The next morning.
He held out an old key on his palm.
“Today, to the place my grandfather said he absolutely wanted to take me.”
Where we headed was an old school building standing on the outskirts of Taipei.
The white walls had faded a little, and the red bricks bore the marks of many long years.
Even so, it was exactly as it had looked in the sketches my grandfather had drawn over and over in his sketchbook.
“Here...”
I found myself opening the pages.
The school gate.
The courtyard.
The clock tower.
The view before me and the picture my grandfather had drawn began to overlap.
“Grandpa...”
Before I knew it, I had called out that name.
It was quiet inside the school building.
Maybe because it was summer break, there was almost no sign of anyone.
Every time we walked down the hallway, the floorboards creaked softly.
“My grandfather and the others worked as teachers at this school.”
He began speaking slowly.
“A teacher who taught Japanese and a teacher who taught art. I heard that during breaks, they drew pictures and looked even happier than the children.”
A smile slipped out before I knew it.
That does sound like Grandpa.
The place we were shown to was the art room at the very back.
Soft light streamed in through the large window, and the faint scent of paint still lingered.
The walls were decorated with graduation projects from over the years, and in one corner there was just one old black-and-white photograph.
My grandfather when he was young, and his grandfather.
The two had their arms around each other and were smiling, surrounded by children.
Below the photo was a small caption.
“Teachers who dedicated themselves to art education at this school”
My chest grew hot.
My grandfather had lived in this place.
“This way.”
At his call, I made my way to the window side of the art room.
There, only one worn wooden desk had been left behind.
He quietly opened the desk drawer.
Inside was a thin sketchbook.
And an envelope.
On the envelope, in Japanese,
“Open on the day we meet again”
was written.
“My grandfather apparently kept it without ever opening it.”
I stroked the envelope with trembling fingers.
The day we meet again.
My grandfather and the others believed that day would come.
It was just as we were about to go home.
In front of the big banyan tree standing in the schoolyard, he stopped in his tracks.
“Here it is.”
At the base of the tree was a small stone marker.
On it, the same words were engraved in Japanese and Chinese.
“Let’s meet again at this school.”
The wind shook the trees.
The promise my grandfather and the others had made had kept waiting here all this time for someone.
I looked up at the sky.
Under the clear blue sky of Taiwan, I’m sure Grandpa was smiling.
And then I realized.
This promise wasn’t meant to be ended.
It was a promise left behind to be passed on.
He said quietly.
“...Tomorrow, would you open the envelope with me?”
I wiped away my tears and gave a small nod.
“Yeah.”
That answer was
also an answer to my grandfather and the others.
