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Tales of Ogawa TG: Bookstore

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Tales of Ogawa: Bookstore

*This takes place in the same story universe as Mecchen House*

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On Tuesdays after my tea ceremony club, I like to visit a little bookstore on the edge of Sekkei.

It’s much smaller than any of the other bookstores in and around Ogawa but it’s my favorite. The others have their merits. All the most recent magazines and volumes in neat, organized rows. And, standing in a line over the new mangas, there is always a shooting gallery of young guys dreamily gazing at ridiculously busty girls.

I stand behind and, with a flick of my finger, I see (still only in my mind’s eye) them change to match those girls.

Flick. A tall boy with glossy, brown hair feels it lengthen and then gasps at her undeniable breasts as she turns and drops her book. Gone forever is the tall boy. In his place stands a petite girl with a trim navy cardigan revealing her new body. She lifts her pink and blue swirled school bag, not noticing all the cute adornments. She tugs at her short, ruffled gray skirt which reveals too much of her feminine thighs as her red blush deepens. She scampers off to the nearest restroom, staggering to adjust to her strange movements. In the back of her mind, she imagines this is a dream or just a momentary thing. But she is soon to realize the rest of her life will be this way!

I get dreamy after imagining the third or fourth flick. Some of them, I want to save, record as a flash of inspiration with a sketch of all that made that moment beautiful. But it’s hard to jot down anything when you have to stand and uncomfortably clutch the nearest hardcover as a drawing surface.

That’s why I love the little bookstore. The owner is a gray-haired little lady, Bookstore-san, who always smiles and knows just what book you’re thinking about. She was raised abroad but her Japanese is impeccable and she’s very skilled at tea. She told me about bookstores in the west where people are encouraged to browse and sit and enjoy the books.

The dark brown, fragrant shelves in her bookstore rise to the ceiling with works of every shape and color. You’re allowed to set your shoes by the door and embrace the little building as a second home. She has big, full couches with miss-matched colors brought from her home. I like the one at the end, set in a deep corner. The light is excellent for drawing and enough confused boys pass by to delight my imagination. Every book I have on drawing and every story I have with a glimmer of my dreams poking through I bought there.

It’s a special place with special memories for me, especially the day I met him.

On that day, I was paging through the midsection of a paperback. I knew there was just the sort of transformation scene I wanted somewhere in there. They said so online. But I was lost between characters I didn’t know and settings that felt like a butchered old myth.

Frustrated and hissing, I curled up with my feet under me on the chair. I brought a lengthy fuchsia lock of my hair around and fussed with that day’s bow. It was cloudy, not ideal for sunlight sitting or sketching, so the gloom brought out more of the lavender tones of my hair. I brushed it with my fingers and glanced down the aisle.

Slowly, his wooden cane leading, I noticed an old man making his way towards me. I looked away quickly and went back to fixing my bow. Before I knew it, he was standing a close but respectable distance away from me. I gave him a courteous look and was surprised when he approached me.

“Excuse me. I was wondering if there might be any books you recommend.” His voice was lighter and softer than I expected.

I fidgeted a little and shifted to get up. I probably should’ve told him I didn’t work here but I did have plenty of books to recommend. He introduced himself as Murata Takashi and I flubbed my way with bowing and saying, “My name…umm…I’m Nakagawa Katsumi. Pleased to meet you, Murata-sama.” Then I worried I was being improperly polite.

As I stammered about, he gave me a calm look, a nice bow, and said, “The honor is all mine, Nakagawa-san. So, what do you love?”

It was an odd question. I looked to the shelves. I honestly had no idea what was on any of these walls.

He was patient with me. His eyes, a slimmer and deeper brown than most people I met, looked out from a face densely-shaded with creases. He felt molded like clay from my art class, shaped by so many years. He was bald with little mottled spots along his brow and had a prominently curved nose.

Not until I’d wandered around with him close behind me and nearly brought down an entire row of books did I admit, “I’m not sure what you want. I’m so sorry.”

He clasped his hands together and looked out from wrinkle-rounded eyes. “My apologies. Blame it on the oddities of an old man.”

I wondered on that and if he deserved a good blast of transformation for something. Bookstore-san brought a chair over to my area for him and he sat down with a sigh.

It wasn’t till later that he explained himself. “I noticed when I first came in that you were searching through a book. You had this look in your eyes. An intensity one rarely sees. An intensity like love. I was just curious about it…”

Still felt a little odd but I understood it. Most people who see me hunting through a book think it weird.

Rubbing my hand, I really wanted to tell him what it was but I felt embarrassed. What I loved was rarely loved in return. I was bold about it but guarded in my feelings. However, his eyes reflected clear curiosity. I would be rude not to at least offer him something.

So, I took a deep breath, resisted playing with my hair, and said, “I love turning men into girls. I was looking for a part in a book where I’d heard that happened…”

From there, I became a fountain of words. I told him about how I looked at boys who looked at girls. I expressed my frustration at sketches and my deeper frustration at the kinds of words which inspired images and the images which inspired imaginations.

Through it all, the beginning, the ‘why?’ which everyone asked, was inscrutable to even me. I hoped desperately that he wouldn’t ask me why.

He seemed to listen carefully but my nerves kept me from really paying attention to him. When I was done, he said, without delay, “That is a beautiful love. Are there any books you love like that?”

It took some reassurances before I accepted that he wanted me to show him stories with transformations. Some of those, especially those in the back room, did not get first mention. I went with excitement to the artsy ones first before dipping into the pulpy ones.

I left him to sift through a selected pile by his chair as I settled back into my chair. Soon, I forgot he was even there, until he started to talk about the books. I found he was a swifter but still more careful reader than I could manage.

Stumbling over my words, I eventually found the kind of passion I usually had to unleash on certain persons back at the House. He kept pace with me as I turned over events, ideas, and connections.

And so it went every Tuesday. He would arrive later than me but always dutifully each week and we would talk about the books and my dreams. I was sure it was all silliness to him. That’s what everyone felt. But he listened carefully every time.

Before long, he inquired, “How about me?”

I just about dug my nails into the chair. Had I done anything to him in my head? I couldn’t remember. I’d picked out a few male patrons who’d passed by earlier but hadn’t brought pencil to paper.

But Murata-san? He embraced it so calmly. He would be a good target. And it would be a breathtaking transformation to see such an old man suddenly sprout beautiful hair, a lithe shape, and become a young woman.

It would be perfect. I told him so.

He gave a faint chuckle and told me, “Feel free, Katsumi-chan.”

A full, warm invitation the likes of which I rarely found. I should’ve been clawing at the page to translate his chiseled features into something softer. But I couldn’t. I looked at Murata-san and everything about him… The stiff but colorful jackets he wore. The sleek but formal shoes. The faded jeans. Everything. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

It bewildered my sensibilities but that’s how it was. Nervously, I changed the topic.

Some times, my “love” didn’t even come up. We’d talk about the sea breezes through the windows. He’d ponder what it meant to be Japanese. More than once when he expressed a feeling that the world had changed and he missed it, I had to hold my tongue about what I knew. Bookstore-san often brought us tea. I’d sometimes ask about him and Bookstore-san but it was then his turn to change the subject.

I knew people at school. I had friends in my clubs. I was connected to people at the House in a way which was impossible to express to anyone outside that circle. But my time with Murata-san was different. It was unexpected. It was relaxing. It was beautiful.

He’d still pester me about transforming him some day but he was equally happy to listen to my day as I fumed and delighted and pushed through bouts of apathy. He’d always say, “Treasure all moments and find your inspiration in them.”

Every sketch I brought was flattered but never too much. He noticed what I noticed when it came to flaws but offered little insights about how I might improve.

Though we never so much as held hands or leaned too close, I felt him right beside me whenever his cane thumped against the floor.

Then, one week, he didn’t arrive at the expected time. It didn’t bother me too much. I was caught up in a new series which had a lot of transformation potential. I just went home after a while and figured I would see him next week.

Next week, he still didn’t make an appearance and I was annoyed. I fumed to myself and glared at the usual place where he would sit. I had so much to tell him about the new series. I didn’t see much of Bookstore-san either. I kept quiet and grumbled.

By the third week he was absent, I started to worry. Had I said something which bothered him more than he let on? Maybe he was just tired of me. He had no obligation to me. I worried for his health too. He could’ve fallen. What if he didn’t have anyone to care for him? Maybe he was sick. It was in the depths of the flu season.

A relative of Bookstore-san was filling in for her and I finally got up the nerve to ask.

“Excuse me, is everything alright with the lady who owns this store?”

The woman at the front, whose eyes weren’t quite as kind as Bookstore-san’s, told me, “Oh, she’s alright. She’s just been down with the flu and hasn’t been feeling good but she’s recovering.” I was relieved for that.

Then, I asked, “There’s an old man who often comes in on Tuesdays. His name is Murata Takashi-san. You probably don’t know him…”

The woman assured me, “Actually, I do. My aunt lives in the same apartment complex he does. Or did…”

My knee gave a quiver and I asked, “He moved?”

She looked at me with a somber expression and said, “He passed away not too long ago. Apparently he’d been sick for a while.”

I clenched my lips a few times and answered only, “Oh…”

Holding myself together, I made sure she wasn’t mixing him up with someone else but she knew his description perfectly. She explained, “He lived alone. Retired. No family I knew about. Such a kindly man. Oh…are you Katsumi-san?”

I nodded vigorously and tried to breathe normally. She added, “He always talked about you when I happened to see him. He said you were going to turn the whole world into girls and he’d smile about that. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before…everything has been so crazy lately.”

I bowed to her and said, “Thank you for telling me. I…should go.”

I made it just a few steps out the door before my eyes started to get blurry. I found a small alleyway and wiped my eyes over and over. It wasn’t till I got back to the House and found a closet in a storage room that I couldn’t control it anymore.

I wailed with hot tears down my cheeks. I whimpered into my legs. I didn’t ever want to stop. I clutched an old blanket and muffled my screams. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t! He was such a nice old man. He was so happy. He wasn’t supposed to just die!

Eventually, creeping better than I ever could, Tara found me. If it had been anyone else, I would’ve just shut the door and growled at them. But I felt the same thing in her eyes as I felt in Murata-san’s.

I told her everything and she listened with careful patience.

Trembling, I clenched my fists and sobbed. “I could’ve changed him! I could’ve saved him! I could’ve asked Keiko at least. She’d have understood. He didn’t have to die. He could’ve become a beautiful girl forever...” My lips trembled as Tara leaned close.

She told me, “You said he was happy. That’s because he had you. You shared your dreams with him. You have nothing to regret.”

Still, I cried and it was a while before I felt like I could stop crying. It took even longer before I felt like drawing again or even walking by the bookstore. But I eventually returned to both.

Bookstore-san greeted me with warm melancholy. She had photos from his service but I wasn’t ready to see them. The back of the bookstore felt emptier with just my chair there.  

Time passed. It was late enough that I probably should’ve just gone home. I’d had some tea but I wasn’t in the mood to buy anything and my paper pads were empty.

Then, quietly from down the hall, I heard a thumping along with regular steps. My heart quickened and I watched until a girl my age emerged from around a corner. She had on a cast with crutches. The crutches were the same color as Murata-san’s cane.

I watched her without trying to look too much. She had long, shimmering dark hair the same tone as Murata-san’s eyebrows. Her eyes were vast and deep. Her face had a soft, rounded form to it like an egg. Where Murata-san’s skin tone was heavy and mottled, hers was light and clear.

Her school uniform. It was same sort of gray he always wore but as a silken sweater. No worn jean skirt but her skirt was in a pattern he sometimes wore. She had more of a bust than I did but then pretty much everyone does. I was slightly taller than her though.

My examination didn’t go unnoticed. She turned to look at me but didn’t say anything. Her eyes curled up into a warm expression. She waved and carefully made her way around a corner, the soft thumps of her crutches leading, and out of sight.

I knew rationally that she had nothing to do with Murata-san. It was doubtful she was even related to him. And spontaneous reincarnation was absolutely ridiculous. But I liked to think about it. I looked down at my blank piece of paper and began to draw.

When I was done, I had a decent sketch of myself walking home from school with my friend, Murata-san, as a beautiful girl walking beside me.
I'd like to dedicate this story to my departed but never forgotten friend, Aisaku/Aishitai (or simply, Ai), with the hope her spirit has found a world as beautiful as Ogawa but without any of the anxious drama or adventure that place usually has.  ^^

For more Mecchen House, look here
For the other Tales of Ogawa stories, look here
© 2013 - 2024 majorkerina
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DarkerInside's avatar
I stumbled upon this sweet and excellently written treasure of a story and it genuinely brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing this.