Chapter One

It arrived on a July afternoon, just shy of the end of the rainy season—a strange delivery, addressed to me.

"Is this for Ms. Misako Kirihara?"

Even the mailman looked at my face and asked, just to be sure.

I dragged the box inside. It was about the size of a walk-in freezer. My apartment was a six-tatami one-room flat, but I kept it tidy enough that finding space for the box wasn't a problem.

"From... me?"

I scratched my head, confused.

The delivery slip read:

Sender: Misako Kirihara
Recipient: Misako Kirihara
Both addresses were mine.

Sure, I've mailed things to myself while traveling before, but this time I had no memory of doing so.

I peeled back the packing tape with a rip.
The box was mostly empty.

At the bottom, a single letter was stuck in place.

To Ms. Misako Kirihara

No way this was from me.

If I had sent myself a package, I wouldn't include a letter like that.
I opened it.

The handwriting was elegant, almost calligraphic, and the message was brief:

You regret having pneumonia, don't you?
But you recovered. That's the first good thing.
Don't keep dragging around a sickness that's already healed.

Huh.

My first thought was that it might be from family.

The phrasing was odd, but who else would know I'd had pneumonia and care enough to write?

I called my parents, five hundred kilometers west of here.

They had no idea what I was talking about.

"Watch out for stalkers," they said.

Hmm.

So now I had to add "stalker" to the list of possibilities.

Maybe I was being paranoid.

Still, better safe than sorry.

I tore the letter to shreds and tossed it in the trash.

Closed the window. Checked the lock. Drew the curtains.

The soft scent of the southern breeze quickly gave way to the musty smell of the air conditioner.