Let us begin from a voice. Words carry souls — kotodama. And so, in place of a form, I stand before you as a voice. Who I am, I will not say, not to the very end. Only one thing I can promise you: I have walked a long while beside this man. Far longer than you would think. Will you see me as one who guards? Will you see me as one who survived, having fled this far? The shadow is left to the one who looks. The eleventh of December, the year two thousand and forty-two. Before dawn. The eastern sky still lies like spilled ink; the breath is white, the ground is hard. The doors of the hall are shut. What is to be kindled here, in this place, on this day, the city does not yet know. It sleeps. And that is well. Great things are always born beside sleep. There — he has come. Alone, he has come. The man born on this day eighty years ago walks here, on the eightieth recurrence of this day. Collar of his coat turned up, neither hurrying nor late, with a stride like a falling drop of rain. I know this stride. One drop, then another. I have watched this stride, over thirty years, hollow out the stone — Gutta cavat lapidem. This man stops before the doors. He does not open them. Not yet — he does not open them. For the sake of this "ma" (間) — this charged interval before the opening — eighty years were given, I believe. So you, too, have come through this cold. So you, too, have come through this cold. Then let me tell you one thing first. Folded inside this single day are sixteen years. No — not sixteen years alone. In the depths of this man's blood, a memory of twelve thousand years lies sleeping, and today the whole of it wakes. As a single flower holds a universe. As a single leaf lets the whole tree show through. In one day, everything dwells. Behind this man, you will soon notice, there are many besides me. I have counted them once. One hundred and fifty. Not one of them missing, today they gather here. Now the drops will fall. Begin to count them, and there are one hundred and eight. But for now, it is still zero — Zephirum. The first drop has not yet fallen. Look. The night is dark as the sea. And out on that offing — there. A fire. One.
