Manda Yoko, Takamugi Kosuke, Suzumura Misuzu.

Do these names ring a bell? All three were suspense writers from a bygone era. Some twenty years ago now, they each published just a handful of detective stories and travel mysteries before vanishing like ephemeral bubbles.

This was a time before smartphones. Think of the morning commutes, those quiet moments before drifting off to sleep, the long flights back home. How many people, beyond counting, must have spent those hours turning pages? In an age before even basic mobile phones, reading reigned supreme as entertainment. Books were simply much more a part of everyday life back then, long before the constant talk of today's publishing slump began.

They never won literary prizes, nor did their names appear on bestseller lists. Yet, judging by the print runs alone, their books reached tens of thousands of readers.

Now, these three shared another common trait. Let's add some more names to the list: Yamase Yūko, Ozawa Sudachi, Yō Santarō. These three were also authors active around two decades ago. But in complete contrast, they were writers of romance novels. Working mainly in paperback editions, they were even known for a time as the "Big Three of Love Stories," so perhaps more readers will remember these names. However, much like the others, they too have published nothing new in the past decade, fading from public view.

By now, perhaps many of you have already guessed the connection? All six are, in fact, pseudonyms used by a single author. Sasaki Shinobu, Oda Yukimi, Mutō Kanae... just a few more of the thirty assumed names this individual employed. Her most famous name – which was also her real name – was Sakakiba Mizue.

And the only novel ever published under that name is "Umibe no Marī" (Marie of the Seaside). It's a celebrated masterpiece of youth fiction, adapted for the screen numerous times, a story whose sequels are still being produced even now, a quarter-century after its initial publication. Even if you've never read the book, surely everyone knows the line made famous by the film adaptation's tagline:

"A love letter is a letter for which no reply ever comes."

Contemporary reviews lauded it as "a novel of universal value, perfectly capturing the ephemeral sparkle of adolescence," and it received the prestigious Sasada Prize for outstanding youth fiction.

And yet, as is widely known, the work is plagiarized.

Sakakiba Mizue, who in her lifetime produced over three hundred books and scripts. What was this bestselling author thinking and feeling about the world around her that led her to commit such an act? Now, marking the tenth anniversary of her passing, we look back on her life through interviews with those who knew her.

Sakakiba was born in Tokyo a little over half a century ago, the second daughter of Yūjirō and Mutsuko. Her father hailed from a long line of doctors, while her mother was the daughter of a successful businessman – a picture-perfect respectable family. Yet, the family atmosphere wasn't entirely traditional; her father, Yūjirō, collected numerous designer watches and possessed a library so vast it overflowed shelves covering an entire wall, revealing his rather stylish side. Besides her parents, she had a brother five years her senior and a sister two years older. As the youngest, she was doted on throughout her childhood.

Today, her brother, Sakakiba Takehiko, has taken over the family clinic and lives there with his wife and children.

"She always had a remarkable knack for getting what she wanted, you know," Takehiko recalls. "Maybe I feel that strongly because I was the eldest son and terrible at that sort of thing." He reminisces about their childhood: "Usually, when you think of a kid begging for something, you picture them throwing a tantrum, rolling on the floor, crying and screaming, right? Mizue wasn't like that. She would just look at what she wanted. That was all it took. I think it was when she was in junior high. We happened to be out together one day, just the two of us. Right, she just glanced at the wristwatch Father had bought me for my birthday. And just from that look, I heard myself saying, 'Here, you can have it.' Father was furious with me, of course. For some reason, he'd get angry with me, not Mizue. And Mizue? She just acted completely unfazed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Father, Mother, our sister Sachie (Note: the eldest Sakakiba daughter, passed away from ovarian cancer five years ago) – everyone was soft on Mizue. The maids who came to help out, you know, they used to call her the 'Shadow Head of the Household' behind her back."


(Caption: A family photo provided by Takehiko. The mother and daughters share a strong resemblance.)

"Even on the stormiest day, if she just gazed out the window, you'd feel the urge to take her out somewhere. If she peered into a shop window, even if you didn't have a penny to your name, you'd desperately want to buy her something. I used to think all little girls were like that, but when I really thought about it, Sachie was never that way. It must be something you're born with, I suppose. Maybe it's perfectly fine for a child to be like that, but young Mizue seemed utterly convinced the world revolved entirely around her. Naturally, by the time she reached junior high, she stopped doing such obvious things, overtly wanting possessions and the like. Even so, whenever we ate out, deciding which restaurant and what we'd eat – no matter how old we got, Mizue always had the final say. She was the perpetual queen of our family."

Due in part to the age difference, the siblings only lived together for a few years. Nevertheless, the three siblings, including Sachie, remained extremely close, visiting each other's homes with the seasons and always staying in touch. When her first book was published, she reportedly told her brother right away.

"Honestly, I was surprised when I first heard she'd become a writer. Creating work means putting yourself out there to be judged, doesn't it? And in our family, Mizue had always been the one doing the judging. If anything, I'd always thought marrying well and simply remaining someone's princess would have suited her better. Perhaps that kind of mismatch, that strain, is what led her to do... what she did. But then again, the books she wrote herself sold incredibly well, and they're good reads, aren't they? Doesn't that sort of balance things out?"

He can't help but want to take Mizue's side, Takehiko admits.

"See? Just like I said, I'm still soft on her."

Girls in sailor-style uniforms chatter noisily as they hurry down the corridor. "I do apologize, they're rather a lively bunch," says Teacher Namihara, who has agreed to speak with us. She herself is an alumna of the school. A year junior to Sakakiba, they were tennis partners during their time here.

"'Mizue-senpai,' yes, that's what we called her," Namihara begins. "Her older sister was two years ahead, so we never used her family name. She had so many friends; I don't think I ever saw her alone. Her grades must have been good too – she went on to a top university, after all. She was popular in the tennis club as well; everyone wanted to talk with her. She was a skilled player, too, so I was thrilled when I got to be her partner."


(Caption: A tennis club group photo from the graduation album. Sakakiba is pictured in the center.)

"She was cheerful and strong-willed, the kind of girl who wouldn't hesitate to tease even the male teacher who advised the club. But she wasn't the type to go for student council or club president roles. After all, she was a regular in submitting disciplinary 'reflection essays'. Although, among students, that sort of thing might actually boost your popularity. She'd say the school rules were ridiculous, perm her hair, or constantly be making detours on the way home from school. Back then, the school had many girls from very proper families, so things like that were serious violations. People forget now, overshadowed by the Bubble years, but it was also a difficult time economically, quite turbulent, so the school authorities were rather hypersensitive. There were even girls who had to leave school entirely because of family financial problems. Things are naturally a bit more relaxed now, although if you ask the current students, they'll still tell you it's too strict."

"Oh, I've strayed from the point. Mizue-senpai was central to the tennis club, yes, but she had a way of... subtly manipulating people, let's say. So there were certainly some who didn't care for her. Her tennis style was quite aggressive, too. Perhaps, thinking about it, the reason she never became captain was actually a lack of genuine popularity or trust. Girls that age, you know, they're so caught up in who dislikes whom over the smallest turn of phrase. Things that seem utterly insignificant once you're grown up."

"Me? Oh, I liked Mizue-senpai. I truly admired her. There was an incident once when a classmate's wallet went missing, and somehow I was about to be blamed for stealing it. It was Mizue-senpai who stepped in and defended me, insisting, 'Namihara would never do something like that.' Eventually, the wallet turned up later, untouched, inside a locker. Looking back now, perhaps she didn't necessarily trust me implicitly, maybe she just said it on a whim... but at the time, I was just so incredibly grateful. Because of that incident, we started seeing each other outside of school too, on weekends. We stayed in touch after graduation, she invited me to her wedding, and we even went out for dinner together a few times over the years. When she debuted as an author, she gave me signed copies of her books. Including that one, 'Umibe no Marī'."

"'In the reference room of the old school building, there lives a witch.'" So begins "Umibe no Marī." While the witch legend featured in the novel is fictional, the girls' school serving as its setting is modeled directly on Tsubakigaoka Girls' Academy itself. Though the old school building itself has long since succumbed to age and been demolished, from its windows, one once had a clear view of the harbor and the sea.

"This is just my personal opinion, of course," Namihara prefaces her thought. "Regarding this whole plagiarism business... I can't help but feel it might all be some kind of misunderstanding, or perhaps needless worrying. Wouldn't her pride simply forbid her from accepting praise gained by taking something that belonged to someone else? Oh dear, that sounded rather pointed, didn't it."

Just as she finishes sharing this thought, the door to the reception room opens. "Sensei~!" a cheerful voice calls out, and a girl with short-cropped hair peeks her head around the door. She looks less like a student from a prestigious academy for young ladies and more like any other innocent young girl you might find anywhere in the country. In fact, she brings to mind the image of Sakakiba herself in that old group photograph.

"Excuse me just a moment," Namihara says, beginning to rise, but then she pauses to add one final thought. "If it had just been a matter of liking her, you know... we'd never have become friends."

After graduating from Tsubakigaoka, Sakakiba entered the prestigious Tōō University. Even as a student, she diligently submitted work to several newcomer literary contests each month, though she never progressed beyond honorable mentions or finalist selections; a major prize remained elusive. However, around the age of twenty, her sheer speed and volume of submissions caught the attention of an editorial production company, which approached her with an offer: would she be interested in writing erotic novels? From then on, she embarked on the writing career that would span her lifetime, taking on novelizations of television dramas, ghostwriting for idols and actors, creating manga storylines, penning various columns, and much more.

She met the editor Uemura Riichirō, who would later become her husband, during her university years, around the time she had published a few of those erotic novels.

"How we met? It was over a movie novelization," Uemura explains. "The author we'd originally commissioned bailed right before the deadline. I was desperate and pleaded with an acquaintance, 'Just find me someone who writes fast!' The person they recommended was Mizue. Graduate of a prestigious girls' academy, Tōō University student... and her debut work was titled 'Married Woman: Ripened Female Body'... I was expecting some kind of eccentric, but instead, in walked this lovely young woman."

Sakakiba reportedly disposed of all copies of those early books later, concerned they weren't suitable for her daughter to see once she was born. The book she presented to Namihara and her own family as her "debut" was actually her first general literature publication, "Blanca Blanco."

"It's rather embarrassing to admit, but for me, it was love at first sight. She looked every bit the refined young lady from a privileged background, yet underneath, she already possessed this fierce determination to make a living purely by her writing. That contrast... it completely captivated me. Back then, I was working in a media-relations department, handling lots of projects involving game scenarios and video content. I'll admit, I steered quite a few jobs her way simply because, as the editor in charge, it gave me an excuse to meet with her. Mind you, that wasn't the only reason! As I discovered right from our first encounter, Mizue wrote incredibly fast, her prose was clean and straightforward, and crucially, she consistently delivered stories that maintained a solid level of quality. Writers like that are rare, you know. Mostly you get people who write beautifully but take forever, or who are fast but churn out rambling, unfocused narratives."


(Caption: Bookshelves in the Sakakiba home, lined with numerous publications from that era.)

"We kept working together, eventually started seeing each other outside of work, officially became a couple... but that's enough about that, right?"

Three years after Sakakiba graduated from university, they married, with Uemura taking her family name, and the following year, their daughter Yuzuko was born.

"When did that first offer come... I think Yuzuko was around five years old. A proposal came in: would she write a novel, with the understanding it would be adapted into a major film? The lead actors were already attached; it was a lineup clearly designed for commercial success, aiming to win big at the box office. Mizue accepted the offer immediately. And the result of that was 'Umibe no Marī'."

Uemura brings out a yellowed manuscript labeled "First Draft." Red pencil proofreading marks are still visible on the pages.

"There are rumors, of course – that she buckled under the pressure, things like that – but I really don't think that was it. She could easily have written a perfectly pleasant youth story suitable for the film if she'd wanted to; she certainly had the skill. But she didn't. Why? I still wonder. It wasn't as if she needed the money, nor did it seem likely she was suddenly desperate for fame at that stage. I still don't truly understand her."

Uemura gently strokes the cover of the old manuscript, as if caressing his wife herself.

"And perhaps that's exactly why, even now, I hold her so dear."

Uemura and Sakakiba's only daughter, Sakakiba Yuzuko, left home after graduating from university and currently works as an editor for a literary magazine. The revelation that "Umibe no Marī" was plagiarized came about because Yuzuko published Sakakiba's unreleased essay, "Tegami" (Letter).
"Her will contained instructions for me to publish the essay," Yuzuko states plainly. "My mother was selfish her entire life."

Sakakiba's ovarian cancer was diagnosed when Yuzuko was still in high school; she had apparently written the will back then, unbeknownst to the rest of the family. Over the long course of her illness, which saw repeated cycles of worsening symptoms and remission, she must have confronted the reality of her own death many times.

"It wasn't a matter of infidelity, I should clarify. In that respect, as far as I know, my mother was faithful to my father. But in almost every other way, she was different. She frequently traveled abroad, calling them 'research trips,' even when my father and I pleaded with her not to go. She also had a habit of suddenly splurging on expensive furniture or electronics. She even decided where I would go to university without consulting me at all. I suppose she had the kind of personality that simply assumes whatever she thinks is good, everyone else must think is good too. My father seemed to find that free-spirited and charming, but I could never see it that way."

Indeed, among Sakakiba's extensive bibliography are numerous works set overseas, as well as mysteries where the latest home appliance plays a key role in the plot's trick. The claim of "research trips" wasn't entirely unfounded, which reportedly made it difficult even for her doctors to advise against them.

"I am grateful to her," Yuzuko concedes. "She was, in practical terms, the main breadwinner of our family. She put me through university. And I do want to love her. My decision to become an editor, to work in the literary world, came from a desire to see the world as my mother saw it. However, if I ever have children of my own, I know I don't want to be the kind of mother she was."

The published version of "Tegami" detailed all the pseudonyms Sakakiba had ever used, confessed that "Umibe no Marī" was plagiarized, and included an assessment of her daughter, Yuzuko, as 'the one who understood her most "

"I asked my mother once why she became a writer. She replied, 'Because there are things I want to communicate, things I want to leave behind.' What was it, I wonder, that she truly wanted to leave behind in this world?"

Sakakiba, who wrote ceaselessly from her student days right through her periods of hospitalization, left behind three hundred publications. The vast majority fall into the category of popular entertainment fiction. In terms of critical success within the established literary world, however, there was only one: "Umibe no Marī."

"My mother dedicated her entire life to 'Umibe no Marī'," Yuzuko says. "She neglected her family, neglected herself even, focusing only on this one single work." As Yuzuko looks up, her gaze is strikingly similar to her mother's. "'That's why,' she had said, 'I believe you are the one who should write this.'"

There is a section of the essay "Tegami" that was deliberately withheld from previous publication. Now, with special permission obtained from Yuzuko, the current rights holder, we are able to publish that section here.

Perhaps I should begin my story with the spring break of my second year in high school. If you were to ask what kind of person I was back then, I was, in typical adolescent fashion, impudent; like any schoolgirl, I was fussy; and furthermore, like a child from a good family, I was keenly aware of how privileged I was.

Imagine, if you will, a long road stretching endlessly. There are Y-junctions and T-junctions. There are dead ends and landslides. You might think there are countless diverging paths, or perhaps it's a single road that continues forever. If life is a journey, then I was a person who could possess many branching paths, and I understood from birth which of them was the correct one to choose. I was born with that kind of treasure map.

The treasure map said this: Grow up to be a daughter who is willful, but only to a manageable extent. After graduating from the same school as your mother and sister, marry some scion or other and make a felicitous departure from work After that, follow the path. Never stray onto a side road. If you do this, you will live a life where, while struggling with children who look just like you, you can murmur just before you die, "It was ordinary, but I was happy."

As you know, I was an incorrigibly conceited little brat who looked down on the world. But what happened that day was not written on any treasure map.

It was a supplementary art class.

Feeling a certain rudderless boredom with a life that progressed without much hardship, I had begun to disrupt the pre-established harmony, just a little. It was mischief of a degree from which I could still return to the main path: walking around at night, but not enough to get picked up by the police; dyeing and perming my hair in defiance of school rules. I didn't touch cigarettes or alcohol. Skipping art class was part of that. It was a miscalculation that I ended up in supplementary lessons because of it, but oh well, I could skip club activities too.

And so, in the still-chilly mid-March, I found myself in a deserted corridor. Pleasant sunlight streamed in through the windows, but the corridor itself was unlit and dim. The assignment for this art class was apparently portraiture. In the regular class, they had worked in pairs, drawing each other's faces. According to a friend, it was "like a driver's license photo." I hadn't heard of any other acquaintances who had to take supplementary lessons, so I figured I'd probably end up drawing the teacher's face. That's what I thought.

But when I opened the door to the art room, there was another student already there.
It was Takaoka Yukiko. The woman who changed my life. The woman I cannot forgive. The woman who ran away. The woman who disappeared.
The one and only woman.
Takaoka was quietly reading a paperback.
"Good morning, Takaoka-san."
"Good morning."
We exchanged curt greetings, and I sat down on one of those peculiar square stools found in art rooms, one seat away from Takaoka.
This was awkward. If she were a complete stranger, it might have been different, but being alone with a classmate whose name I barely knew was bound to produce nothing but discomfort. To begin with, despite being in the same class, I had only ever perceived this girl with glasses as part of the
background. She disliked standing out, avoided groups, and mostly spent her time in the classroom reading, waiting for time to pass. A plain girl.

After a while, the bell rang, announcing the start of class to the two of us in the otherwise empty room. The bearded art teacher came in. Though it was obvious, he called out our names from the register as a formality. "Face each other and draw a bust of one another. If you don't understand something, I'll be in the staff room, so call me." With only that, he disappeared somewhere again. He clearly had no intention of supervising.

In the white, dusty air of spring, Takaoka and I faced each other across our canvases.
Outline. Glasses. Braids. Sloping shoulders. Unsteady pencil lines stained the white paper. This was indeed a driver's license photo. Or perhaps a prison mugshot. The only color was on the paint-stained desk.
"Takaoka-san, why are you in supplementary lessons?"
From the grounds, I could hear the thwack-thwack of tennis rackets hitting balls. Club activities, which I'd usually found tedious, now seemed fun, and I felt a pang of envy.
"I'm frail and tend to miss a lot of school. Next week, I have supplementary lessons for math and phys ed too."
"Oh, that's tough."
No wonder she made so little impression. If she was inconspicuous and rarely in the classroom, it was only natural.
"What do you usually do? After school, or on holidays?"
"I read books."
"I sometimes read girls' novels too. They're interesting, like TV dramas."
"Not really those kinds."
The conversation just wouldn't flow. The grammar I knew didn't seem to apply here. The silence in the room with only two people was oppressive. I checked the clock; not even thirty minutes had passed since the Beard had left. Just when I was wondering if I had to endure this for another two hours,

Takaoka suddenly spoke up.
"That painting..."
She pointed to a picture hanging on the wall behind me.
"Oh, that. Someone from the art club said a graduate from a few years ago painted it. It's usually stored in the prep room, but they brought it out for cleaning."
It was a painting of camellias. The petals, a truly striking shade – too deep a red to be called pink, too much pink to be called red – were depicted in a large close-up.
"Art club members really are skilled, aren't they?"
"Yes. That painting is very..."
For a few moments before Takaoka uttered the words, the air seemed to stand still.
"sublime, isn't it?"
The flower painting on the wall – she didn't call it cute, or pretty, but sublime.
What's with that way of putting it, I thought. It sounds like a line from a play or a novel. Yet, at the same time, those words, uttered so naturally without any affectation or jest, pierced my heart deeply. So deeply, I couldn't even tell what the correct emotion was.
Looking back, that was the moment I first encountered Takaoka's true essence.
"Yes, it's pretty," I simply replied, and returned to my drawing, a sense of inexpressible, unfulfilled feeling churning within me.
There was still no conversation between us. However, it wasn't as awkward as before.
The drawing steadily neared completion, and we were now holding paintbrushes instead of pencils. The water in the bucket made splashing sounds, and the watercolors bled faintly. An awkward bust emerged on the once-white paper. Whether due to my lack of artistic skill or if everyone's turned out like this, my friend was right: the expressionless frontal portrait indeed resembled an ID photo.

The bell rang, though there was no class. An hour or so had passed without my noticing.
"Hey, how's it looking now?"
We were drawing each other, after all. So, let's show them, we thought, and simultaneously flipped our easels.
"Ah..."
Instantly, a dazed, foolish sound escaped my lips.
Takaoka's drawing wasn't technically impressive. There were many smudges and places where the paint had bled.
Takaoka said, almost shyly, "You turned around when you looked at the camellia painting earlier, didn't you? Your face at that moment looked somehow mystical."
It was my profile. My own profile, which I had seen countless times in my short life of less than twenty years.
And yet.
That figure, which seemed to hover on the very edge of this world, exuding a strange otherworldliness.
A self I had never seen in group photos or snapshots taken by friends.
The word "sublime."
I see. So, this world, which I found so utterly boring, appeared so vividly colored to Takaoka.
That was something I envied very much.

Later, Takaoka's drawing did receive a passing grade, but the teacher apparently scolded her, saying, "Draw seriously." In her own words, "He wasn't pleased with it."
"But you knew that would happen, didn't you?"
"The teacher only said to draw a bust."
The unnervingly clean, white corridor was inorganic, like the end of the world.
"If it's something that will remain in physical form, I don't want it unless it's a work I can be satisfied with."
Yes, Takaoka was stubborn, obstinate, a person like a house cat that wouldn't do as you wished. I think she was fiercely particular about beauty.

A few months after that art supplementary class, around the time summer vacation began, the old school building was declared off-limits. This was because they were building an extension to the connecting corridor to the main building.
"Adding a connecting corridor is unacceptable. Installing something so tasteless is an affront to creators." Takaoka loved the geometric patterns of the stained glass set into the landing of this building.
She also said things like, "There aren't many things that are immutable. Our bodies are like that too. The nerve cells in our brains are constantly decreasing, and even if a scratch on your arm seems completely healed, it forms a scab over the blood vessels beneath the epidermis, obstructing the flow."
This unique aesthetic of hers regarding the phenomenon of immutability was, to put it plausibly, a philosophical outlook born from her frail constitution and closeness to death. It was a cause-and-effect relationship that seemed tacked on, like something out of a novel I might have written.
But she also said, "Why is it decided that the sky is blue? The charm of the sky is that it can be gray or red."
In the madder-red light of the classroom, Takaoka murmured, looking genuinely puzzled.
"Sunset is more selfish than sunrise, isn't it? It doesn't dye the air orange, and there's less of an afterglow. It might just be that it doesn't have the power to overcome the intense blue sky, but perhaps that powerlessness is the true nature of its refreshing quality."
She would hum a somewhat unrefined jazz number.
"Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise. This song isn't refreshing at all, is it?"

On the last day of summer vacation, we snuck into the old school building, which was still off-limits. It was supposed to be opened tomorrow when the new semester began, but Takaoka insisted.
"I want to see the school building in its perfect state, with no people."
We slipped under the tape that cordoned off the area with "No Entry" signs. Perhaps because the construction was scheduled to finish in a month, the rows of liberal arts clubrooms, with their discarded notebooks and half-erased writing on whiteboards, were all left as they were.
"It's like the Mary Celeste."
"What's that?"
"A ghost ship. Everyone on board disappeared, leaving their meals prepared."
Takaoka walked ahead of me, caressing the sun-yellowed walls. The late summer humidity wrapped around my body comfortably. Today, the last day of summer vacation, was traditionally a day off for all sports clubs, so the grounds were quiet too. Only we disturbed the air. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.
Her light humming and the sound of her footsteps running up the stairs echoed clearly.
The stained glass on the landing framed Takaoka in multicolored shadows. Her expression was hidden in the backlight.
She's beautiful, I thought. Would Takaoka also say "sublime, isn't it?" at a time like this?
"Hey, Sakakiba-san."
Takaoka beckoned me to the landing and said, her voice a breathy whisper, as if confiding a secret.
"I'm writing a novel right now. I want you to be the first to read it."
Her tone was hesitant, unusual for her, who always spoke with such decisiveness.

I don't remember what I replied – whether it was "I'm looking forward to it" or "Good luck."
But from that night on, I too began to face manuscript paper.
There were no tennis tournaments at that time, and entrance exams were still far off, so I had time.
It sounds good to say my creative desire was stimulated, but in essence, I thought, "I can win." Takaoka, frail and spending much of her time in bed, versus me, with many friends and able to get anything I wanted. In these matters, it's not knowledge but life experience that counts.
I could definitely write something more interesting.
I could steal those gazes of envy and jealousy.
The novel I wrote then was, like many of my works, a mediocre love story. A chance encounter brings together an ordinary schoolgirl and an extraordinary male student; they misunderstand each other, and in the end, the boy dies. I mistakenly believed that if it was a tragedy, it was profound. It was a debut work with laughably clumsy writing and a clichéd story.
A month later, I handed this story to Takaoka. "I tried writing one too, so please read it."
Looking back now, her comment – "It's a very Sakakiba-san-like novel" – was probably quite honest.
Takaoka's novel, it seemed, was not yet complete. She said that although a long time had passed since she'd finished a draft, she didn't feel she had chosen the best words. "I can't possibly show it to anyone yet."

The seasons turned. People returned to the old school building, a stark connecting corridor was installed, and we started wearing long-sleeved sailor uniforms. The walls, repainted white as part of the extension work, we looked up at together, sitting on a bench.
"But someday, I want to show it. I want to complete it. I want someone to read it."
The stained glass cast transparently colored light through the shade of the trees. Red, blue, green, and yellow.
"Sometimes, I have strange dreams. Dreams of my house catching fire. The drawings I worked on even in supplementary class, my uniform, my manuscript – everything burns."
The lingering summer heat was severe. Not the scorching heat of midsummer, but a heat that remained even when fanned by the wind and exposed to cool air. Takaoka's heat.
"Suppose there's a manuscript that burns up without anyone but the author ever seeing it. Even if it were a masterpiece, its very existence couldn't be confirmed."
I was overwhelmed by Takaoka's almost demonic intensity. I still didn't know such depths of emotion.
"You see, I want to leave behind in this world the shape of the world I've seen."

And then, New Year's Eve arrived.
Around the time the Kōhaku Uta Gassen (Red and White Song Contest) was grandly kicking off, the phone in the hallway rang. It was Takaoka.
"Can you come out now? I'm in front of the school."
Since then, I had hardly spoken to Takaoka. For some reason, confronting her made me feel unbearably uncomfortable. It was because of a sense of superiority from being "chosen" and a sense of inferiority from "never being able to reach this level."
It was the same this time. I didn't want to see her.
"Do I have to? It's New Year's Eve. It's cold, and can't it wait until the opening ceremony?"
"No. You have to. It has to be now."
Pushed by her overwhelmingly strong tone, I grabbed my coat and scarf.
Takaoka, waiting alone in front of the school gate, was holding a bundle of manuscript paper.
"It's far from perfect, but still, I want you to read it."
Saying only that, Takaoka, as if her business was done, immediately left, saying, "I don't have time."
The manuscript at that time was "Umibe no Marī."

What to do with it? Back home, I hesitated for a while in front of my desk.
I could just ignore it. It was handed to me quite rudely, after all.
Throwing it away wouldn't be a problem either. Our relationship at school would just revert to what it was before the supplementary class: "background and protagonist."
But Takaoka whispered in my ear.
"sublime, isn't it?"
The image of the camellia painting flashed in my mind.
I read it all night and was utterly devastated.
No major incidents occur. A series of trivial daily events in the life of a schoolgirl. Yet, these are days foreseen to be fondly remembered someday.We haven't experienced the death of a lover. But through the various partings that exist in life, we surely must have experienced similar pain. The core of such emotions that everyone has felt.
Whatever form it takes, the act of creation is to cut out the world as one sees it.
The color of the sky is orange, gray, and blue; the song "Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise" isn't refreshing at all; and the camellia painting is sublime. The world is constantly changing shape like a kaleidoscope, sparkling.
This was the world Takaoka had been gazing at.
"It was amazing" wasn't enough. "I was moved" was too curt.
To be honest, it was probably "envy." To be able to see the world like this.
Wanting to tell her as soon as possible, I grabbed the phone, but it was busy no matter how many times I called.
Then I thought I'd see her at school, but Takaoka didn't show up in the classroom after winter break.
Her father's business had failed, and they had fled in the night. New Year's Eve had been their last night.
Only the handwritten manuscript remained in my hands.

It was from that moment.
I started facing manuscript paper again.
I wanted to get even a little closer to Takaoka. I wanted to see the same scenery.
Even after the new academic year began and I became an exam student, with studies and club activities, I kept writing.
In parallel, I devoured the books in my father's study. Masterpieces, classics, popular novels, even the hidden erotic novels. Takaoka's world, which used polite literary language rather than colloquial speech, must surely have been constructed from sentences. If so, her traces should be found within this vast collection of books.
Having successfully passed the entrance exams, I became a university student and began submitting to newcomer awards. Literature, mystery, girls' novels. Any genre. I was a fast writer even back then, so I sometimes submitted multiple works during a single submission period. Some made it to the final selection, but I never won.
However, my writing speed caught an editor's eye, and I was able to publish a paperback. It was something I could never show my family or friends, but that was fine. I believed that if I kept writing, I would eventually reach that state. So that when we met again, if I gave her a book I had written, she would say, "sublime, isn't it?" this time.
Through editors I got to know, requests started coming in. There were jobs where my name appeared, and jobs where it didn't. Jobs I could tell others about, and jobs I couldn't. I used several pen names according to the style of the work.

It was around this time I met my husband and started dating him. He was earnest and, to put it mildly, not very capable at his job, but he told me I was "cute."
By the time I graduated from university, work had increased further. Scripts, columns, book reviews. Sometimes I was even asked if I would write general literature. I was already able to make a good living from writing.
But I still hadn't reached it.
I tried slowing down my writing speed and increasing my revision time, but I felt something crucial was missing.
Impatience grew.
It was around this time I received a proposal.
In a restaurant with a beautiful night view, with a small jewelry box, my husband knelt before me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I love you. Will you marry me?"
A single path.
In the moment before I replied, I felt I saw happiness on the distant horizon.
Me, with more wrinkles, and my husband, balding. On the living room wall, a wedding photo of our married daughter.
The treasure map that should have disappeared reappeared before my eyes.

My pen ran, and ran, and ran.
I had to write.
If it's not published, even a masterpiece is the same as non-existent. Even if there's a writer superior to any literary giant, if that person's work is unread by anyone, their name won't remain in history.
"Umibe no Marī" had to be known far and wide, everywhere.
Spreading this story was the destination on the treasure map, my life's mission.
The writing speed that had dropped before marriage returned. I accepted all the work that came my way. I waited for the right time to come.
In the industry, I established myself as a "handyman who writes fast and takes on anything." I was treated like a craftsman who could satisfy a certain level of quality.
That was fine. I didn't mind.
And then, the time came.
"There's a movie I want you to do the original story and script for."
My husband spoke of a project involving a rising idol and a talented film director. "It's sure to be a hit," he added.
I took out the old manuscript paper I had stored in the back of a drawer.
Thanks in part to the celebrity effect, the movie was a huge hit, and the original novel became a bestseller in bookstores. A portion was even included in textbooks, and even now, more than a decade after its publication, it's named as a good book for middle and high school students.
But this wasn't the end.
My hand didn't stop.
Like a daydream I once had, my daughter grew up, my husband went bald, and my parents became wrinkled and passed away. I continued to enjoy a peaceful happiness.
Without ever reaching the scenery Takaoka had seen, my works eventually exceeded 300. If you include the jobs where my name didn't appear, there would be even more.
A love letter is a letter for which no reply ever comes.
All the sentences I wrote were love letters addressed to Takaoka.
I wonder if even one of them reached you?
"Umibe no Marī" continues to be reprinted even now.

Ten years ago, with her passing, numerous scandalous reports were spread, painting her as a bestselling author with a dark side.
"An incarnation of exhibitionism." "A demon for work." "A runaway desire for approval." "The desperate struggle of a dried-up writer."
How did the readers receive this?
Finally, I will describe the circumstances that led to this article being published.
It began three winters ago, when Yuzuko visited my apartment.
"Why didn't you denounce her as a plagiarist? Why didn't you declare yourself the true author? Mother waited so long for you to come forward. Was it because you had no proof? Was that the only reason?"
Dressed in a suit, Yuzuko offered me a magazine company's business card and berated me at my doorstep. She barely greeted me, as if to say her name and this face were enough for me to understand.
"Mother wrote for you, lived for you. She spent her entire life trying to understand your world."
A cold winter wind blew, whipping up her black hair.
"That's why I think you should know about Mother too."
I take up my pen for the first time in decades.
This isn't a business email or data entry work; it's writing solely for myself.
Trying to capture the world in the shape of my own gaze.
It was the first time since high school. My life hadn't afforded me such leisure.
My life ceased to be smooth from the time my father's business failed and I was forced to leave school. I gave up on higher education, experienced divorce, and suffered a serious illness.
It was during my divorce proceedings that I picked up "Umibe no Marī." Looking for something to kill time while traveling, I entered a station kiosk and picked it up, recognizing a familiar name. I thought it a rare coincidence.
And then, I immediately realized. This was something I wrote, but it was not something I wrote.
The particles were different. This sentence wasn't here. Characters had been added.
While the overall atmosphere remained, meticulous revisions to the details had raised its level of polish.
It was Sakakiba's handiwork.
Among the added and revised sentences, the most famous is probably the one quoted at the beginning.
A love letter is a letter for which no reply ever comes.
Truthfully, I tried to contact her many times. I tried to write a letter to the publisher.
"How are you? This is Takaoka."
But I couldn't continue after that. I felt that whatever I wrote would become a lie.
"That's why, I believe you are the one who should write this."
Yuzuko's words echo.
If my feelings could have been conveyed in just a few letters, there would have been no need to write an article like this.
Just as you had to write three hundred books.
I reread your books, written under so many names. There were many I had read without knowing. There were many I read for the first time.
My reply to your letter is very late. In return, I will not accuse you of plagiarism.
This memorial article is, from me to you, a love letter.

With a myriad of emotions, Authored by Takaoka Yukiko

Editor's Note: "Umibe no Marī" is currently credited as a joint work by Sakakiba Mizue and Takaoka Yukiko.

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Pub: 26 May 2025 03:37 UTC

Edit: 05 Jun 2025 05:01 UTC

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