I don’t feel like you’re something bad. I admit to being scared, so if we can just work this out, I think we’d both be happier,” I sigh. “Ouch! Damn it…” 

I’ve cut myself.

I take a deep breath and hold my bleeding hand. It’s the last straw and I finally burst into tears. I don’t mean to cry so hard, but once I start, the things that I had been holding back start to leak out with my tears. I cry for a long time.

Somehow the sound of the wind sweeps through the house, almost mournfully. As if the house is being sad with me. 

I wipe my hand on the tea towel, and then my face. I only realize later that I’ve smeared blood on my cheek.

The house waits patiently for me while I bawl.

“Look, I lost someone close to me a few months ago,” I explain. “I’m not used to being on my own. When I came here, it felt like I could start again. I don’t think having company is such a bad thing. I hope you can understand,” I say, putting my bloodstained cheek down on the floor.

I must have fallen asleep because I wake up to the feeling of someone brushing my face and hair. It’s the gentlest of touches. Definitely a man’s hand. And yet, in the darkness, I can’t quite make out his face or his form. I should have jumped out my skin and screamed, but the touch is non-threatening, tentative, almost curious, and above all else…it is very familiar, accompanied by the slightest smell of pine.

As soon as I move, he’s gone.

I sit up, touching my cheek, and I whisper ‘thank you’ to the darkness that has accepted me.

---

A month or two pass and the spring weather gives my heart an itchy feeling.

I finally see him standing in the garden. The ghost who has been watching. As I thought, he is definitely male.

He has his back to me, but I’m sure he knows I’m watching him. It’s a strong and straight back, and he is very casually dressed in an old-fashioned way. Without a haori, and barefoot with a strangely knotted rope bracelet around one ankle, it’s like he’s just standing in his own back garden…which now that I think of it…he probably is… 

I feel my face get hot. Even from the back, I can tell that the kimono is loosely belted and he isn’t wearing an undergarment.

Oh my god. There’s a half-naked ghost standing in my garden. 

I go to hide in my room, burying my face under the pillow.

He’s taller than I thought he’d be.

My head smokes.

His garden visits become a regular occurrence.

---

Some weeks later I find a different man standing in front of the house. He is hissing something in Japanese that I don’t understand, but his words are filled with rage.

A sharp twinge shoots through my chest where my birthmark is. The house doesn’t dignify his muttering with a response, but I wave my arms at him and shout in English, driven by an inexplicable rage that wells up inside me.

He seems horrified at the sight of me, mouth slack...then he turns and runs as if he’s seen a ghost.

Maybe he has.

I find out later, from Mariko, that this is Ikeda-san, the original owner.

---

My mysterious ghost finally decides to introduce himself, showing up unannounced in the living room one day. We’ve been skirting each other, like cautious animals, but he is making the first move.

How bold.

Shoulder length ebony dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, elegant features, and everything handsome: he can only be described as a beauty.

“Oh my god. You’re real,” I say, as he cups my cheek. His eyes are filled with a tenderness I don’t understand, a gentleness that breaks open something I’ve been holding back inside. 

I’ve grown used to him appearing in the corner of my vision and now that he’s here in front of me, I’m not afraid. 

He feels as solid and real as the floorboards under my bare feet. I can’t help leaning my face into his hand, nuzzling into it as if to help me confirm that he is really here. In truth, I’m lonely…and I want to be lonely with him.

“Kirei…” he says, his eyes warming. He says something else, but I don’t understand. I only find out later that he is trying to explain how he had become more solid. Apparently, as we interacted, he became less nebulous until he took a form and came into a shape resembling his own body. I can tell he is a little surprised by the whole thing himself.

I can’t help laughing at the mischievous grin blooming on his face as he envelops me in his arms, like he’s unwilling to let me go.

This is madness.

I’m embarrassed, so I say:

“I’m forty and I look like it. I’m not ‘kirei’, you silly man.” 

On the other hand, he looks like he is in his prime, somewhere in his late twenties. The clothes are the same as what he was wearing in the garden and I’m able to confirm that his chest is quite broad under the cloth. He’s very well built.

“Oh my god, you are half-naked,” I blurt, and then flush redder than a tomato. I silently scold myself.

His soft chuckle makes my head billow with steam. He leans closer, disordered hair falling over one eye. It gives him a rakish look.

“Faak. It’s like you stepped  straight out of Touken Ranbu or something…” I mutter.

His face flickers as he recognizes the words, but not the meaning. Then he frowns.

I laugh again. What a cute expression…

Apparently, he doesn’t like that, because he picks me up and before I know it, he is striding towards the bedroom.

“Wait! Hey!” I say, thumping a fist on his shoulder.

Scrambling for the words, I finally yell “Chotto matte kudasai!” It’s probably the only Japanese I know. So cliché….but this whole thing is…well, cliché.

He pauses, puts me down, and then folds his arms, waiting.

I slap my hands to my forehead, looking up at the ceiling as I smooth my trembling fingers over my hair.

His eyes become impatient again and he reaches to pick me up, but before he can, without even thinking, I stand up on my tip toes and place my lips lightly on his. He freezes, dark eyes widening. Settling back down on my feet, I look up at him.

Very carefully, I put my head on his heart, pressing gently, and then I put his hand on my cheek. I gaze at him, hoping he’ll understand.

“You have to be patient with me. I think I know what you’re thinking and feeling. I get it and I’m not trying to run away, but I don’t know how to say it in Japanese, so you have to give me some time ok? Let’s go slow.”

I’m not sure if he understands, but he taps his forehead down to mine with a gentleness that makes me shiver. Releasing me, he steps away, waiting for me to take the lead. I nod, and then decide to start with the house. I take a breath and catch his hand in mine.

I eventually learn that his family name is Ikeda and his given name is Kougetsu. It’s not a coincidence that he shares the same name with the raging man who’s been here before.