Leuven

　ルーヴェンという町について教えて。

　もちろんです。ベルギーのルーヴェン（Leuven）は、フランデレン地域にある歴史ある大学都市で、文化・学問・建築が融合する魅力的な町です。以下に主要な特徴を紹介します。

　基本情報

· 位置：ベルギー中部、ブリュッセルの東約25km

· 人口：約１０万人（学生を含めるともっと多くなります）

· 言語：オランダ語（フラマン語）

　そのとき初めて彼はこの町のことを聞いた。スマホのＡＩから教えてもらうだけの情報だけなので、具体的に街のイメージが湧くまでにはいかなかったが。

　ルーヴェン。

〈Leu／ルー〉と最初に音が伸びて、〈Ven／ヴェン〉と着地する。その音の響きは新鮮に響いた。彼は海外に行ったことはなかったし、ましてベルギーという国については、何も知識はなかったが、スーパーでベルギーのビールが並んでいるのを見つけたとき、二本ほど違う種類のものを買ってみた。馴染みのない濃い味わいがした。

　彼は何者でもなかった。

　何かを考えたり、文書を書いたりすることは好きだったが、その彼の生活態度を形容するようなうまい職業や名称はなかった。

　たとえば人類が始まってどこかの時点で、人が円というものに気付くとしよう。太陽の円かもしれないし、丸石から思いついた円かもしれない。やがて人は自分の手で、それを〇という抽象的なデザインへと変換して再現する。それは拡大して見ればいびつな線だ。しかし、描かれた円自体はいびつであれ、人はそのとき「完全な円」という概念を手に入れる。人間は不完全な対象から、完全なものへと、イメージを延長して考える事ができる。もしかしたら、神さまもそんなふうにして考え出されたかもしれない、と彼は考えている。

　信仰・社会・貨幣・権力構造・死・愛情・芸術・別れ・運命・犯罪・国家など、それについて自分なりの考えを持ち、何かしらのヒントが降りて来ると、彼はそれを逃がさないようにじっくりと捕まえながら、数日かけて文章にした。ノートを広げ、ペンで言葉を書き連ね、やがてそれらが彼にとって正しい組み合わせを見せるまで続ける。

　その習慣は彼にとって避けられない運命のようなもので、彼が十二歳の頃からずっと続いている。しかし、それは一般的には何でもない文章であり、この世界ではおさまりどころがないものだ。エッセイにしては短すぎるし、詩にしてはイメージがなく、哲学にしては論理が弱い。自分の発見を口頭で伝えてみても、聞いた人は「ほう」と感心した素振りを見せるが、それだけだ。

　自分の文章をどこかで発表して、もっと多くの人目に触れさせてみたいという思いは彼にもあった。「本当のこと」はきっと世界の方程式のようなもので、それは正しいがゆえに、きっと人に通じるはずだった。ただ、その正しさを人に届ける方法が見えなかった。

　何者でもない人間の声に耳を貸すには、世界は忙しすぎた。浜辺の中から目立たない石を一つ見つけるよりも、書店やネットでは溢れるほど評判の言葉が溢れているのだ。発せられている言葉そのものの価値よりも、まずはその言葉を発しているのが誰なのか、ということがはっきりと分からないと、まず始まらないのだ。

　彼だってそうだった。書店に行って本を探すときには、まずタイトルよりも先に作者名を見た。本末転倒かもしれないとは思うのだが、そのようにして人は選択するのだから仕方ない。多分、誰にも知られないまま、自分は言葉とともに死んでいくのだろう。それが運命なら、それを受け入れるしかない、と思うと納得がいった。

　日常生活の中でひっそりと、彼は誰のためでもなく言葉を綴った。それはある意味では不運かもしれなかったが、不運も、本人がそれに慣れてしまえば、そのままそれが日常になる。

　ただ完成するから書いていた。ここ最近のノート十五冊分はそのようにしてできあがったものばかりだった。

　彼の祖父は若い頃、自分の腎臓を片方賭け、結果的にいくらかの土地を手に入れた。それを元手に、晩年は駅前にアパートを六軒も持つほどになった。

　その祖父が亡くなると、彼の父親が土地管理の仕事を引き継いだが、父親は五年も持たなかった。ある時、何かの用事で北海道に向かったとき、宿泊先のホテルで亡くなっていた。

事件性はなく、心筋梗塞だった。父親にはほかに誰も兄弟はいなかったから、土地の権利は全部息子である彼に引き継がれることになった。

　その頃、彼は大学時代に下宿していた地方都市で、アルバイトからそのまま就職してカフェの店長をしていたのだが、弁護士から不動産の引き継ぎの話が来ると、カフェの仕事をやめて実家に戻った。

　傍目には彼の身分は結構な身分だった。アパートから定期的に収入が入ってくるし、そのほかにも駐車場や貸店舗からの収入もあった。服にせよ食事にせよ、金で買えるのなら欲しいものはたいがい手に入ったが、一番心が躍るのは手に入れる前で、実際に手元に来たころにはその高揚感は失せているのが皮肉だった。

　ものに関しては人間の欲望などたかがしれていた。一時期は真剣にヨットの購入を検討してみたこともあった。が、実際に店を回って店主と話しているうちに欲しいものはヨットそのものではなく、ヨットを持つという可能性や期待でしかなかった、ということに気付いたので、結局そこで止めた。

　気付けば彼はもうすぐ四十歳だった。いったい何があったのか、二十代の時期を彼はどこかに落としてきたようだった。そして当然だが誰もその落としたものを、誰かが補償してくれるようなことはなかった。

　あるとき、かつて働いていたカフェのスタッフから連絡がきた。母体の会社の経営悪化のあおりを受けて、来月いっぱいで閉店することが決まったのだった。それで最後に、関係したスタッフをみんな集めて店でお別れ会をするという。

　彼は新幹線に乗って久しぶりに街に出た。彼が出て行っている間に、いつも彼が使っていた〈学園前〉というバスの停留所はなくなっていた。それなら迎えに来てもらえば良かった、と思いながら、彼は最寄りのバス停留所からそのカフェまで半時間ほど歩いた。

　彼がカフェに着いたときには、すでに用意は全部終わっていた。隅から隅まで知り尽くしているはずの店内は、小さなステージに変わっていた。テーブルはぜんぶ脇に寄せてあり、椅子も扇形に並べ直してあった。そのステージの中央に、小さな足踏みオルガンがおいてあるのを彼は見つけた。両腕で抱えられるほどの小さなもので、大正時代に製作された古いものだと後で聞いた。

　彼が懐かしい顔ぶれとひとしきりの挨拶を交わして、席に戻ると、オルガンの前にはひとりの女性が座っていた。

　彼女は自己紹介もなにもなく、鍵盤の上に指を置くと、ぐっと身体を前屈みにしてペダルを踏みながら、いくつか単音を出した。その音が途切れそうになると、また次の音が出て、フレーズらしきものになる。音と音の隙間にギッ、ギッとペダルの音がするが、そちらに意識を向けている間に、いつのまにか水の中に滑り込むようにして曲が始まっていた。

　一曲の演奏が終わると、彼女はふと手を止めて、オルガンの少し上に目をやった。そうしてまた同じように、単音からたぐり寄せるようにして次の曲を弾いた。

　いつの間にか半時間ほどが過ぎていた。皆の拍手の中で彼女は礼をして、ステージを降りた。そうして彼の隣の席に座った。

　次のコーナーはプロジェクターを使った、思い出の写真スライドだった。店長が簡易スクリーンを持って来て、それを壁に掛けた。

　明かりを消した部屋の中で、次々と懐かしい写真が現れる間も、彼はずっと隣の女性のことが気になっていた。彼女は手をきちんと膝の上にそろえて、微笑みながらスクリーンに目を向けていた。もしかしたら一時的にここで働いていたのかもしれないな、と彼は思った。少なくとも彼がこの仕事を離れてもう四年にもなるのだから。そう思って見回すと、たしかに知らない顔もずいぶん混ざっている。

「さっきの演奏、よかったでした」部屋が再び明るくなると、勇気を出して彼は彼女に話しかけた。「オルガンの音、久しぶりに聴いた気がします」

「ありがとうございます」と彼女は返事した。

「何か……オルガンの音って、ピアノとは違って、ハーモニカっぽいというか、懐かしいというか」

「そうかもしれませんね」

　実際に声を掛けてみても、そこから何を話せばいいのかわからなかった。音楽はすでに終わっていたし、彼には専門的な音楽の知識もなかった。

　ただ彼には彼女が弾いた音楽に何か通じるものがあったのだ。それは彼の中に浸透し、気持ちを揺らせ、まだその余韻が残っているような感じだった。

「良かったでした」と彼は言った。口にしてすぐに首を横に振った。「何か懐かしくて、オルガンの音がこう……波のようで……」

　こういうとき、自分も楽器ができれば、彼女と一緒に演奏するなどして、通じ合えるものがあるのかもしれない。音楽の彼女に対して、言葉で接してみても、返ってくるのは手の届かない壁のような感触だけだった。

　それから、まだもう少しあたりさわりのない会話を続けたが、やはり同じだった。このまま会話を終わらせて他人としてやり過ごせばいいのかもしれないが、彼はそれでもぎごちない会話を続けた。むしろ彼女の方が、そんな彼に気を遣ってくれていたようだった。

「明日からベルギーに行くんです」と秘密を教えるように彼女は言った。「ルーヴェンという街」

　帰りの新幹線の中で、彼女の名前すら訊ねなかったことに彼は気付いた。

　本当にルーヴェンという街に行くとは思わなかった。二十時間以上、飛行機を乗り継いでブリュッセル国際空港に着いて、そこからさらに半時間ほど電車で移動した。中型のトランクを引きずりながら、ルーヴェンの街に到着しても、彼はまだ自分がそんなふうに旅行できているとは信じられなかった。初めての海外旅行ではあったけれども、その気になればできるもので、ルーヴェンの駅前で片言の英語とスマホの翻訳アプリを使って、ブリュッセルセ通りに面したホテルを見つけることもできた。少し歩けばタイ・中国・日本・韓国ごちゃまぜの小さなアジア食材のスーパーもあった。

　それから三日間、彼は最初に見つけたホテルを中心に街を観光した。

　自転車の多いきれいな街だった。一応は観光名所になっているところをいくつか廻ってみたが、それよりもただ街中を歩いているだけでよかった。人々が生活している様子を見る方が、あつらえられた観光地よりもずっと面白いのだ。日本にいるときも同じだった。彼はいつでも周辺にいて、中の人たちを眺めている。そしてまったく平等に、彼もベルギー人も、みな年老いていつかはこの世界という舞台から降りるのだ。

　パウロ教会で聖リタ像の顔を見た時、あのオルガン弾きの彼女のことが浮かんだ。そういえば彼女もこの街にいるのかもしれない、と思った。

　滞在の残りの一週間のあいだ、彼は行く先々で日本人を探すようにして歩いた。一回は、ベルギー人と結婚し、もう十年以上ルーヴェン在住だという日本人女性と話す機会があったが、オルガンを弾く日本人女性のことは聞いた事がない、と彼女は答えた。

　ルーヴェンの大学傍のテーブルで彼はビールを飲んでいる。ベルギーのビールはやはり馴染みのない濃い味わいがした。午後三時。彼は文房具店で買ってきたノートに文字を連ねていた。誰も彼に注意を払わなかったし、後ろで聞こえる言葉も分からなかった。でも、そのほうが集中できるような気がした。

　最初は街の印象を書いていた。彼にしては珍しく、言葉に注意を払わずに、思うがままにただスケッチのように言葉を連ねていたのは、もしかしたらこの数日、誰とも日本語で会話していなかったからかもしれない。

　自分は抱えている不足の代償に文章を書くのかもしれない、という予感がふと彼によぎった。と同時にそこからたぐり寄せられるように母親のことが頭に浮かんだ。こんな遠い場所で、ずっと思い出しもしなかった母親が出て来たのが意外だった。

　十二歳の時に家を出てしまってから一度も会っていない母親だった。

　自分からも会いに行こうとしなかった。父も会いに行くように言わなかった。そうするにはきっと父なりの理由もあったのだろう。でも、それを聞くのが遠慮されて、そこだけ触れないまま生活を続けているうちに、それが当たり前になった。その頃はまだ祖父も祖母も健在で、祖母が母代わりだった。

　母親は別の場所で、別のひとと暮らしていた。あるとき弟がきた。ぼくよりもずっと年下の弟で、私立大学に通っていた。一度顔を見たかった、と弟は言った。もし良ければみんなで会って食事をしたいと母さんが言っている、とも伝えてきた。

　多分、母親はその弟と自分とが仲良くなれば、と思って遣わしたのだろう。事情はあれどもどちらも自分が産んだ息子であり、兄弟なのだから。年の離れた兄が、若い弟に色々なことを教えてあげて、それで収まるところに収まれば、と願っていたのだろう。

　落ちぶれて欲しいと思っていた。母親が生活に困窮して、周囲に誰もいなくなって、そうして自分たちのところに戻ってきたらいい。だが、家を出ていった母親が、そこそこの生活をして落ち着いているのが、呑み込めなかった。

　むしろ父親とふたりで過ごしている自分の方がどれだけ惨めなのか確かめに、弟を派遣したのか、とすら思った。あの弟が「母さん」と呼ぶのを聞くたびに胸がむかむかするのを、彼は抑えられなかった。結局、弟が訊ねてきたことを彼は父親に伝えなかったし、もらった土産はそのままゴミ箱に捨てた。

　二回目にその弟が彼を訪ねてきたとき、弟は母の突然の死と葬式の日取りを伝えた。

　その頃すでに、彼の父もいなかった。彼は結局、母の葬式には行かなかった。その日、広い家の中でいつも通り、ひとりで過ごした。ヨットの購入を考えはじめたのはその時期だ。

　取り返しはつかない。

　一度捨てたものが戻ると思うか。捨てた時点でもうお互い別のものになるのだから。元に戻そうなんて無視がよすぎる。捨てられた、ということがどういうことなのか分かるのか。ごめんなさい、だけで全部許されると思うか。そんなにも、あなたの勝手な希望通りに物事が、やったことが全部、裏切ったことが全部、ぼくをずっと放っておいたことが全部、ぼくと父だけの生活が、忘れられたことが、そこにいないことが、それでもやっていかないといけないことが、全部、取り返しが、取り返しが、全部取り返しが、取り返しが、取り返しが

　彼はペンを置いて一回息をついた。彼の席は窓際で、そこから繊細な彫刻が壁一面に施されたゴシック様式の旧市庁舎が見えた。たくさんの観光客達がスマホを掲げてその写真を撮っていた。

　何を選べば正しいのだろう。どちらを選べばよかったのだろう？

　ものごとはいつだって手遅れだ。気づきは後からやってきて、選ばなかった可能性を少し垣間見せるだけだ。そこには正しい答えなどない。でも、あのオルガン弾きの女性に、何を弾いていたのか彼は訊ねるべきだった。あそこで聴いたメロディーは、昔、母親がピアノで弾いたメロディーだった。今になってやっと分かった。

　咳混じりの高熱が出た。治ったかと思うと、また朝には発熱して、もう四日も彼は小学校を休んでいた。午後になって、また身体がだるくなって寝ていると、隣の部屋で母親がピアノを弾いてくれた。それを聴くと眠れたことを思いだした。

　たぶん自分は、これからその音楽を探すのだろうという予感が彼にはあった。それだけでもルーヴェンにきてよかったと思えた。

　ルーヴェンのビアカフェで、店の片付けをしている店員がそのノートを見つけた。

　店員は濡れた布巾を脇に置いて、ライトの下でノートをめくって顔をしかめた。中国語が書いてある、と彼は思った。親切な彼はそれからしばらく、アジア人が店に来るたびに、カウンターの上にそのノートを広げておいた。たまに来る観光客の中には、そのノートに興味を示す者もいたが、たいがいはそのままだった。そのうち誰かが落書きをすると、ノートは来店客用のメッセージ帳になった。やがてノートの罫線にはビールの絵やスマイルが溢れるようになった。

Tell me about the town of Leuven.

Of course. Leuven, Belgium, is a historic university town in the Flanders region, and is an attractive town where culture, academia, and architecture come together. Here are some of its main features.

Basic Information

· Location: Central Belgium, about 25 km east of Brussels

· Population: About 100,000 (more if you include students)

· Language: Dutch (Flemish)

　It was the first time he had heard of this town. The information he received from his smartphone's AI was limited, so he couldn't fully visualize the town yet.

Leuven.

　The sound starts with “Leu” and ends with “Ven.” The sound was fresh to him. He had never been abroad, and he knew nothing about Belgium, but when he found Belgian beer at the supermarket, he bought two different kinds. The taste was unfamiliar and rich.

　He was nobody.

　He liked to think and write, but there was no apt occupation or title to describe his lifestyle.

For example, let's say that at some point in human history, people noticed the concept of a circle. It could have been the circle of the sun, or it could have been a circle inspired by a round stone. Eventually, people would recreate it as an abstract design using their own hands. When enlarged, it would be an irregular line. However, even if the drawn circle itself was irregular, people would have gained the concept of a “perfect circle.” Humans can extend their imagination from imperfect objects to perfect ones. Perhaps God was conceived in a similar way, he thought.

　Faith, society, currency, power structures, death, love, art, separation, fate, crime, the state—he has his own thoughts on these topics, and when some kind of hint comes to him, he carefully captures it so as not to let it escape, spending several days writing it down. He spreads out his notebook, writes down words with a pen, and continues until they reveal the correct combination for him.

　This habit is like an inescapable destiny for him, one that has continued since he was twelve years old. However, it is generally nothing more than ordinary writing, something that has no place in this world. It is too short to be an essay, lacks imagery to be poetry, and lacks logic to be philosophy. When he tries to convey his discoveries verbally, people show a hint of admiration, but that is all.

　He also wanted to publish his writing somewhere and have it seen by more people. “The truth” was surely like an equation for the world, and because it was correct, it should have been understandable to people. However, he couldn't see a way to convey that correctness to others.

　The world was too busy to listen to the voice of a nobody. In bookstores and online, there are so many words overflowing with fame that it's easier to find a single unremarkable stone on the beach. Before the value of the words themselves can be assessed, it's essential to know who is speaking them.

　He was no different. When he went to a bookstore to look for a book, he first checked the author's name before the title. He knew it might be backwards, but that's how people make choices, so there was nothing he could do about it. Perhaps I will die with my words, unknown to anyone. If that is my fate, I have no choice but to accept it, and I came to terms with that.

　In his daily life, he quietly wrote words for no one in particular. In a way, it might have been unfortunate, but once one gets used to it, even misfortune becomes part of daily life.

　He wrote simply to complete it. The past fifteen notebooks were all created in that way.

　His grandfather had gambled away one of his kidneys in his youth and ended up acquiring some land. Using that as capital, he eventually owned six apartments near the station in his later years.

When his grandfather passed away, his father took over the land management business, but he didn't last five years. One day, while traveling to Hokkaido for some business, he was found dead in his hotel room.

There was no foul play involved; it was a heart attack. Since his father had no other siblings, all the land rights were inherited by his son, him.

At that time, he was working as a café manager in a regional city where he had lived during his university days, having transitioned from part-time work to full-time employment. However, when he received a proposal from a lawyer regarding the inheritance of the real estate, he quit his café job and returned to his family home.

　From the outside, his status seemed quite respectable. He received regular income from the apartment, as well as income from parking lots and rental stores. Whether it was clothes or food, if it could be bought with money, he could usually get what he wanted. However, the most exciting part was before he actually obtained it, and by the time it arrived in his hands, the excitement had already faded, which was ironic.

　When it came to material things, human desires were limited. At one point, he seriously considered buying a yacht. However, as he visited stores and talked to the owners, he realized that what he truly desired was not the yacht itself, but the possibility and expectation of owning one. Ultimately, he decided against it.

　Before he knew it, he was almost forty. It seemed as though he had lost his twenties somewhere along the way. And of course, no one compensated him for what he had lost.

　One day, he received a call from a former colleague at the café where he used to work. Due to the parent company's financial difficulties, it had been decided that the café would close at the end of next month. As a final farewell, they planned to gather all the staff members who had been involved and hold a farewell party at the café.

　He took the express train and went into the city for the first time in a while. While he was away, the bus stop he always used, called “Gakuenmae,” had disappeared. He thought he should have asked someone to pick him up, but instead he walked about half an hour from the nearest bus stop to the café.

When he arrived at the café, everything was already prepared. The interior, which he thought he knew inside out, had been transformed into a small stage. The tables had been moved to the side, and the chairs had been rearranged in a fan shape. In the center of the stage, he found a small foot-operated organ. It was small enough to be held in both arms, and he later learned that it was an old one made in the Taisho era.

After exchanging greetings with the familiar faces, he returned to his seat and saw a woman sitting in front of the organ.

　Without any introduction, she placed her fingers on the keyboard, leaned forward, and pressed the pedals while playing a few single notes. As the sound seemed about to fade, the next note followed, forming a phrase. Between the notes, the sound of the pedals could be heard, but before he knew it, the song had begun, slipping into the water.

　When the song ended, she suddenly stopped playing and looked up at the organ. Then, in the same way, she played the next song, starting with single notes and gradually building up.

Before he knew it, half an hour had passed. She bowed to the applause of the audience and left the stage. Then she sat down next to him.

The next segment was a slide show of memories using a projector. The manager brought a portable screen and hung it on the wall.

　In the darkened room, as one nostalgic photo after another appeared, he couldn't help but notice the woman sitting next to him. She had her hands neatly folded on her lap and was smiling as she looked at the screen. Maybe she used to work here temporarily, he thought. After all, it had been four years since he left this job. Looking around, he noticed that there were indeed quite a few unfamiliar faces.

“That performance was wonderful.“ When the room brightened again, he mustered his courage and spoke to her. ‘It's been a long time since I've heard the sound of an organ.’

”Thank you,“ she replied.

”Somehow... the sound of an organ is different from a piano. It's more like a harmonica, or maybe it's just nostalgic.“

”That may be true.”

　Even after he spoke to her, he didn't know what to say next. The music had already ended, and he didn't have any specialized knowledge of music.

But there was something about the music she played that resonated with him. It permeated his being, stirred his emotions, and left a lingering impression.

“It was good,” he said. He shook his head immediately after saying it. ‘It was nostalgic, and the sound of the organ was like... waves...’

At times like this, if he could play an instrument himself, he might be able to connect with her by playing together. When he tried to approach her with words, all he felt was a wall that he couldn't reach.

　They continued with some more casual conversation, but it was the same. Perhaps it would have been better to end the conversation and move on as strangers, but he continued the awkward conversation. In fact, she seemed to be the one making an effort to be considerate of him.

“I'm going to Belgium tomorrow,” she said, as if sharing a secret. “To a city called Leuven.”

On the express train ride back, he realized he hadn't even asked her name.

　He never thought he would actually go to the city of Leuven. After more than 20 hours of connecting flights, he arrived at Brussels International Airport, and then took a train for another half hour. Dragging his medium-sized suitcase, he arrived in the city of Leuven, but he still couldn't believe he was able to travel like this. It was his first overseas trip, but it was something he could do if he wanted to. Using broken English and a translation app on his smartphone, he was able to find a hotel facing Brussels Street near the station in Leuven. A short walk away was a small Asian grocery store with a mix of Thai, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean ingredients.

For the next three days, he explored the city centered around the first hotel he found.

　It was a clean city with many bicycles. He visited a few places that were supposedly tourist attractions, but he enjoyed just walking around the city more. Seeing how people lived was much more interesting than visiting tourist attractions. It was the same when he was in Japan. He was always in the vicinity, watching the people inside. And just as equally, he and the Belgians would all grow old and eventually leave this world.

　When I saw the face of Saint Rita at St. Paul's Church, I thought of the organist. I wondered if she might also be in this city.

During the remaining week of his stay, he walked around looking for Japanese people wherever he went. Once, he had the opportunity to talk to a Japanese woman who had married a Belgian and had been living in Leuven for more than ten years, but she said she had never heard of a Japanese woman who played the organ.

　He was drinking beer at a table near the university in Leuven. Belgian beer had a familiar rich taste. It was 3:00 p.m. He was writing in a notebook he had bought at a stationery store. No one paid any attention to him, and he couldn't understand the words he heard behind him. But he felt that he could concentrate better that way.

At first, he wrote about his impressions of the city. Uncharacteristically, he was writing without paying attention to his words, just sketching them out as they came to him. Perhaps it was because he hadn't spoken Japanese with anyone in the last few days.

He suddenly had a feeling that he might be writing to compensate for something he was lacking. At the same time, thoughts of his mother came to mind. It was surprising that his mother, whom he hadn't thought about in a long time, had come to mind in such a distant place.

　He had left home when he was twelve and had not seen her since.

He had never tried to visit her. His father had never told him to visit her. His father must have had his reasons for not doing so. But he was too shy to ask, and as time passed without mentioning it, it became the norm. At that time, his grandparents were still alive, and his grandmother had taken the place of his mother.

　My mother was living in a different place with someone else. One day, my younger brother came to visit. He was much younger than me and was attending a private university. He said he wanted to see my face once. He also said that my mother wanted to have a meal together if it was okay.

I suppose my mother sent him because she wanted us to get along. Despite the circumstances, they were both her sons and brothers. She probably hoped that the older brother would teach the younger brother various things, and that everything would settle down.

I wanted her to fall into ruin. I wanted her to struggle financially, lose everyone around her, and then come back to us. But the fact that my mother, who had left home, was living a decent life and had settled down was something I couldn't accept.

　He even wondered if he had sent his younger brother to confirm how miserable he was living with his father alone. Every time he heard his younger brother call out “Mother,” he couldn't suppress the feeling of nausea in his chest. In the end, he didn't tell his father about his younger brother's visit, and he threw away the souvenirs he had received.

　When his younger brother visited him a second time, he told him about their mother's sudden death and the date of the funeral.

By that time, his father was already gone. In the end, he didn't attend his mother's funeral. On that day, he spent his time alone in the spacious house as usual. It was around that time that he began to consider buying a yacht.

There's no going back.Do you think something you've discarded can ever come back? Once you discard something, it becomes something else entirely. Trying to go back is just too much to ignore. Do you understand what it means to be discarded? Do you think a simple “I'm sorry” will make everything okay? Everything you did, everything you betrayed, everything you left me alone with, everything about my life with my father, everything that was forgotten, everything that wasn't there, everything that still had to be done, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everything that can't be undone, everythi

　He put down his pen and took a breath. His seat was by the window, from which he could see the Gothic-style old city hall with its intricate carvings covering the walls. Many tourists were holding up their smartphones to take photos of it.

　What should I have chosen? Which option would have been better?

Things are always too late. Realization comes afterward, offering only a glimpse of the possibilities that were not chosen. There is no right answer. But he should have asked the organist woman what she was playing. The melody he heard there was the same one his mother had played on the piano long ago. He finally understood that now.

　He had a high fever with a cough. Just when he thought he was better, he had a fever again in the morning, and he had been absent from elementary school for four days. In the afternoon, he felt tired again and was lying down, when his mother played the piano in the next room. He remembered that he could sleep when he listened to it.

He had a feeling that he would probably search for that music from now on. That alone made him feel that coming to Leuven was worth it.

　At a beer cafe in Leuven, a clerk cleaning up the store found the notebook.

The clerk put down the wet rag he was holding and looked at the notebook under the light, frowning. He thought it was written in Chinese. Being a kind person, he kept the notebook open on the counter whenever Asian customers came into the store. Some of the tourists who came in occasionally showed interest in the notebook, but most of them ignored it. Eventually, someone started doodling in it, and it became a message book for customers. Soon, the notebook's lines were filled with drawings of beer and smiles.