Lonely Castle in the Mirror

by Mizuki Tsujimura

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Seven students find unusual common ground in this warm, puzzle-like Japanese bestseller laced with gentle fantasy and compassionate insight.



Bullied to the point of dropping out of school, Kokoro's days blur together as she hides in her bedroom, unable to face her family or friends. As she spirals into despair, her mirror begins to shine; with a touch, Kokoro is pulled from her lonely life into a resplendent, bizarre fairytale castle guarded by a strange girl in a wolf mask. Six other students have been brought to the castle, and soon this marvelous refuge becomes their playground.



The castle has a hidden room that can grant a single wish, but there are rules to be followed, and breaking them will have dire consequences. As Kokoro and her new acquaintances spend more time in their new sanctuary, they begin to unlock the castle's secrets and, tentatively, each other's.



Lonely Castle in the Mirror is a mesmerizing, heart-warming novel about the unexpected rewards of embracing human connection.

Release date: October 18, 2022

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Beyond the drawn curtains floated the sound of the little truck from the local supermarket coming to sell produce. “It’s a Small World”—the song from Kokoro’s favorite ride at Disneyland—boomed from the large speaker on the back, reminding her of the world of laughter and hope that lay just outside her window. Ever since she could remember, it always played the same song.

It was abruptly cut off, and an announcement followed. “Hello everyone. This is the produce truck from Mikawa Market. We have fresh goods, dairy products, bread and rice for sale!”

The supermarket along the highway was far away, and you needed a car to get there, so ever since Kokoro was small the Mikawa Market truck had driven over every week, and parked behind her house. Its melody was the signal for old people in the neighborhood, and mothers with small children, to come outside and buy their provisions.

Kokoro had never gone to shop there herself, though her mother apparently had. “Mr. Mikawa’s getting on in years, so I wonder how much longer he’ll keep coming,” she’d said.

In the past, before the supermarket appeared in the area, it really had been convenient for the truck to drive over, and plenty of families bought its produce. But it was beginning to lose its customers. Some people even complained about the loudspeaker, calling it noise pollution.

Kokoro didn’t think it was a nuisance, but whenever she heard the melody she became, like it or not, aware that it was daytime, and a weekday. Forced to be aware of it.

She could hear children laughing.

It was only after Kokoro stopped going to school that she discovered this was what eleven o’clock in the morning was like in her neighborhood.

While in elementary school, she only ever saw the Mikawa truck during the holidays.

She’d never listened to it so intently—on a weekday, in her bedroom, curtains drawn, her body rigid. Not until last year.

She watched TV with bated breath, the sound on mute, hoping the light from the set wouldn’t filter out through the curtains.

Even when the Mikawa truck wasn’t there, there were always young mothers and children playing in the park beyond their house. Whenever she spied the strollers lined up by the park benches, colorful bags hanging from the handles, a thought came to her: It’s not early morning anymore. The families who gathered between ten and eleven always disappeared by midday, heading home to have lunch.

And then she slid open her curtains a tiny bit.

Spending so much time alone in her bedroom—gloomy during the day despite the orange curtains—feelings of guilt welled up in her. She felt she was being blamed for being slack and lazy.

At first she’d enjoyed being at home, but as time passed, though no one said anything, she knew she couldn’t carry on like this.

There were good reasons why set rules existed.

Rules like: you should open your curtains in the morning.

And all children should attend school.

*

Two days ago, she and her mother had visited a private alternative “School” (they used the English word), and today she’d been sure she could make a start there.

Yet when she woke up, she realized it wasn’t going to happen.

As usual, her stomach was killing her.

She wasn’t faking it. It really did hurt.

She had no idea why, but in the mornings, her stomach, and sometimes even her head, pulsed with pain.

Don’t force yourself to go, her mother had said.

So when she went downstairs to the dining room, she wasn’t worried about her mother’s reaction.

“Mum, my stomach hurts.”

Her mother had been preparing some hot milk and toast, and when she heard this her face went blank.

She wouldn’t meet her daughter’s eye.

As if she hadn’t heard, she looked down and carried a mug of hot milk over to the dining table. “How does it hurt?” she asked.

Then her mother yanked off the red apron she was wearing over her work clothes—a trouser suit—and draped it over a chair.

“The same as always,” Kokoro said in a small voice, but before she’d managed to finish speaking, her mother interrupted.

“The same as always? But you were fine until yesterday. The School we visited isn’t like your public junior high, you know. You don’t need to go every day, there are fewer children in each class, and the teachers seem so kind. You said you’d go. But now you’re telling me you won’t?”

Her mother obviously wanted her to attend. The sudden accusations made that clear enough. But Kokoro wasn’t feigning illness. Her stomach really was killing her.

When Kokoro didn’t reply, her mother shot an irritated glance at the clock.

“Ah—I’m going to be late,” she said, clucking her tongue.

“So—what do you want to do?”

Kokoro’s legs felt paralyzed.

“I can’t go,” she said.

It wasn’t simply that she didn’t want to go. She couldn’t.

When Kokoro was finally able, with great effort, to mutter a response, her mother let out a huge sigh and grimaced, as if she too felt a twinge of pain.

“Is it only today you can’t go? Or are you never going to go?”

Kokoro couldn’t say.

She wasn’t going today, but she had no idea if, the next day, she might not have a stomachache again.

“OK then,” her mother said, and rose to her feet. She picked up the plate with Kokoro’s breakfast and threw it in the triangular waste collector in the corner of the sink. “So no milk either? And after I heated it up for you,” she added, and poured it down the drain without waiting for a reply. A burst of hissing steam rose up from the hot milk, quickly vanishing under the sound of tap water.

Kokoro had planned to eat it later, but before she could get a word out the toast and milk were history.

“Could you please move?” her mother said, brushing past Kokoro, sitting motionless in PJs. She disappeared into the living room. After a few moments, Kokoro heard her talking on the phone. “Good morning, this is Mrs. Anzai.” Her earlier testiness had gone, replaced by a formal, polite tone.

“Yes, that’s correct,” she heard her mother say. “She says her stomach hurts. I’m so sorry. When we visited the School, she seemed so enthusiastic to start. Yes, that’s right. I apologize for any trouble.”

The School that her mother had taken her to was called Kokoro no kyoshitsu—literally “Classroom for the Heart,” a sort of children’s counseling center and alternative School. Above the entrance were the words Supporting Children’s Development.

It was situated in an old building, a former school or perhaps a hospital, and when they’d first arrived, Kokoro had heard children’s voices coming from upstairs. Elementary age kids, she thought, from the sound of them.

“You must be a little nervous, Kokoro, but let’s go in,” her mother had said, smiling. She looked more on edge than her daughter but nevertheless gave Kokoro’s back a tiny, encouraging push.

Kokoro had felt awkward that she and the School shared the same name—kokoro, “heart.”

Her mum must have noticed the coincidence, too. It wasn’t as if she’d named her that just so she could bring her here. Even thinking such a thing brought a pang of pain.

This was how Kokoro learned for the first time that the so-called non-attendee children had somewhere else to go, other than normal school. Back in elementary school, no one in her class ever refused to go to school. A few kids might fake a sick day or two, but there hadn’t been a single child who would have to go to a school like this one.

Even the teachers who greeted them all referred to the alternative School by the English word “school.”

Kokoro felt a bit strange in the open slippers she’d been given, and as she sat waiting, she nervously curled up her toes.

“So Kokoro, I understand you’re a student at Yukishina No. 5 Junior High School?” The teacher was smiling gently as she checked all her information was correct. She was young, and reminded Kokoro of those cheerful, ever-smiling older girls who danced and sang on children’s TV. The woman had a sunflower-shaped name tag on her blouse, with a tiny portrait of her, undoubtedly created by one of the children at the School, and the name Kitajima written on it.

“Yes,” Kokoro said. Despite her efforts, her voice came out sounding weak and muffled. She wondered why, but at that moment it was the only voice she could manage.

Ms. Kitajima smiled broadly.

“I went there too,” she said.

“Oh.”

Their conversation stalled.

Ms. Kitajima was actually a beautiful young woman, her short hair giving her a vivacious look. And she had the kindest eyes. Kokoro immediately liked her, and she envied her no end that she had long since graduated and no longer had to attend the junior high.

It was hard to say that Kokoro herself was actually attending junior high. She had only just started school in April, when the new academic year began, had only gone to lessons for the first month, and then stopped.

                              

“I called them to let them know.”

As she reappeared in the dining room, her mother’s irritated tone had resumed. She looked at Kokoro, who hadn’t moved an inch the entire time, and frowned. “Look, if your stomach still hurts, you should go back to bed. I’ll leave the lunch I made for you to eat at school, so if you feel like eating, go ahead.” Her mother spoke without so much as a glance at Kokoro, and started to get ready to go out.

If only her father were here, Kokoro thought painfully, he’d stand up for her. Both her parents worked, and since her father’s job was further away, he left early in the morning. Most days when she woke up, he was already gone.

If she just stood here, she’d most likely get told off further, so Kokoro started to climb the stairs. From behind, like a final stab, she heard her mother let out another loud sigh.

                              

Before she knew it, it was three o’clock.

She had left her TV on, and it was now airing an afternoon talk show. After a segment highlighting celebrity scandals and news, it switched to an infomercial, and Kokoro finally hauled herself out of bed.

Why was she so sleepy? When she was at home, she always felt so much sleepier than she did at school.

She rubbed the sleepy dust from her eyes, wiped away the trace of drool from the corner of her mouth, turned off the TV and went downstairs. As she stood at the kitchen sink and washed her face, she realized how hungry she was.

She went to the dining room and opened the bento lunch her mother had made for her.

As she untied the ribbon holding the checked cloth around it, Kokoro thought of how her mother must have pictured her as she wrapped the bento, how she saw her enjoying the lunch at the School. Her chest tightened at the thought, and she wished she could apologize to her for not going.

There was a small Tupperware container too, on top of the bento, and when she opened it Kokoro found slices of kiwi fruit, one of her favorites. The bento itself was something she loved: three-colored soboro rice, minced cooked cod, ground chicken and egg in a lively design.

She took one bite and hung her head.

When they’d first visited the School, it had seemed like a fun place, so why couldn’t she bring herself to go? This morning she’d thought that her stomachache had prevented her from going today only, but now that she’d wasted the entire day, she’d lost all desire to go at all.

                              

The kids at the School were of both elementary and junior high age.

They all seemed like normal children, and none struck her as the sort who couldn’t get on in public school. None of them were especially overweight or particularly depressed, and none of them seemed like losers no one wanted to hang out with.

The only difference was that the junior high kids weren’t in school uniforms.

Two girls a little older than Kokoro had brought their desks together, facing each other, and the snatch of conversation she’d overheard—That totally sucks. For sure, but you know . . .—seemed no different from the chat at her junior high. When she overheard this little scene, her gut started to ache again, though she also found it strange that girls like these, seemingly so normal, had dropped out of school.

As Ms. Kitajima showed them around, one child came up to her complaining that “Masaya hit me!” The child had charm, and Kokoro imagined herself playing games with him if she started at the School. She could see it clearly.

Her mother said she’d stay in the office downstairs with the head of the school, while Kokoro went on a little tour.

Her mother never mentioned it, but Kokoro got the distinct impression that she’d been to the School a number of times herself, before Kokoro made her visit. The way the other teachers greeted her mother made it clear they’d met before.

Kokoro remembered how awkward and uncomfortable her mother had been when she first broached the topic of visiting the School, and realized how her mother, in her own way, was trying her best to be sensitive to Kokoro’s feelings.

When Kokoro stood outside the office where her mother was waiting, she heard what she took to be the voice of the head of the school, saying, “Elementary school is such a pleasant, comforting place for most children, so it’s not at all unusual for many to have trouble fitting in when they make the transition to junior high. Especially with a junior high like Yukishina No. 5, which has grown so large, what with other schools merging after the school restructuring. They now have one of the largest number of students.”

Kokoro took a deep breath.

At least they’re not touching on painful subjects, she thought.

And it was true—when she’d entered junior high, she’d suddenly gone from a school with two classes in each year to one with seven, and it had definitely thrown her. She barely knew anyone in her homeroom.

But that wasn’t it.

That wasn’t the reason why she had trouble fitting in.

This woman has no idea what I’ve been through, she thought.

Ms. Kitajima, standing beside Kokoro, seemed completely unfazed by what they’d overheard, and knocked firmly at the door. “Excuse me,” she announced. The older head teacher and Kokoro’s mother, seated opposite each other, turned simultaneously to face them.

Her mother was clutching a handkerchief, and Kokoro hoped she hadn’t been crying.

                              

If she left the TV on, she would end up watching it.

And if she did, she’d feel she’d accomplished something, even though she’d wasted the entire day.

Even if she was watching a program with a plot, a drama for instance, she realized that most of the time she couldn’t recall the story. What am I doing? she’d wonder, and suddenly find the day drawing to a close.

On the screen they were interviewing a housewife on the street, and when she casually made the comment that she was out “while the kids are at school,” Kokoro felt like this was a barbed rebuke directed straight at her.

                              

Kokoro’s homeroom teacher at Yukishina No.5, Mr. Ida, was a young man who still stopped by their house to check on her from time to time. Sometimes Kokoro would come downstairs to see him, sometimes not. “Mr. Ida’s here,” Kokoro’s mum would announce. “Do you want to see him?”

Kokoro knew she really should talk to him, but on days when she told her mother she didn’t want to, her mother never got upset. “All right, I’ll talk to him today,” she’d say, and show him into their living room.

“Today’s really not a good day for her . . .” her mother would apologize, and Mr. Ida would say, “That’s fine. No problem at all.”

Kokoro hadn’t expected them to let her get away with it, and it left her confused. She’d always believed she had to do what her teachers, her parents and other adults told her, but how they readily assented to her now made her finally understand: this was a real emergency.

Everyone’s walking on eggshells because of me, she thought.

Occasionally her classmates from elementary school, Satsuki-chan and Sumida-san, would also come by to see how she was doing. They had moved into different classes now, and maybe their teacher had asked them to visit. But Kokoro felt embarrassed about skipping school, and she refused to see these long-time friends when they stopped by.

She really did want to see them—she felt there was so much she wanted to say—but making them feel obliged to come over made her uncomfortable, and that’s how it turned out.

                              

While she was eating the bento, the phone rang. Just as she was wondering whether to get it, it clicked on to the answering machine.

“Hello? Kokoro? If you’re there, will you pick up?”

Her mother’s voice. Kind and calm. Kokoro hurriedly picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Kokoro? It’s me.”

Her voice was gentle now, not like this morning. She heard her mother laugh. Where was she? It sounded quiet around her, so maybe she’d stepped out of the office.

“You made me worried when you didn’t answer. Are you all right? Are you eating the bento? How’s your stomach?”

“I’m OK.”

“Really? I was thinking that if you were still feeling ill, maybe you should go and see the doctor.”

“I’m OK.”

“I’ll come home early today. It’s going to be all right, Kokoro. We’re just learning how to deal with this, so let’s do our best to work through it, OK?”

Her mother sounded so cheerful, but all Kokoro could manage was a muttered “Sure” in response.

Her mother had been so cross this morning. So what had happened since? Maybe she’d got advice on the situation from one of her colleagues at work? Or perhaps she was having her own second thoughts about her earlier outburst and thought she’d call.

Do our best. Kokoro had no idea if she could live up to her mum’s expectations, but she went ahead and agreed with her anyway.

                              

It was after four now, and she couldn’t stay downstairs.

The curtains in her room upstairs were, as in the morning, still closed.

As she waited to hear the now-familiar sound, she began to tense up. She could never get used to it. She tried watching the TV, with the sound turned down, to take her mind off it, but nevertheless she sat on her bed, anxiously waiting.

Any minute now.

There it was. She heard the mailbox in front of their house swing shut with a clang as someone dropped a letter inside.

“Ah—Tojo-san’s here,” she said to herself.

Moé Tojo-san, a girl from her class.

Tojo-san was a transfer student who’d joined their class at the end of April, after the semester had already begun. She’d arrived late due to some formalities to do with her father’s job, apparently.

She was a pretty girl, good at sports too, and her desk in class was right next to Kokoro’s. Moé’s athletic build and long lashes took Kokoro’s breath away—she reminded her of one of those beautiful French dolls people used to collect. Tojo-san didn’t have any foreign blood, apparently, though she did have the attractive features often found among Eurasians.

The teacher assigned her to sit next to Kokoro for a reason—they were neighbors, with Tojo-san’s house only two doors down from Kokoro’s. His aim was that, as neighbors, they should get to know each other, and Kokoro hoped they would. And in fact, in the first two weeks after she began school, Tojo-san asked Kokoro if she could address her by the informal Kokoro-chan. They also walked to school and back home together.

Tojo-san had even invited Kokoro to come over to her house.

Her home had the same basic floorplan as Kokoro’s, though she got the impression it had been designed with Tojo-san’s family specifically in mind. The building materials were the same, as was the height of the ceilings, yet the ornaments on display in the hall, the pictures hanging on the wall, the light fixtures and color of the carpeting were all different. The identical construction and layout made these differences stand out all the more.

Tojo-san’s home was so smart and stylish, with paintings just inside the entrance based on the fairy tales her father was apparently fascinated by.

Tojo-san’s father was a college professor researching children’s literature. On the wall, he had framed line-drawings from old illustrated books he’d picked up while in Europe. Scenes from stories Kokoro was familiar with: Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, The Wolf and the Seven Young Goats, Hansel and Gretel.

“Pretty weird scenes, aren’t they?” Tojo-san said. By this time Kokoro was addressing her, too, more familiarly, as Moé-chan.

“Papa collects drawings by this artist, including their illustrations for the Brothers Grimm books and illustrations from the Hans Christian Andersen stories.”

The scenes didn’t strike Kokoro as weird, exactly. The one from The Wolf and the Seven Young Goats was the well-known episode where the wolf breaks into the young goats’ house and they scramble to escape. The drawing from Hansel and Gretel, too, was one of the more famous ones, where Hansel is walking in the forest, tossing out breadcrumbs. There was a witch in the picture, but that alone told you which story it was from.

Their houses were the same size inside, but for some reason Tojo-san’s house seemed much more spacious.

In the living room were shelves lined with books in English, German and other languages.

Tojo-san took one out. “This one’s in Danish,” she said.

“Wow,” said Kokoro. She could understand a bit of English, but Danish was totally alien.

“Andersen was a Danish writer,” Tojo-san explained bashfully. “I can’t read it either. But you can borrow it if you’re interested.”

Kokoro was thrilled. She might not be able to read Danish, but from the illustration on the cover she knew it had to be The Ugly Duckling.

“And there are lots of books in German, too,” Tojo-san said. “The Brothers Grimm being German and all.”

This made Kokoro even more excited. She knew many of the Grimms’ fairy tales, and these foreign picture books seemed so stylish and cool.

“You should come over to my house next time,” Kokoro said. “We don’t have anything nice like these, though . . .” Kokoro really thought it would happen. At least she thought it should.

So why did things turn out the way they did?

Tojo-san ended up turning her back on Kokoro.

                              

Kokoro quickly worked out that Sanada and her little cohort had said something to Tojo-san about her.

One day in class, Kokoro went over to her. “Moé-chan?” she said, and Tojo-san looked up, obviously annoyed. What do you want? her expression said.

It was clear Tojo-san found Kokoro a nuisance. She no longer wanted to be in Kokoro’s company, especially not in front of Sanada and her gang.

Tojo-san and Kokoro had been discussing which after-school club to join. But when the time came to meet, as they’d promised each other, Tojo-san strode right out of the classroom with Sanada and her crew. When they were out in the hallway Sanada said, loudly enough for Kokoro to hear, “I feel so sorry for those loners!”

As she slowly packed away her schoolbooks, ready to go home, she noticed the stares from the other kids, and Kokoro finally understood: the comment had been meant for her.

Loner, loner—the word whirled around in her head as she left the school building. She intentionally avoided the other kids’ eyes. If that gang was going to be there, it was enough reason for her to lose all desire to check out any clubs.

Why did they pick on me like that? she wondered.

They gave her the silent treatment.

They whispered about her behind her back.

They told other girls not to have anything to do with her.

They laughed.

Laughed and laughed.

Laughing at her, Kokoro.

Her stomach ached and she locked herself in one of the toilet cubicles. She could hear Sanada giggling just outside. Break was nearly over, but she couldn’t leave while they were outside. She was on the verge of tears, but steeled herself anyway, and emerged only to hear a little exclamation from the adjacent cubicle, as Sanada was coming out. She looked directly at Kokoro and grinned.

When she later heard from a classmate what she’d done, Kokoro blushed with shame. Wondering why Kokoro was taking so long, Sanada had crouched down in the adjacent cubicle and was watching her from below. When she pictured the scene that Sanada must have witnessed—her squatting there, underpants around her ankles—Kokoro thought she felt something collapse inside her.

The classmate who’d informed her, while lamenting how horrible it all was, also made Kokoro promise never to reveal that she’d been the one who told.

Kokoro stood there, frozen, dazed, totally crushed.

She had nowhere left to go where she could feel at peace.

This happened again and again—until the incident took place, and Kokoro made the fateful decision.

She stopped going to school.

                              

Even after Kokoro had dropped out, Tojo-san would stop by to deliver leaflets and notices from school.

She did it very matter-of-factly.

Kokoro had hoped they would still be friends, but Tojo-san merely placed the papers in her mailbox and never once rang the doorbell. Kokoro had witnessed this any number of times from her upstairs window; Tojo-san dumping the leaflets, as if fulfilling a duty, then hurrying off.

Now she watched idly as the figure in school uniform, a shirt with a blue-green collar and a dark red scarf, appeared. The same uniform she herself had worn in April.

Kokoro felt relieved at least that Tojo-san came by alone on her errand, probably because the other girls lived elsewhere.

Her teacher had probably told Tojo-san to stop by and see Kokoro, and Kokoro decided not to think about the possibility that Tojo-san was intentionally ignoring these instructions.

The mailbox clanged shut and Moé-chan left.

                              

There was a full-length mirror in Kokoro’s room.

She had got her parents to put it up as soon as she had chosen her room—an oval-shaped mirror with a pink stone frame. When she looked at herself in it now, she looked sickly, and she felt like crying. She couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

She quietly lifted a corner of the curtain to make sure that Tojo-san had left, then collapsed in slow motion back on her bed. With the sound down, the glow from the TV struck her as overpoweringly bright.

She thought about how, now that she’d stopped going to school, her father had taken away her video game console.

“If she doesn’t go to school but still has video games, she’ll never do any studying,” he’d said to her mother. It looked like the next step was to take away her TV as well, but her mother had cut him short.

“Let’s just wait and see,” was her verdict.

At that moment, Kokoro had hated him, but now she wasn’t so sure. She had the feeling he might be right—that if she did have video games to hand, that would be all she did all day. She certainly wasn’t doing any studying at this point.

Keeping up with schoolwork in this new school—junior high—wasn’t going to be easy. She felt lost, not knowing what to do.

The glow in her room was becoming really bright.

She casually raised her head from her pillow, thinking she should switch off the TV, and gasped.

The TV was not on.

She must have turned it off without realizing.

The light was coming from the full-length mirror near the door.

“What the—?”

She got off her bed and walked over to it without really thinking. Light seemed to be radiating from inside the mirror; it had become so blinding she could barely look.

She reached out a hand to touch it.

She realized a beat later that it might be hot, but the surface was still cool to the touch. With a flat palm, she pushed a little harder.

“Oh my god!” she screamed to herself.

Her palm was being sucked right into the mirror. The surface was soft, as if she were pushing against water. She was being dragged to the other side of the mirror.

In an instant, her body had been swallowed up into the light and was moving through a tunnel of chilled air. She tried calling her mother, but no voice emerged.

                              

She was being dragged somewhere far away. Up or straight ahead, she couldn’t tell.

“Hey you, wake up!”

The first sensation was of a cold floor beneath her cheek.

She had a splitting headache, and her mouth and throat were parched. Kokoro heard the voice again, but couldn’t lift her head.

“Come on, wake up.”

A girl’s voice, a girl from the lower grades of elementary school by the sound of it.

Kokoro didn’t know anyone that age. She shook her head, blinked, and sat up. She turned to look in the direction of the voice and gasped.

A weird-looking child was standing there, hand on hip.

“Are you awake now? Kokoro Anzai-chan?”

She was looking at the face of—a wolf.

The girl was wearing the sort of wolf mask usually found at temple festivals.

She was wearing an