An overcast day in April.

There is the smell of moisture accumulating in the air when Jinyoung ducks into the bookshop. Warm yellow globes and the jovial thrumming of Django Reinhardt’s Minor Swing greet him, and he smiles at the attendant behind the small counter beside the door. Books line shelves that stretch to the ceiling, a fan whirring lazily overhead.

It’s a small bookshop, with more space dedicated to the books than for people, and Jinyoung stands to one side when a man strides past and wrenches the door open, letting the sounds of the outside world back into the space. The door closes. It’s another world again. Jinyoung weaves his way past the shelf of classics (Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky catch his eye, but he’s not in the mood for 19th century Russian literature today) and makes for the back of the shop, where he can spot the more contemporary works.

Apart from him and the attendant (a 40-something year old lady with curly hair and glittering eyes that have seen more of the world than he has), there are only four other people in the bookshop: a teenaged girl with large headphones sitting in the tiny, dark young adult corner that also houses the children’s books, a tanned middle-aged man with a slight belly and a beret pulled over his thinning hair browsing through the fantasy section (Don’t pick up George R. R. Martin, don’t pick up George R. R. Martin, Jinyoung silently pleads. He picks up George R. R. Martin. Jinyoung turns away.), and a girl with short, wavy auburn hair sitting on a stool in the corner, already engrossed in the thin paperback in her hands. Jinyoung catches sight of the word ‘banana’ on the cover, and wonders if it’s the book’s title or the author’s name. He hopes it’s the book’s title.

He glances at the girl and notes that she’s probably around his age. She might even be pretty. He turns away before she can notice his eyes on her; it’s probably just the magic of the bookshop working itself on him, he thinks.

He takes his time working his way through each row; he can hear the pitter patter of rain behind the glass windows, and he isn’t all too keen to ruin the shirt that he’d just ironed that morning. So he stays even as the middle-aged man leaves and a tall, pale, skinny youth takes his place. The attendant smiles at him when he moves out of the way to let her get into the tiny storeroom beside his shelf. There’s a new woman standing at the classics section behind him. He’s suddenly aware that there are more people around him now, probably escaping the rain, and it feels strange to him that time is still moving at a normal pace beyond the glass windows of this bookshop when he’s been standing in the same spot for 15 minutes. He sneaks a look at the auburn-haired girl to check if she’s still reading and is slightly relieved to find that she is.

He’s just pulled out and read the blurb of his tenth book when he feels someone’s gaze boring into the side of his face. Without breaking momentum, he stores the book back into its slot and turns his head on the pretext of examining the shelves behind the girl's head. Their eyes meet; she smiles slightly before tucking her hair behind her ear and going back to her book. He smiles back. With her pale skin, pink lips and faint blush, she reminds Jinyoung of a peach. He can taste the faint hint of it on his tongue when he moves a little closer, though his eyes remain on the shelf in front of him.

“You must be very hard to please,” says a voice beside him when he puts his twelfth book back on the shelf. He starts, and looks at the girl. She’s looking right at him smiling, her index finger inserted delicately between the pages of her book to hold her place. She even has pretty fingers, Jinyoung observes, and he feels a gentle stirring in the middle of his chest.

“Oh?” He blinks.

“I’ve read through 2 chapters of this,” she taps the cover of her book, “and you’re still looking for one suitable for you.”

He laughs slightly, then clears his throat to expel the breathiness he can feel residing there. “Well, I’ve got all the time in the world.” He gestures vaguely to the outside of the shop, even though they can’t see it for the shelves blocking the way. “That looks like a good book, though,” he nods at hers.

“Oh, it’s great.” There’s a certain awkwardness in their conversation despite her smile and friendly tone. Almost as if they’re already friends but still complete strangers, and neither of them know how to cross that bridge. Jinyoung’s brain begins chanting a mantra introduce yourself, introduce yourself, introduce yourself.“It’s quiet in that nice sort of way, and the descriptions and imagery are beautiful. Her works are one of my favourite.” She holds up the book and he reads the author’s name: Banana Yoshimoto. He almost grins.

“It sounds nice,” he manages. “I don’t think I might be able to take seriously someone who calls themselves Banana though,” he does grin then, trying to show her that he can be light-hearted, but he can see from the way her expression cools slightly that he’s missed his chance. The mantra stops chanting.

“Oh, you might be surprised,” she’s still smiling, but she’s closed a curtain over her eyes and he’s sure that she won’t let him see behind them anymore. She turns her head to look beyond the shelves to the outside. “Ah, it’s stopped raining, I should be going.” Jinyoung doesn’t miss the way she always adds a short soft interjection to her sentences; it sounds more like air than voice, a hushed sigh slipping through the branches of a leafy treed wood, and he feels the ghost of a breath on the back of his neck. She gets to her feet, and nods her head slightly at him. “Nice meeting you.”

“See you around,” Jinyoung manages, and then she’s gone, taking the book with her. Jinyoung watches the hem of her skirt swish out of sight before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. 10 minutes later and he’s all but forgotten about the auburn-haired girl in the corner, reading a book by Banana Yoshimoto and wearing a white shift dress and plimsolls and telling him that he must be hard to please.

So it comes as a surprise – pleasant or not, Jinyoung won’t think about that until much later – when, as he’s smiling at the attendant again and just putting his hand on the door handle, she beckons to him to come up to the counter. “You forgot your book,” she hands him a paper bag, a twinkle in her eye.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but I didn’t buy a book,” Jinyoung narrows his eyes, confusion clouding his mind. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“Yes, you didn’t buy a book, so this is yours.” The bookshop keeper sounds like she can barely keep from laughing. “It’s already been paid for, so don’t worry about it. It’s yours.”

“Are you sure?” Jinyoung still can’t quite believe her, and he half-thinks that this is some kind of trust exercise where if he takes the book he’ll never be able to set foot in the bookshop again. “Really sure?” She’s already put the bag in his hands and his fingers are clutched around it but he still can’t bring himself to take it away.

“I’m sure,” this time she does laugh. “Look, I have the receipt right here. It’s yours. Have a nice day. And do come back!”

“Umm, thank you, I think,” Jinyoung withdraws his hand, but the paper bag is still in it. “Your music taste is great, by the way,” he adds as sincerely as he can. He didn’t buy a book and he’s taking one that he didn’t actually pay for, so the least he can do for this lady is pay her a compliment, he thinks. He kind of likes her. She would be the wise, slightly kooky aunt that he would go to for advice on life, if he ever had a wise, slightly kooky aunt. The only aunts he has are the ones who pinch his cheeks and tell him that he’s so handsome and when is he going to get married? Aunts. The kooky ones are better.

“Come back if you want to hear more,” she smiles, and then she’s turning to the customer behind him carrying a thick book on the history of China (“Oh, that one is just lovely, very informative,” he hears her saying, and he thinks her interjections are less of a whisper against his skin and more of a breeze flickering the flames of a fireplace, homely and warm). Jinyoung pulls open the door and walks out into the world.






It’s not what they’re named; it’s what they write that matters. Hopefully this will please you enough. Come back on a rainy day. – J

The note lies on the window sill where Jinyoung left it, the paper already worn from him having picked it up and read it one too many times since 5 days ago when the auburn-haired girl named J - J, he shakes his head in disbelief when he first finds the note hidden within the pages of Banana Yoshimoto’s Goodbye Tsugumi. Of all initials hers had to start with J. (He doesn’t let himself think of fate) – bought him the book she was reading and didn’t even have the decency to leave her name.

He sighs and marks his place with a bookmark (page 90; read slow and drink in the details is his personal rule when it comes to reading) before setting the book on the window sill beside the note and taking a sip of tea. It’s what they write that matters. He sighs again and shakes his head, thinking of the way her eyes hardened, of the soft whispers of her interjections.

“You were right though,” he says aloud as he watches the cars drive past below him. “The imagery’s pretty beautiful.” He hopes he’ll be able to tell her in person one day.









He’s just walking to the train station after work when he walks past the bookshop. He glances up at the sky – it had been a mild day, not too cold but not too warm, his favourite sort of weather. It hasn’t rained in 10 days – he kept count – and having finished Goodbye Tsugumi 2 days before, it’s probably time for him to get a new book to read.

So he puts his hand on the brass handle, and pushes the door open.

Mortiz Moskowski’s Prelude in B Minor today, not altogether befitting with the weather outside. He recalls the day he first met J., when it was dull and not too pleasant outside and cheerful within. Perhaps the bookshop was made to be like this, he thinks as he catches the bookshop keeper’s eye and watches her smile when she recognizes him. A constant contrast between this world and the world outside, a place where people are supposed to simultaneously lose and find themselves.

“Hello again,” the bookshop keeper looks at him with laughter in her eyes, and he finds himself smiling back. “How was the book?”

“It was great,” he tells her earnestly. “Really quiet, but in a nice sort of way. There wasn’t much of a plot, but I think the strongest part of it was just to absorb the words and not worry too much about the story.”

She looks a little impressed. It’s one of Jinyoung’s favourite things about himself, what he likes to think of being able to surprise people with his bookish ways. It’s not expected from someone who works in the particularly uninspiring field of bookkeeping, and he knows it. “It’s lovely that you liked it,” she replies instead, and it leaves Jinyoung a little disconcerted that she isn’t completely bowled over by his description. Usually someone would have told him he had a way with words right about now.

“I’m just going to have a look around,” he manages, and excuses himself. He makes his way to the back bookshelf again and sweeps a hand through his hair. Come on, you don’t need to go around impressing everybody, he thinks, and remembers the way J.’s expression clouded over. She probably liked you before you tried to impress her.

“So I should stop trying to impress her,” he says aloud. He feels like he’s had some kind of epiphany.

So he pulls out The Unbearable Lightness of Being – he’s read this more times than he can count – and goes back to the counter. “Could you do me a favour?” he asks when he’s paid for it. “Could you give this to the girl with red hair the next time she comes, please?”

“Of course,” she answers without hesitation, and he wonders how many other people she’s done this for; shuttled books back and forth between strangers, acting as a bridge between two worlds.

It’s funny when I think about it, he writes on the paper she gives him, but you were right when you said that it’s what they write that matters. It was great. So I’m giving something back to you, one of my own favourites. I’ve read this more than any other book on my shelf and I love it more every time. I hope you do too. The weather’s nice today. He pauses here, tapping the pen against his cheek, wondering if she’ll be confused if he signs off as J. In the end he ends the note with ­– Jin.

The sun has sunk lower into the horizon when he steps outside, splashing the sidewalk with brilliant orange and painting the edges of the clouds pink. He feels lighter as he sets off down the street.









Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood:
That was some really heavy reading, so this reply might be a little later than yours. I enjoyed it though. You’ve got good taste. A little bit dark, maybe, but good. The bookshop lady told me that you sounded really happy when you told her you liked Goodbye Tsugumi. I’m really pleased about it. Here’s another of my favourites, I think you might notice a trend going on with the kind of books I read. The cherry blossom outside my window bloomed the other day. It’s really pretty. It’s raining today. – Jin

P.S. Ah, I hope you don’t think I’m copying you. This really is part of my name.
P.S.2 I love the way Kundera portrays love.

Ah. The leaves in the wood rustle.










Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist:
Was that ending ambiguous or what? I’m not sure if I liked it too much. He has a real way with words though, it’s almost breathtaking. I had this really detached feeling every time I closed the pages and walked away, like the world around me wasn’t quite real. It takes a lot of talent for a book to do that to you. I guess you like Japanese authors? Today’s weather is pretty good. It’s starting to warm up a little, isn’t it? Today’s the first day of May so happy first day of the last month of spring! – Jiny

P.S. Let’s play a game. I’ll start revealing the rest of my name with each note. When our names are fully revealed we’ll stop sending notes and talk for real, okay?

He catches a firefly in a jar one day and sets it on the window sill (maybe he was inspired by Norwegian Wood, who knows?). He rests his head in his arms as the sun sets, and watches the faint light flit around its glass cage before he unscrews the lid and releases it into the night sky. It’s foolish to think that it will fly in through her window and cast a gentle glow over whatever book she’s reading now, this glowing piece of his heart, but he does anyway.










Yukio Mishima’s Spring Snow:
Ah, Paulo Coelho. You seem to like books that deal with the inner workings of yourself, don’t you?  I could kind of tell when I first saw you. You seemed like you were always thinking. I feel like I’m going to keep repeating this when I send you a book, so I’ll just tell you now that I only send you my favourites. There, it’s over and done with and now I can make small talk. The petals are falling off the cherry blossom tree. I like the warmer weather, I guess, but rainy days are my absolute favourite, especially when I’m here in the bookshop and I can look outside and laugh at the people running past with their briefcases over their heads. Who would ever want to leave this place? – Jinr

P.S. This is a fun game. I’ll save the best book for last.
P.S.2 Good to know that you and I don’t have the exact same name, because that would be weird.

Jinyoung hides a smile and takes a sip of tea to soothe the ache in his chest. The times between her notes are getting longer, and he wonders if he’s been sending her books that are too long. J.’s notes, he realized after this recent one, are what gives him hope in the middle of a dreary working day, are what makes him throw back his covers in the morning. He lives for the large loops of her handwriting, almost childlike in appearance and somewhat appropriate to the delicate girlishness she exuded when they first met.

“I’m not in love,” Jinyoung says aloud. The soft fuzziness of a peach. A hushed sigh slipping through a leafy green wood. “I’m not.”

He watches the raindrops on his windowpane chase each other down the glass, then sticks the note up on the window beside the other two. He likes this part of her to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up.










Guillaume Musso’s Girl on Paper:
And you call me a heavy reader. That was really something. How can anyone think of so many intersecting plots at once? The ending was terrible. Here’s something a little lighter. I can’t always be soul searching, I’ll turn old before it’s time for me to turn old if I did. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a huge fan of romance. I'm trusting you with this, okay? I hope you won’t rub this in my face when we meet up. (He smiles here.) You know, I’ve reread Goodbye Tsugumi a few more times since you first gave it to me. Every time I do I feel a little lonelier. Is it like that for you? – Jinyo










Hiromi Kawakami’s Strange Weather in Tokyo:
I could never get into western romance, it’s all too generic for me. It was funny, though. Maybe we all need some humour in our lives. Even if it comes at a price. I couldn’t imagine you reading this at all, which made it even funnier. Anyway, this book is the best. I might say that about all the books I’ve given you, but this is definitely the best. I know what you feel about the loneliness. Like I said, you might have noticed a certain trend about me. The rainy days aren’t so frequent these days, but it’s only a month to rainy season. The cherry blossoms outside my window were whirled away in the wind the other night. Please don’t stop writing. Happy first day of June. – Jinri.

Jinri.

Jinyoung’s hand shakes slightly. Jinri.










David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas:
Hi Jinri. Do you believe in fate? – Jinyoung.










He waits.



And waits.



But there is only silence.










Each time he turns up at the bookshop, the keeper shakes her head sadly at him. Jinyoung feels his footsteps weighing him down with each passing day. He rereads her notes fervently, trying to find hints in the dots of her i’s and the crosses of her t’s. Overthinking ruins people, he knows, but he destroys himself anyway. On the 11th day, the keeper returns his book and unread note to him. She won’t be back for a while. Jinyoung makes her keep the note and gives the book away to the portly lady sitting next to him on the train ride home.

He makes a connection one night. I’ll save the best book for last in her second last note. Anyway, this book is the best in the note after. She’d already told him that was the last note. He’d just been too stupid to pick up on the details. That, and hadn’t he said that they would meet in person when their names were revealed? Did he mean when one of their names were revealed or both? Was he supposed to stop writing or just her?

”God damn it!” Jinyoung yells angrily, and knocks his teacup off the window sill. It crashes on to the floor and leaves a horrible stillness in its wake, leaves him with his fists clenched in his hair as cold tea slowly spreads across the floorboards.

He misses her terribly.










He makes another connection a few days later. Like I said, you might have noticed a certain trend about me. He goes through her letters like a madman, tries to read meaning into her words, notes that she mentioned the weather just like he did. But wait. What exactly did she say?

Come back on a rainy day. It’s raining today. I like the warmer weather, I guess, but rainy days are my absolute favourite. The rainy days aren’t so frequent these days, but it’s only a month to rainy season. Rain. Rain. Rain. Rain. He imagines her sitting on the stool in the corner, writing to him while the rest of the world washed itself into the gutter. It does nothing to comfort him.

He looks outside. It’s already nearing the end of June, and the monsoon season could be starting any day now. He looks at the worn notes in his hands, looks out the window again. “Did I just always miss you because I never went on a rainy day?” he asks the sky. As expected, it doesn’t answer.










Jinri was right when she said that rainy days were becoming less frequent.  Suddenly Jinyoung isn’t counting down the days to her next note but counting down the days to the next rainfall. He swears at the TV when they announce that the monsoon season is going to be unusually late this year.

He prays every night for a miracle.










It’s practically the beginning of July when he wakes up one particularly humid morning. A 75% chance of rain today, the weather report says when he hops into his socks, a piece of toast in his mouth. The tiny bud of hope in his chest bursts into life, unfurling bright green leaves.

He feels like he’s wading through mud trying to get all his work done that day, and when he finally clocks out at 7.30pm it’s pouring, the pavements slick with rain. He doesn’t stop to think about the shirt that he just ironed today, or the fact that his messenger bag is made of leather. He just knows that it’s raining.

It's raining and there's someone important he has to meet.

He runs.

He’s soaked through to the skin, but none of it matters as he rounds the corner. He slips on a particularly wet patch, steadying himself with his hand before getting to his feet and continuing to race down the street. He’s thankful that his office is only a 10 minute walk away, and he can see the light of the bookshop shining in the street…

He wrenches the door open a little violently, and the bell jangles eagerly. Django Reinhardt again today; it’s most definitely too much of a coincidence to say that this isn't meant to be fate.

“Jinyoung!” the bookshop keeper springs to her feet when he takes a step in. “You’re soaked!” But he only shakes his head at her. Her eyes betray nothing when she nods and sits back down. She picks up a pen and continues with her work. Jinyoung watches her for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath and walks forward.

Past the history books, past the adjacent classics (Jane Austen seems to be staring him down today) and – he holds his breath and turns the corner -

He stops in his tracks. Auburn hair a little longer than it used to be. A black and white check sleeveless shift dress and black loafers. In her hands is his note. He can make out the word fate? She looks up. Looks at him. Pale skin, pink lips and a faint blush that gradually deepens as their eyes lock. Jinyoung tastes peaches on the tip of his tonguet. He watches her eyes take in his dripping hair as she gets slowly to her feet, his drenched shirt clinging to his chest, rainwater rolling down his neck. He swallows.

“Jinri,” he manages in a tiny voice.

“Oh, Jinyoung,” she starts. Oh. The breeze leaves the wood, breathes against his skin.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he cuts in. She’s looking at him. “You watching the cherry blossoms fall off the tree one by one. Me watching the raindrops chase each other down my windowpane. Our names starting with Jin. The both of us writing secret notes to each other in our favourite books. Finding ourselves in this bookshop. This is the exact same song that was playing when you told me I must be hard to please.” He gestures to the air around them. "You told me you loved how Kundera portrayed love as an endless string of coincidences. Do you believe in fate, Jinri?”

She looks at the note in her hand, then back at him. He can see joy in , fear in her eyes, confusion in her cheekbones.  “I… I don’t know,” she whispers.

He takes a step forward, and holds out his hand for the note. She gives it to him almost in a trance, and he crumples it into a ball and throws it to one side where it rolls under a shelf. “What about me?” he asks in a low voice. He takes her hand, holds it between both of his. “Do you believe in me?”

She smiles then, and her fingers trace lightly against his palm. “I didn’t before,” she moves closer, but her eyes never leave his. Her other hand covers his. “But I do now.”

Outside the pavements are wet, the sky painted gray. The garish red and green neon sign of the Spaghetti Tree opposite sends a watery reflection across the street. Warm yellow globes. A fan whirring lazily overhead. The past 3 months of notes and books and the dull ache in his chest all stacking up together to create this moment right now: Jinri’s hands sandwiching his sandwiching hers. His are cold. Hers are wonderfully warm.

“Want to grab dinner?” he finally asks. “I know a good authentic Japanese bar right around the corner. We can pretend we’re in Strange Weather in Tokyo, and I can get some sake to warm me up.”

She smiles, and the bud of hope in his chest stretches to the far heavens.  “Oh, yes. That sounds amazing.” Jinyoung feels the breeze ruffle his hair.

It feels a lot like home.