“My grandfather had a table,” Kenji said softly, running his fingers along the worn wooden surface. “He called it ‘The Diligent One.’”
Mari looked up from her coffee, steam rising between them like memories materializing. The café was quiet except for distant jazz and the gentle tapping of rain against windows.
“A diligent table?” She smiled. “How can a table be diligent?”
“That’s what I asked him too.” Kenji’s eyes grew distant. “He told me this table had witnessed three generations of our family studying at it. My great-grandfather used it to practice calligraphy during the Meiji era. My grandfather learned English on it after the war. Then it came to my father.”
The table between them was ordinary - rectangular, dark wood, subtle scratches marking its surface like lines on an aged face. Mari traced one particularly deep groove with her fingertip.
“Each mark tells a story,” Kenji continued. “See this burn mark? That’s from when my father fell asleep studying for his medical exams, and his cigarette dropped. The table caught it before it could start a fire.”
“The table saved him?”
“Grandfather always said it protected our family. He believed it had absorbed the determination and dedication of everyone who worked at it. That somehow, it passed that spirit on.”
Mari leaned forward. “And did you study at it too?”
“Every day through high school. When I wanted to give up, I’d press my palms against it and imagine all those hours of concentrated effort soaking into my skin.” He laughed softly. “Silly, right?”
“Not at all.” Mari’s voice was warm. “Where is it now?”
Kenji’s expression fell slightly. “Lost in the earthquake last year. The house collapsed.”
They sat in silence for a moment, rain drumming harder against the glass.
“But you know what’s strange?” Kenji said suddenly. “Yesterday, I was walking through that antique market in Shimokitazawa, and I saw this table.” He patted the surface between them. “It looked exactly like my grandfather’s, down to the burn mark. The owner said it was rescued from earthquake debris.”
Mari’s eyes widened. “You mean…?”
“I bought it immediately. Had it brought here.” His eyes sparkled. “I’m opening a small study café. Students can come here, feel that same spirit of diligence that helped three generations of my family.”
“The diligent table lives on,” Mari smiled, touching his hand. “Your grandfather would be proud.”
Outside, the rain began to ease. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, catching the table’s surface and highlighting decades of marks and memories. A student at a nearby table bent over her books, her determination adding another layer to the table’s growing story.
“You know what?” Mari said, “I think I’ll start studying here too.”
Kenji smiled, watching the sunlight dance across the familiar wood. The table seemed to glow slightly, as if pleased to be home, ready to support new generations in their pursuits of knowledge and dreams.