Chapter 1
The last Persimmon Autumn
Autumn was drawing to an end.
In the middle of a quiet garden stood a persimmon tree, its branches now almost completely bare. A few persimmons still clung to the tree, scattered across the higher and lower branches, watching the last golden light of sunset.
Among them was the smallest persimmon of all.
It was still green and unripe.
Looking down at an older, riper persimmon hanging from the branch below, the little one asked, “Why hasn’t anyone picked us? Autumn is over, winter is coming, and all the leaves have fallen. Why are we still hanging here?”
The older persimmon sighed.
“Well, I suppose it was simply our bad luck. Every autumn, the gardener usually picks the unripe persimmons first. When they are placed in boxes and exposed to the gentle autumn sunlight, they slowly develop their beautiful color and become sweeter.
“But we were growing in the middle of the garden, too far from his reach. The old gardener didn’t have enough strength to harvest all of us. And this year, labor was expensive, so he could barely afford to collect the fruit that was easiest to reach.
“I only hope he manages to sell what he harvested at a good price.”
The little persimmon was silent for a moment.
“Forget about the gardener. What will happen to us?”
“I don’t know,” the older persimmon replied.
At that very moment, a powerful gust of wind swept through the garden.
The branch shook violently.
The older persimmon, along with several other ripe fruits, broke loose and fell to the ground.
From so high above, the little persimmon couldn’t see where they had landed.
It took a deep breath, closed its eyes, and whispered,
“I wish the wind would blow me down too. Then at least my story could come to an end.”
Night came.
The next morning arrived, followed by another day, and then another.
The little persimmon felt the cold air brushing against its skin. Winter was getting closer.
One morning, several crows landed on the branch where the ripe persimmon had once hung.
“Hello,” the little persimmon greeted them timidly.
One of the crows looked at it.
“Well, hello there! Why are you still hanging on the tree, little persimmon?”
“I... I don’t know.”
The little persimmon told the crow everything that had happened.
The crow listened and then said, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”
It grabbed the little persimmon with its beak and pulled as hard as it could.
But the persimmon was firmly attached to the branch.
No matter how hard the crow tried, it couldn’t free it.
“Wait here,” the crow said. “I’ll bring my bigger friend. The raven has a much stronger, sharper beak. Maybe he can help.”
A few minutes later, a large raven arrived.
He examined the branch, then pecked at it several times.
Crack!
Nothing happened.
The persimmon remained firmly attached.
The raven shook his head.
“Oh dear. I’m afraid you’re doomed to rot right here on the branch.”
The crow immediately became angry.
“Hey! Don’t say things like that! You’re frightening the poor little thing. Have some compassion. Imagine being told that you’re going to die before you’ve even had the chance to grow. That’s cruel!”
The raven argued back.
Soon the two birds were bickering so loudly that they eventually flew away together, still arguing.
The little persimmon tried to forget what the raven had said.
But his words had already sunk deep into its heart.
That night, it barely slept.
The following morning, the air was even colder. A thin layer of frost covered the bare branches.
The little persimmon finally made up its mind.
No matter what happened, it had to get down from the tree.
It had to find a way to survive.
A soft breeze moved through the leafless branches, making a gentle rustling sound.
The little persimmon called out,
“Wind?”
The breeze answered,
“Yes, little one. What do you want?”
“Could you do me a favor? The crow wasn’t strong enough to free me. Please pull me from this branch. I need to find a way to decide what happens to me next.”
The wind seemed to understand.
“Very well,” it said kindly.
It circled around the tree and gathered its strength.
Then, with a sudden gust, it shook the branches.
The little persimmon loosened slightly—but it still didn’t fall.
“Please,” the little persimmon begged. “Just one more time.”
The wind replied,
“All right. I won’t break your heart. One more try. But if it doesn’t work, I must leave.”
The wind gathered itself once again.
Then it blew with all its strength.
The tree trembled.
The branch shook.
And suddenly—
the little persimmon came loose.
It fell.
Down and down it went.
Luckily, it landed on a thick pile of dry leaves.
“Ouch!” the leaves groaned. “What just fell from the sky? You crushed us!”
“I’m sorry,” said the little persimmon. “I’m only a little persimmon.”
The leaves looked at it and felt sorry for the poor fruit.
One of them whispered,
“Oh dear. It’s still half-unripe. It may already be starting to rot.”
The others began talking among themselves.
Their words reminded the little persimmon of everything the raven had said.
It began imagining its own death again.
But then it told itself,
“No. I have to stand on my own. I have to save myself.”
Slowly, it pushed itself upright and leaned against a small hole beneath the tree.
A voice came from underground.
“What is that wonderful smell? Are you... a persimmon?”
“Yes,” the little persimmon replied. “Can’t you see me?”
“I can see a little,” the voice answered. “My eyesight isn’t very good. But I can smell you very clearly. You have quite a strong scent.”
The little persimmon smiled.
“Is that good?”
“Well... mostly. Although I can smell a little rot too.”
Once again, the little persimmon’s heart sank.
It gave a weak smile.
“Yes. I’m that same little persimmon.”
Then it told the mole everything—the tree, the crow, the raven, the wind, and how it had finally fallen to the ground.
When it finished, it sighed.
“But it doesn’t matter anymore.”
The mole was quiet for a moment.
Then he said,
“Who told you it doesn’t matter? As far as I know, you can still be saved.”
“Saved? How?”
“If you can reach the city, there are people there who dry fruit and preserve it. They might be able to save you before you spoil completely.”
“But how can I get to the city? I don’t even know the way.”
“I’ll help you,” said the mole.
“Every now and then, the gardener’s truck passes by here. A young man often comes to visit the gardener’s daughter. The gardener doesn’t approve of him because he thinks the young man is poor.
“Anyway, that’s not important. You can hide in the back of the truck and ride into the city.”
The mole looked up toward the sky.
“It may snow tonight. Come stay in my burrow. I’ll help you leave tomorrow morning.”
That night, the little persimmon became the mole’s guest.
They drank tea together until late.
The little persimmon talked about life high in the branches—the sunsets, the rain, the birds, and the way the garden looked from above.
The mole told stories about life underground. He talked about tunnels, rainwater, worms, beetles, and all the strange things that lived beneath the earth.
The little persimmon didn’t understand everything the mole was saying, but it listened politely, nodding from time to time so that the mole would know it was listening.
The next morning, the sound of a truck approaching woke them.
“Get up! Get up!” cried the mole. “It’s time. You have to go!”
Before saying goodbye, the mole handed the little persimmon a small cloth sack.
“Take this with you. It may be useful someday.”
“What do I need a sack for?”
“There’s something inside.”
The little persimmon looked inside and found a small pushpin.
“This?”
“Yes. It may be useful for trading, or perhaps someone might need it someday. It’s precious to me, but I’m giving it to you as a gift of friendship.”
The little persimmon smiled.
“Thank you, my friend.”
It wrapped the pushpin carefully in the little sack, slung it over its shoulder, and climbed onto the truck.
It found a quiet, hidden place in the back and settled down.
The truck began its journey.
It bounced along rocky roads, crossed small streams, and finally made its way toward the city.
By the time it arrived, night had fallen.
The city was completely different from the garden.
There were strange sounds everywhere—dogs barking, cats meowing, engines roaring, and people shouting.
The little persimmon looked up at the sky.
“Look at all those stars!”
The rat sitting nearby laughed.
“Those aren’t stars.”
“They aren’t?”
“No. Those are airplanes.”
“Oh.”
The little persimmon stared at them in amazement.
“I’ve heard people say that you can’t see stars in the city. But those stars are moving from one side of the sky to the other!”
The rat smiled.
“You really are from the countryside, aren’t you?”
“Hello,” said the little persimmon.
“Hello.”
The rat had originally intended to bite the persimmon.
But after looking at it carefully, he changed his mind.
“Why are you green and unripe?”
“Is that a problem?”
“For me, yes. I was thinking about eating you.”
“Are you a mouse?”
“I’m a rat,” he replied proudly. “A city rat. Not some field mouse.”
The persimmon introduced itself and told the rat its entire story.
The rat listened carefully.
When the story ended, he felt sorry for the little fruit.
“Well, you might be in luck,” he said. “I know of an old man who makes artificial flowers and decorative crafts. Maybe he can do something for you.”
“Can we go see him now?”
“Not tonight. It’s too late, and his workshop is far away. We’ll have to take a bus.”
“A bus?”
“You’ll see. It’s a big vehicle where people sit beside one another.”
That night, the little persimmon lay awake inside the truck.
It stared at the unfamiliar city sky and thought,
“What will become of me?
What a mess.
I should have stayed on the tree. Maybe I would have rotted there peacefully.
Now I’m stuck in the city. What kind of life is this?”
It sighed and finally closed its eyes.
The next morning, the rat woke it.
“Come on. It’s time to go.”
They climbed down from the truck and walked toward the bus stop.
Soon, a nearly empty bus arrived.
The rat and the persimmon quietly slipped inside.
A little boy sitting beside his mother suddenly pointed at them.
“Mom! Look! There’s a mouse and a green persimmon on the bus!”
His mother frowned.
“What are you talking about? Where?”
“Right there! I saw them talking to each other!”
The rat and the persimmon quickly hid beneath a seat.
The mother laughed nervously.
“Stop imagining things.”
When the bus reached their stop, the rat whispered,
“Quick! The doors are opening!”
They jumped off and hurried away.
After walking a short distance, the rat stopped.
“This is it.”
“How do you know?”
“I can smell chemicals and craft materials.”
The persimmon sniffed.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“You wouldn’t. I have a much better sense of smell.”
They moved closer to the workshop.
Near the doorway, a fat cat was sleeping peacefully.
The rat called out,
“Hey, fat cat! Wake up!”
The cat barely opened one eye.
“What do you want? Why are you always making so much noise?”
“I’m just saying hello!”
“You’re exhausting.”
The rat laughed.
“What kind of cat are you? You’re so lazy!”
“Leave me alone. I don’t have time for you.”
“Come on. At least help us. Everyone knows you’re the smartest cat in the city.”
The cat’s ears suddenly perked up.
“The smartest?”
“Absolutely.”
The cat sat up proudly.
“Well... perhaps I can spare a little time. What do you need?”
The rat told the cat everything about the little persimmon.
The cat listened carefully.
When the story was over, he looked at the persimmon with sympathy.
“There may be a way,” he said.
“What way?” asked the persimmon.
“We have to make the old man believe you’re a preserved decorative fruit. If he thinks you’re part of his craft materials, he might be willing to clean you and preserve you.”
“When can we see him?”
“Not until this afternoon. He isn’t here right now. He went out with his granddaughter.”
The cat thought for a moment.
“Wait here.”
That afternoon, the old man returned with his granddaughter.
The cat had already helped place the little persimmon on the workbench.
The rat said goodbye and disappeared into the streets.
The old man’s granddaughter was a quiet little girl who could not speak, but she could hear perfectly well.
She approached the workbench and stared at the persimmon.
A tear rolled down her cheek and landed gently on its surface.
The little persimmon felt something change inside.
Perhaps it was because the girl could not speak, yet she could hear.
Perhaps, in some strange way, the two of them understood one another.
The little persimmon began telling her its story.
It told her about the tree.
About the other persimmons.
About the crow and the raven.
About the wind.
About the mole.
About the long journey to the city.
The girl listened without moving.
When the persimmon finished, she picked up a notebook and pencil.
She wrote down the entire story.
Then she showed it to her grandfather.
Using sign language, she told him:
“Grandpa, look. This little persimmon has a story.”
The old man read the pages carefully.
His expression softened.
The girl had lost her parents in an accident, and the old man was the only family she had left.
He looked at his granddaughter, then at the little persimmon.
“All right,” he said gently. “I’ll help it.”
The next morning, they began their work.
The old man carefully cleaned the persimmon.
Then he applied a protective clear coat to preserve it before it could decay completely.
He worked patiently, carefully restoring its surface.
When he was finished, the little persimmon looked beautiful.
It no longer looked like a forgotten fruit hanging from a dying tree.
It looked timeless.
Preserved.
Almost immortal.
The little persimmon looked at the old man with wonder.
“I never imagined humans could be so kind.”
The old man smiled.
“Kindness exists everywhere. Sometimes we simply fail to notice it.”
The persimmon asked,
“Tell me about life.”
The old man thought for a moment before answering.
“Every living thing has its own reality and its own value. Everything that exists is real in its own way. And there is beauty everywhere, if you know how to see it.”
He looked at the persimmon and continued.
“My granddaughter and I are Japanese immigrants. We also practice an art called Kintsugi.”
“Kintsugi?”
“Yes. In our tradition, when a piece of pottery breaks, we don’t throw it away. We repair the cracks with golden lacquer.”
“Why gold?”
“Because the cracks are part of its history. We don’t hide them. We honor them.”
The old man gently touched the preserved persimmon.
“A broken or imperfect thing isn’t necessarily worthless. Sometimes its scars make it more precious than it was before.”
The little persimmon became silent.
For the first time since it had fallen from the tree, it no longer wished for the wind to carry it away.
It understood something.
Perhaps life was never about becoming perfect.
Perhaps life was about surviving the cracks, the falls, the cold nights, and the moments when everyone told you that your story was already over.
The little persimmon looked at the old man and his granddaughter.
Then it smiled.
Its story had not ended on the branch.
It had only just begun.⁸
