Winner of the Akutagawa Prize   A sharp, photo-realistic novella of memory and thwarted hope set in modern-day Tokyo—an “unflinching . . . powerful” showcase of the best in contemporary Japanese literature ( Shelf Awareness ) Divorced and cut off from his family, Taro lives alone in one of the few occupied apartments in his block, a block that is to be torn down as soon as the remaining tenants leave. Since the death of his father, Taro keeps to himself, but is soon drawn into an unusual relationship with the woman upstairs, Nishi, as she passes on the strange tale of the sky-blue house next door. First discovered by Nishi in the little-known photo-book Spring Garden , the sky-blue house soon becomes a focus for both Nishi and Taro: of what is lost, of what has been destroyed, and of what hope may yet lie in the future for both of them, if only they can seize it. “Like a good meditation: quiet, surprising and deeply satisfying.” — New York Times Book Review “Atmospheric, meditative story of memory and loss in a gentrifying Tokyo neighborhood . . . An elegant story that is in many ways more reminiscent of Mishima and Akutagawa than many contemporary Japanese writers.” — Kirkus Reviews “ Spring Garden by Tomoka Shibasaki looks at loneliness and loss with uncommon detail and understated force . . . Shibasaki's minimalist language comes across with poetic sensibility. Every word matters in this unflinching and quietly powerful novella . . . a brief, exquisitely crafted story of human connection in a contemporary, alienating society.” — Shelf Awareness for Readers , starred review “Measured, understated and poetic at the right moment . . . making the novel difficult to put down.” — Japan Society Journal (UK) “[A] delicate, intimate novella.” — The Lady magazine Tomoka Shibasaki was born in 1973 in Osaka and began writing fiction while still in high school. After graduating from university, she took an office job but continued writing, and was shortlisted for the Bungei Prize in 1998. Her first book, A Day on the Planet , was turned into a hit movie, and Spring Garden won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize in 2014. The woman was looking at something over her firstfloor balcony, her hands gripping the railing, her neck craned forward. From the ground floor, Taro watched the woman. She did not move. The sunlight that reflected off her blackframed glasses meant that Taro couldn’t tell which direction she was looking, but she was faced straight ahead, towards the concrete wall and, beyond it, the house of Mrs Saeki, who owned the flats. It was a block of flats shaped like an L flipped and rotated so that the short section was hanging down. Taro’s flat was in the short section. The woman on the balcony was at the far end of the long section, the flat farthest away from his. He had happened to catch sight of her as he went to shut the small window looking out onto the courtyard—although courtyard was really too grand a word for that space, three metres wide with weeds growing in the gaps between the paving stones, and to top it all, a sign that read no entry. With the arrival of spring, the concrete wall separating the flats from Mrs Saeki’s house had suddenly become thick with ivy. The two trees growing immediately behind the wall, a maple and a plum, had been left untended, and their branches now stretched over it. Behind the trees was the two-storey wooden house belonging to Mrs Saeki which, to go by its appearance, must have been pretty old. As usual, there were no signs of anyone at home. The woman hadn’t moved an inch. From where Taro stood, he could see only the concrete wall and the roof of Mrs Saeki’s house, but he assumed that from the first floor the woman could probably see down to the ground level of the house and its garden. Still, what could have been so fascinating about a view like that? The most striking thing about the house’s red corrugated iron roof and its dark brown wooden walls was the extent of their wear and tear. It was now a year since Mrs Saeki, who’d been living on her own, had moved into a care home for seniors. She’d looked spritely enough whenever Taro saw her sweeping the front of her house, but apparently she was about to turn eighty-six. All this Taro had learnt from the estate agent. Beyond the roof of Mrs Saeki’s house, Taro could see the sky. It had been perfectly clear when he woke up, but now there were a few clouds—bright white lumps, the sort that usually appeared in midsummer, although it was only May. Looking at the tops of the clouds that bulged right up and towered above the rest, he thought about how they actually had to be several kilometres above the earth. The contrast between them and the deep blue of the sky was so strong it hurt his eyes. Taro imagined himself standing on a cloud. This was something he did often. After walking for miles, he would reach the cloud’s edge. Grasping the e