your name. by Makoto Shinkai

Author:Makoto Shinkai [Shinkai, Makoto]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Animated, Anime, Official Translation
Publisher: Yen Press
Published: 2017-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

“I’m sorry we could only get one room.”

“Tsukasa said the same thing to me downstairs,” Okudera-senpai chuckles. We’re sitting facing each other across the little table by the window.

“I don’t mind a bit. They say a group just happened to be staying here tonight, so they don’t have any rooms to spare. The man who runs the inn said it’s a teachers’ union social.”

Then she laughingly tells me how they treated her to Asian pears in the lounge after she got out of the bath. She’s the sort of person who makes everyone want to give her something. The scent of the inn’s shampoo reaches me, like a rare perfume from a distant, foreign land.

“Look at that. Itomori used to make braided cords. How pretty,” Okudera-senpai murmurs, flipping through a volume of local Itomori materials. It’s one of the books I borrowed from the library.

“My mother wears kimonos sometimes, so we have several of these at home. Oh, say…”

Lifting my teacup, my hand pauses. She’s examining my right wrist.

“That one on your wrist, Taki. Is that a braided cord?”

“Oh, this is…”

I set the cup down on the table and consider my arm. This is my good-luck charm: a vivid orange cord, thicker than a thread, wound around my wrist.

…Huh?

Isn’t this—?

“I think somebody gave it to me a long time ago. I wear it sometimes, for good luck…”

The deepest part of my mind prickles again.

“Who was it?” I murmur.

I can’t remember.

Still, if I follow this cord, it feels like I’ll find something.

“…You, too, Taki.”

The gentle voice makes me raise my head to see concern on Okudera-senpai’s face. “Why don’t you go take a bath?”

“A bath… Right…”

But almost immediately my attention returns to the braided cord. I feel as though I’ll lose something forever if I let go here, and I desperately ransack my memories. The dinner party is over, though I don’t know when it ended. The quiet song of autumn insects fills the room.

“Somebody who made braided cords told me something once.”

Whose voice is that? It’s kind and hoarse and tranquil. Like something from a folktale.

“They said that cords are the flow of time itself. They twist and tangle, come apart and reunite. They said that’s time. That’s…”

A mountain in autumn. The sound of a brook. The smell of water. The taste of sweet barley tea.

“That’s musubi—”

The scene bursts into my mind.

The body of the god on top of the mountain. The sake we offered to it.

“…That place…!”

I pull a map out from under the pile of books and open it. It’s a map of Itomori from three years ago that I found in a small independent shop, covered in dust. The topography from back when there was just one lake. The place where we offered the sake should be far outside the area the meteorite destroyed.

If I go there… If that sake’s there…

I pick up my pencil, searching for a landform that looks likely. It was way north of the shrine, a place like a caldera. Desperately, I try to find something along those lines.

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