Tokyo Ueno Station

This section begins with Kazu observing a running man, who stops to buy an ema—a prayer plaque. The man writes on his ema, “Thank you God. I finished the marathon. Please continue to look after me” (144). Kazu then lists the contents of some of the other ema. There are trivial and self-centered prayers, such as “Let the Yakult Swallows win this year at least” (a baseball team) and other prayers that reveal much heavier concerns, such as “Praying for my daughter to wake up” (144). The contrast of what the prayers are concerned with highlights the randomness of human yearning. There is no easily identifiable pattern other than buying the ema in the first place, suggesting a tendency to seek external help for daily struggles.

The action of this final section involves the eviction of the unhoused population from the park in preparation for an imperial visit, finalizing the theme of Invisible Classism in Japan. Kazu speculates that because the city is once again vying to host the Olympics in 2020, the sight of an encampment would not be a good look. Kazu explains,

That particular day was the day the officials were going to carry out what they called a ‘special cleanup’ and what we called ‘chasing out the quarry.’ We were to pack up our huts and get out of the park before members of the imperial family came to view the museums and art galleries (150).

The authorities place signs all over the park, which serve as a warning that the encampments will not be tolerated. Kazu points out the obvious fact that for the people who live in the park, they are being forced out of their homes. Kazu also reveals the way unhoused people are perceived by the larger public. That they are booted out of where they live is not cause for outrage; rather, the people who live in apartments in the area go so far as to file complaints about their presence. Kazu says, “To be homeless is to be ignored when people walk past while still being in full view of everyone” (146). The general population effectively see the people in the park the same way the authorities do. They do not consider them as individuals with basic needs; instead, they are seen as a blemish on the city or are simply ignored.

As the novel nears its conclusion, events become disorienting, which serves to mimic Kazu’s state of mind. Kazu is sick, and he is suffering the effects of his illness. It is cold and rainy, as it was on the day his son died. Kazu is clearly tangled up in thoughts of time and space; he gets caught up in memories, such as Setsuko and Yoko gifting him his watch. When he returns to the park and makes eye contact with the imperial family, he recalls the time, years ago, that he saw the emperor in person. He also notices the emperor and empress’s smiles, “ones that had never known sin or shame” because the imperial family, especially the emperor, had lived “[a] life that had never known struggle, envy, or aimlessness, one that had lived the same seventy-three years as I had” (168-69). This is the final nod to the theme of The Power of Circumstances. Though Kazu and the emperor are the same age, and though their sons shared the same first character in their names, they have led wildly different lives and are in wildly different places. Kazu, a sick, unhoused man, is all but invisible to people like them: Even when he says Emperor Hirohito once heard him speak, he describes it as being “one of twenty-five thousand voices” (170).

Just like the motif of noise, the motif of water has been prevalent throughout the book. Kazu often pays special attention to the rain, as it reminds him of the deaths of his family members. He uses water metaphors and similes to describe his feelings, and his dreams feature water, like the dream with the bathtub. This motif is most prominent in these final chapters: The rain, which has almost certainly contributed to Kazu’s illness, finally stops, granting him a moment of “enlightenment”—a moment that, in a twist of tragic irony, is soon revealed to be his decision to die by suicide.

Despite the disoriented descriptions in the pages before, the moment Kazu makes his choice is very clear. He comments,

With my head turned toward the sky, breathing in the smell of rain and listening to the sound of water, I realized exactly what I was going to do next […] I was not getting caught up in something and going along with it, nor was I running away from anything, as if I were a sail allowing itself to be pushed forward by the prevailing wind (172).

This comparison builds on the motif of water, but it is also foreshadowing for the upcoming scene on the beach, when he witnesses the tsunami that kills his granddaughter. Kazu’s words here also recall those from the previous section, in which he discusses the weight of life and the uncertainty of when he is going to die. The connection signals that he is going to take action to once and for all stifle his anxiety and dread. Kazu’s behavior falls in line with some studies on mental health; multiple sources, such as the Nevada Division of Public and Behavioral Health (DPBH) Office of Suicide Prevention and the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, cite a sudden elevation in mood as a warning sign for suicide.

Notably, as Kazu heads to the subway, he is focused on going home. He notices that the train is heading toward Kashima station, which would take him back to Fukushima; however, “the feeling of homesickness no longer [makes his] heart pound or [his] chest tighten” (173). When Kazu finally arrives at the subway platform, he says, “A number of paths were now behind me. Only one was left before me. Whether it was the way home or not, I wouldn’t know until I tried” (173). These thoughts are the culmination of The Impact of Grief and The Influence of Poverty. Though Kazu’s daughter and granddaughter still live, he barely knows them, and he does not want to burden them. He has no means of caring for them, and he is no longer as physically able as he was when he actively worked. To Kazu, “home” and “family” mean Setsuko and Koichi, and the only way to meet them would be in death.

However, death does not grant Kazu the salvation and peace he seeks. Kazu does not explicitly describe his death; instead, he focuses on “the rumbling sound of the approaching train” (175), which is followed by a disorienting description of the train ride scenery on the way to Fukushima. Kazu finds himself in his home community of Fukushima Prefecture and stands witness to the death of his granddaughter as she is swept out to sea and drowned by the tsunami that struck the area in 2011.

It is heavily implied that Kazu dies in 2006. Shortly before his suicide, he bumps into a woman who looks upset. As he watches her leave, he once again thinks about life and time: “The calendar separates today from yesterday and tomorrow, but in life there is no distinguishing past, present, and future. We all have an enormity of time, too big for one person to deal with, and we live, and we die—” (173). These words not only provide insight into Kazu’s mindset—a sense of nihilism, built upon his earlier crisis of meaning—but they also add to the disjointed sense of time throughout the book. This time, instead of jumping to a flashback, Kazu jumps forward—just in time to witness the death of yet another loved one. This time, as he is a ghost, he cannot react or even mourn.

Kazu then hears the same sound that begins the novel. The framing device further emphasizes the nonlinear nature of time, and it suggests that Kazu will never find the peace that he so desperately searched for while alive. It is an ending that does not offer redemption; instead, it implies that people merely exist, without rhyme, reason, or salvation. The absence of other ghosts leaves the greater worldbuilding up to the reader’s imagination; whether Kazu will someday reunite with his family, or whether he will eventually become lost to the flow of time, is open to interpretation.