Jashumon was an ordinary coffee shop with a calm atmosphere. Brick walls surrounded the wooden tables and chairs while white curtains hung on the windows. Inside the store were several customers who seemed like regulars — reading a book, chatting quietly, each enjoying a relaxing moment on a weekend afternoon.

Beth made her way to the far end of the narrow store and took a seat at the very back. I followed her, looking around eagerly to find the person Beth looked up to.

Beth waited for me to sit down, and then whispered.
“Look at the person sitting right next to the entrance door.”
I turned towards the door we had just walked through. Next to the door, an old woman sat alone, her back against the window. Manuscript paper was spread out on the table, and she was writing something intently, her fountain pen moving quickly. I was stunned.

Messy white hair. No-makeup face with saggy cheeks. A collarless white blouse topped with a yellowish beige cardigan, a box skirt in a large black-and-brown check pattern, unbleached socks, well-worn leather sandals. On the table were a rose motif teacup and a cup of ice. From time to time, she would put down her fountain pen, scoop up an ice cube with a spoon, pop it into the teacup, then take a sip.
“Wait. Is she your...?”
Beth nodded yes.
“My style inspiration.”

I stared at the woman closely. She was writing something with a euphoric expression that told me she was completely absorbed in her own world. Upon closer inspection of her look, I sensed that beneath that seemingly shabby exterior, there was a strong, unwavering determination at play.

She seemed to have an immense love for her blouse, cardigan, skirt, socks, sandals, everything. She wouldn’t choose anything different, and she cherished them as though they were a part of her body. That kind of feeling was in the air.

Even without Beth prompting me, I got out my notebook and pencil, and started sketching the woman. Rather than doing a fashion illustration, I now wanted to depict the woman herself.

She seemed to be writing a creative piece. I could feel her passion from the incredible aura she imparted. For some reason, my hand gripping the pencil became sticky with sweat.

Before me was someone who dressed and lived as her heart desired, surrounded only by things she loved.

Beth watched me in silence as I gave the sketch my undivided attention, my hand moving quickly like that woman’s.
We eventually left the coffee shop before she did.

After graduating, Beth apparently got married straight away, but I never saw her again.

I got hired at an apparel company thanks to the notebook of fashion drawings I showed at the interview. Ten years later, I left the company and started my own brand where I still work today. Every day is busy and feels like a battle, but I’m fulfilled.

Sometimes, I think of them — Beth, Jashumon, and the woman who seemed to dress and live just as she desired.

The author was called Mari Mori.
It was only recently that I read her work. When I found the episode about “Eureka,” I couldn’t help but smile and tear up.
These days, I’m so easily moved to tears. It must be because of my age.