I head to the apartment when I get a strange voicemail from the remodelling contractor, telling me that he has to leave because he can’t open 203 with the key. But to top it off, when he peek through the opening in the newspaper slot, he could see a mountain of cardboard boxes inside. No way though, that mass of cardboard left behind by Resident A, who died alone last week, was finally put out with the recyclable trash yesterday. I go to meet Seki-san in front of 204, who said “I met Mr. A in the morning before. He was wobbling around, saying, ‘I don’t have the strength to tidy up,’ so I broke down two cardboard boxes and took them out for him. He said he had an aortic dissection, but was discharged from the hospital because he wasn’t strong enough for surgery. I wondered if he was still making it through each day by shopping online.” I take the key out of the key box. The door is open and the place is deserted. The contractor was talking total bullshit. On a whim I turn back after leaving, crouch down in front of the newspaper slot, look into the room, and gasp. A mountain of cardboard boxes. A human hand is reaching out from the pile. I ran down the stairs. In my terror, I understood the loneliness of a man so emaciated that he couldn’t even crush a cardboard box. It was A’s mortification that made me see that vision. When my feet stopped, tears wet my cheeks.
