The Paper Maker – Part 2: Drying Boards

The sheets dried on wooden boards in the winter sun.

Hana and Ren carried them out each morning, a hundred damp white sheets pressed flat, and leaned them against the south wall of the mill. The sun moved across them. By afternoon they were pale and crisp and warm as bread, curling slightly at the corners.

"They're beautiful," whispered Hana.

"They're yours."

"I couldn't have made them without you."

"You made them. I steadied your hands."

She ran a finger across one. The surface was faintly rough, with tiny flecks of bark caught like stars. It was the most wonderful paper she had ever touched. In three weeks, she would take these sheets back to Tokyo and bind them into a book, her first of her own. She did not want to go.

At dusk, they sat on the porch, wrapped in quilts, with a pot of roasted tea. The mountains stood dark against a lavender sky. A single crow called, far away. Mist rose in white threads from the stream.

"Ren," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Could I come back? In spring. To make more."

His face softened. "You can come back whenever you like."

"May I kiss you before I go?"

He took a slow breath. "Yes," he said, quietly. "And if you say stop, you must stay for the whole harvest."

"That is not a punishment."

"No."

She kissed him, soft and shy, her hands against his indigo apron. He kissed her back with a gentle reverent warmth, one damp hand rising to cup her cheek, tasting of roasted tea. The first star appeared over the ridge. The paper boards stood silent along the wall, like a row of listening faces.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Hana. "Very green."

Her first book was printed on their paper. On the colophon, in tiny letters: Pulled by H. and R., in winter.

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