Wakarimasen: I don’t know
In autumn, nature was at its most beautiful in the evenings, as the brilliant sun sank low over the edge of the mountain and cast its fading light across the summer birds traveling south. The melody of the uguisu and the last cries of the summer insects were replaced by the howling wind. The forest changed colors, and the plum trees were heavy with fruit.
Hiro was five when he first noticed the beauty of autumn. As the cicada ceased its mournful song, he listened to the winds blowing over Mount Kasuga and watched the maple leaves turn red.
Autumn always brought a ball of bittersweet emotion that twisted and turned inside Hiro’s chest and filled him with melancholy. He couldn’t tell where it came from, and since he didn’t understand it, he didn’t share it with anyone. Only his heart knew, but he was too young to look within and see the truth.
When the storms conquered the autumn sky, Hiro turned his tear-filled eyes up to the lightning stretching over the gray canvas.
“Why does Young Master cry?” his old servant would ask.
“Wakarimasen, Obachan.” I don’t know.
I knew, and I suffered with him from beyond the veil.