In the middle of the third hour, his old friend held up a chipped black frame that held a ragged piece of cloth. “How about this one?”
“That’s her kanji. She brought it back from that month in Osaka.”
“She didn’t want to take it?”
The man followed the lines on the rug with his eyes, seeing if they would change this time. “She had her chance.”
The friend held the frame towards the window, tilting into the fuzzy shine of the falling sun. “What does it stand for? I mean, what does it mean?”
The man looked up at the symbol, the confident brushstrokes swirled and trailed on the cloth. “I never asked.”
His friend shrugged and leaned it onto the sell pile. Someone would translate it and offer a few bucks for it, at least.