The Light You Lit for Me

This is an AI-generated translation of 君が灯した光, my first novel, originally written in Japanese.

Chapter 1: The Unfillable Void

Her name was Hina.
The first time I saw her was in the lobby, where the soft afternoon sunlight streamed in, making the dust glitter. Sitting in a wheelchair by the window, she gazed intently at the ordinary cityscape spread out beyond the large glass window, as if it were a treasure she was seeing for the first time. Her hair was cut short to her shoulders. A pale apricot-colored stole draped over her shoulders radiated a dignified presence in this place that had lost its color.
The moment I took a step forward to speak to her. She turned to face me lightly, as if dancing. And she gave me a carefree smile, as if reuniting with a long-lost friend.
“Hey, Doctor. Doesn’t today’s sky look like ‘freshly squeezed lemon’? The light is sparkling, bursting.”
They were unexpected, poetic words. To hear such words from a patient I’d just met, in a hospital lobby. For a moment, my thoughts stopped, and I felt as if time had frozen. As if pierced by the clear light dwelling deep within her eyes.
At that time, I had no way of knowing. That her words, her smile, her very existence, would become the single, irreplaceable light shining into my frozen heart. I couldn’t even have imagined that it would illuminate my monochrome life so dazzlingly, so warmly.
Thrusting my hands into the pockets of my white coat, my fingertips touched the cold stethoscope. Perhaps that inorganic sensation had, at some point, become the same temperature as my heart. My presence walking the corridors of this hospital as a neurologist seemed less like destiny and more like following the law of inertia. The shadow of my grandfather. No, to be precise, the colossal shadow named Parkinson’s disease that had ravaged my beloved grandfather, and the helplessness of myself as a boy who could only stand frozen before it. I became a doctor to look away from those things.
My father, and my grandfather, were doctors. The path to medical school lay before me as a matter of course since birth. I had run along those rails without question. Whether it was my own will or a conditioned reflex to meet the expectations of those around me, I myself wasn’t sure. But no matter how many thick medical textbooks I read or how many complex procedures I mastered, an unfillable cavity spread through the center of my heart. As if a vital organ was missing.
My grandfather, who had been my sun, began to lose his light when I was in middle school, still unaware of the complexities of the world. Parkinson’s disease. The diagnosis is a spell seared into my memory. On weekends, he would take my hand and lead me into the serene air of museums, onto the cobblestones of ancient cities, into landscapes full of light. Especially vivid are the times spent in my grandfather’s studio. The smell of oil paints, his back as we faced canvases side-by-side, his profile as he layered brushstrokes until satisfied. For my grandfather, who had a deep knowledge of art and poured his passion into landscape painting after retirement, I was his only apprentice and best companion. He took me on sketching trips, and the sight of his focused figure through the viewfinder was the very object of my admiration.
I watched up close as that grandfather’s body transformed into something like a plaster statue without will. The slight tremor in the fingertips holding his favorite fountain pen. The clumsy movement of his chopsticks at the dinner table, failing to grasp his favorite stewed fish. Eventually, his rich expressions hardened like a mask, and his words dwindled. He could no longer manage the walks he loved so much, and even lost the strength to hold a paintbrush. My grandfather’s mental decline after he could no longer paint was unbearably rapid and cruel. Those were the days when the sun was surely being stolen from my world.
I was simply powerless. I could only watch with bated breath as my grandfather’s smile, his existence, faded and vanished from my daily life. All I could do was rub his back when he complained of pain.
After my grandfather passed away, the brilliant memories we shared were tragically painted over by the final expression distorted by suffering. Even if I tried to gather fragments of what should have been happy memories, they slipped through my fingers like sand, losing their outlines like a watercolor painting stained with muddy water.
As if fleeing, I sealed away the oil painting tools deep in a closet and immersed myself in the world of medical books. I wanted to believe that knowledge was power, that it was salvation. If I honed my skills, perhaps one day I could save someone, someone the helpless me of that day couldn’t save. That wish, bordering on obsession, allowed me to avert my eyes from the guilt towards the past and the cold hole gaping in my chest.
That’s why I chose neurology. Facing people suffering from the same disease as my grandfather felt like it might become the atonement I couldn’t fulfill. And so, this ward where I was assigned as a resident felt like life’s final station, or a silent queue of people waiting to cross the River Styx.
A space dominated by a heavy silence like thick fog. Only the regular drive sounds of artificial respirators, the creaking of old wheelchairs, and the footsteps of nurses suppressing their emotions echoed. A quietness resembling resignation, isolated from the clamor of the outside world. Perhaps I could fit in here. There was no need to force a smile, no need to search for contrived words. The void within me and the air drifting through this ward seemed to resonate somewhere.
But that premonition was shattered by Hina, vividly and decisively.

Chapter 2: Mismatched Time, Resonating Melodies of Souls

My time with Hina began to accumulate in a small dayroom on the east end of the ward, where the afternoon light lingered longest. Furnished with two old leather sofas facing each other, it possessed a serenity as if time had stopped, isolated from the daily bustle. The presence of other patients and hurried staff felt distant, and it somehow became our “reserved seat.”
She was always there. Not in a way that suggested she was simply waiting, but more like she was quietly living her own time in that place. Sometimes, she traced the shapes of clouds drifting outside the window with her eyes; sometimes, she slowly turned the pages of a paperback book. When I showed up, she would sometimes talk passionately about the book she was reading – how she got angry at this or that character, or how this author’s metaphors were terrifyingly accurate. What she was engrossed in was cross-stitching intricate patterns. Her thin yet steady fingertips created small universes on the fabric with colorful threads. Her concentrating profile somehow overlapped with the figure in my grandfather’s studio that I once admired.
“Doctor, you have deep valleys etched between your eyebrows again. Were you reading a difficult paper?”
The day after we first spoke, as I entered the dayroom with coffee in hand, Hina stopped her embroidery and said with a mischievous laugh. That smile wasn’t a calculated, polite smile; it had an unexpected brightness, straight from the heart.
“No, just a bit tired from last night’s shift…” As I hesitated, she let out a soft chuckle.
“You’re honest. But I like people who are honest, even if clumsily so. Because instead of choosing their words carefully, they try to look the other person in the eye when they talk. Your eyes, Doctor, they don’t lie.”
Her words startled me. It felt as though she saw through not just my superficial demeanor, but something deeper within. From then on, we naturally began to exchange many words. Not just the expected conversations between doctor and patient about symptoms and treatment plans. We talked about books we’d read, games we were obsessed with as children, foods we disliked and why, and places we secretly dreamed of visiting someday.
Strangely, in front of her, I sometimes found myself blurting out things I usually kept pushed deep inside – cynicism about the world, doubts about the medical system, or frustration with my own inadequacy. Perhaps it was due to the atmosphere she possessed, one that didn’t judge or evaluate, but simply accepted quietly.
“Oh my, Doctor, you’re surprisingly sharp-tongued. But I think I understand how you feel a little.”
She’d say this, covering her mouth as she laughed. Her reaction strangely soothed my frayed heart. It felt like she took the thorns of my words and wrapped them in humor.
Hina wasn’t just a bright and cheerful woman. At times, her words contained startlingly deep insights.
One rainy night, I was on duty. Late at night, the nurse call rang, and I rushed to Hina’s room to find her trembling slightly in the darkness. The sound of rain hitting the window seemed to amplify her anxiety.
“Doctor… I’m scared. If I fall asleep like this, I feel like I’ll sink to the bottom of deep, dark water… like I might never wake up again…”
It was likely nocturnal delirium associated with Parkinson’s disease, or a latent fear of its progression. I tried to remain calm, but consciously used a gentle tone of voice, trying to empathize with her anxiety.
“It’s okay, Hina-san. Let’s try taking slow, deep breaths. I’m right here with you. Inhale… exhale… yes, that’s good.”
Gently rubbing her back in a steady rhythm, I guided her breathing. I could feel the tension gradually leaving her stiff shoulders.
“…Thank you, Doctor. Your voice is somehow calming… I’m glad you were on duty tonight.”
Once the trembling subsided and she regained her composure, Hina suddenly looked up at me with serious eyes. In the quiet room where only the sound of rain echoed, her question caught me off guard.
“Doctor… when you’re unbearably distressed, when your heart feels like it’s about to break, how do you recover?”
It was a question I myself had struggled with for many years without a clear answer. I thought for a moment, and unconsciously, I found myself weaving words that were surprisingly frank, even to me.
“…You know, sometimes I imagine an incredibly long span of time. 3.8 billion years since life began on Earth. Our ancestors overcame unimaginable environmental changes and extinction crises, time and time again. Viruses, ice ages, even giant meteor impacts. Still, they stubbornly survived, passing on the delicate yet strong baton called genes. We are at the forefront of that miraculous relay. When I think about it like that, my own worries seem like cosmic dust. And then, I feel like maybe I should try to advance this inherited ‘life’ just a little bit further, just a tiny bit more.”
Hina watched me quietly as I spoke, more passionately than usual, gesturing with my hands. Her clear eyes seemed to be trying to ascertain the shape of my soul. When I finished speaking, she took a deep breath and then, in a voice with a dignified resonance completely different from her earlier fear, she said:
“The forefront of evolution, huh… That’s a grand story. But… isn’t that just a little bit lonely? Like we just received the baton… Even if this body doesn’t move as I wish, I don’t want to just fulfill a role decided by someone else. I want to choose something with my own will, as I am now. I think the act of struggling desperately like that is proof that I’m ‘alive’. Even if it seems meaningless, even if someone laughs at me, I want to struggle.”
I was speechless. Her words quietly yet accurately pierced through the part of me that had been averting my eyes from my own helplessness and the ‘hole’ by leaning on the grand narrative of ‘evolution’. Yes, Hina, you always try to stand on your own two feet, no matter the situation. That desperation is what makes you shine so strongly, so beautifully.
She didn’t usually talk much about her own illness. It even seemed as though she perceived it as an objective event separate from herself. However, in fleeting moments, uncontrollable emotions would seep through the cracks of the mask of composure she wore.
One day after an examination, when I asked, “Has anything changed?”, she hesitated slightly and then said in a small voice:
“Having you here, Doctor Yu… makes my heart feel a little lighter. Like receiving a single patch of sunshine in a cold room… Ah, I’m sorry, suddenly calling you by your first name so familiarly…”
“No, it’s fine. Call me whichever is easier for you.” When I replied, trying to maintain composure, her cheeks flushed bashfully, and she continued happily:
“Then… Yu-san. Yes, it has a nice ring to it. Maybe because it has the character for ‘gentle’ (優) in it. It sounds kind of warm.”
This time, Hina noticed my face growing hot. Her cheeks were also tinged a faint cherry blossom pink. In that moment, I felt the air flowing between us change color, just slightly.
Hina’s smile wasn’t mere optimism or cheerfulness. It held a quiet strength possessed only by those who know deep sorrow and helpless anxiety, and a profound kindness that empathized with the pain of others. That light began to slowly seep into the void in my heart that had been frozen since my grandfather’s death. I felt something tightly shut inside me being slowly, but surely, thawed by that warmth.
My ‘hole’ was still there, but perhaps it was no longer a cold emptiness, but changing into a space to receive and resonate Hina’s light. I felt a gentle, certain warmth, like a patch of spring sunlight, beginning to illuminate its edges.

Chapter 3: Fading Light, Intersecting Thoughts

As the seasons relentlessly shifted from summer to autumn, changes began to appear in Hina’s body – changes that could not be ignored, yet were difficult to accept.
The speed at which she spoke slowed, slightly but surely, like an old record. Though her clarity of thought remained unchanged, the lips that formed the words seemed frustrated. The time her thin fingertips trembled slightly, unrelated to her will, like the fluttering wings of a caught bird, increased. When drinking liquids, her hand holding the cup would shake, sometimes causing a slight spill. Yet, she purposefully straightened her back and never failed to smile in front of me. Thinking of the impatience and anxiety likely hidden behind that smile tightened my chest.
“Lately, you know, small bumps in the hallway seem really high. My legs… they don’t really listen to what I say anymore. My mind intends to skip, but it’s like my feet are wearing cement-filled boots. Isn’t that strange?”
She tried to laugh mischievously, but her voice held an undeniable shadow. It had a slightly different quality than her previous lighthearted humor; to me, it sounded like a painful bravado.
“If I happen to fall… hmm, let’s see… you can think of me as ‘an angel negotiating reconciliation with gravity’ and gently lend me a hand, okay?”
As a neurologist, no, as a human being, I explored every possibility to make the time she had left as long and as peaceful as possible. I devoured the latest papers on Parkinson’s disease, contacted specialists domestically and internationally anonymously, and sought opinions on treatment options. I placed particular hope in Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS). It was a surgical procedure expected to alleviate motor symptoms by implanting electrodes in specific parts of the brain and sending weak electrical stimuli. If she were eligible, there was a possibility of dramatically improving Hina’s QOL (Quality of Life). I was betting on that glimmer of hope. Perhaps it was less a cool-headed medical judgment and more a personal, desperate wish to see Hina’s smile for even one day longer.
However, the results of the detailed preoperative examinations were cruel enough to crush our modest hopes. Hina’s cardiopulmonary function, especially her respiratory reserve capacity, had declined more than expected. Additionally, considering the instability of her autonomic nervous system due to the disease’s progression, the risk of the complex brain surgery, which could potentially last over 8 hours, was judged to significantly outweigh the expected benefits. We considered other drug therapies and strengthening rehabilitation, but reached the harsh conclusion that maintaining the current state, or slightly slowing the progression, was the best course, and dramatic improvement could not be expected.
How could I tell her this fact? I was at a loss for words. As a doctor, I had an obligation to calmly explain the objective facts and prognosis. But the words I needed to say to the woman before me felt like heavy lumps of lead. In the examination room, showing the test data, I explained as gently as possible, but without ambiguity, that she was not eligible for the surgery and discussed the future treatment plan.
She listened quietly, gazing out the window at the street trees that were beginning to turn red. Her expression hardly changed, but I could see her clenched fist trembling slightly. When I finished speaking, she slowly turned to face me and said in a deliberately calm voice:
“…I see. …Data doesn’t lie, does it? …Doctor, thank you for looking into it so diligently.”
Then, she let out a breath and continued, as if telling herself:
“…Maybe I was hoping, just a little. That I might be able to walk along that beach again on my own feet… How silly.”
Her eyes seemed to well up for a moment as she smiled self-deprecatingly. I couldn’t say anything. I knew that any words of comfort would sound hollow in the face of this reality.
“…Doctor, I’m sorry. Could you leave me alone for just a little while? …I think I need to sort out my feelings. It’s okay. I’m surprisingly quick at bouncing back, you know.”
Her voice was faint and halting, but tinged with a kindness that showed concern for me. When I simply said, “…Alright. If anything happens, press the nurse call anytime,” and left the examination room, I thought I heard a short, stifled sob from behind the closed door. My helplessness stabbed my chest again like a cold blade. There are realities that cannot be saved, even when a doctor does their best. That obvious fact had never felt so heavy.
The next day, I visited her room, albeit with some hesitation. Hina was sitting up in bed, looking out the window. Her expression seemed different from yesterday, somehow resolute, as if she had come to terms with something. Or perhaps she was trying to appear that way.
“Oh, Yu-san. I’m sorry about yesterday, showing you my immature side.” She smiled gently when she noticed me. “But I’m okay now. I’ve decided.”
“Decided?”
“Yes. If surgery isn’t possible, it can’t be helped. So, I decided to do what I can do now. To use this body and this time to do what I can.”
Her words exceeded my expectations.
“Hey, Yu-san,” she looked at me with a serious gaze. “Even if I’m gone from here, please promise me you’ll look forward and keep smiling, okay? Can you promise? Your smile, the one that looks a little troubled but is incredibly kind, I like it. I don’t want to see it clouded.”
The impact felt like my heart was directly seized, and I couldn’t utter a sound. All I could manage was a small nod.
“…You know, sometimes I get scared in the middle of the night. Like yesterday. Like I’m sinking all alone to the bottom of a deep sea. Can’t breathe, pitch black… The me who always acts cheerful and pretends the illness is no big deal feels like not the real me… I wonder if the real me is much more of a coward, scaredy-cat, and crybaby.”
She paused, taking a deep breath. The afternoon light streaming through the window softly outlined her silhouette. Then, as if pulling a faint light from the deep sea, she continued quietly but with strong determination:
“But still, I want to leave something warm in someone’s heart. Even if it’s just self-satisfaction. Even a tiny light is fine. If I could just gently leave proof that I was here in a corner of someone’s memory. Like a nameless distant star twinkling in the night sky, if I could become a presence that illuminates someone’s path, even just a little… I would be happy.”
Her words violently shook the unresolved feelings about my grandfather, my uncertainties as a doctor, and the questions about my own reason for being that had settled deep within my heart. She was accepting her fate and, within those limits, still trying to light a path for others. It didn’t sound like resignation or self-sacrifice, but more like an active, earnest prayer. I was struck by her nobility and the loneliness that likely lay behind it.
After the option of surgery disappeared, Hina, far from becoming depressed, became surprisingly active. With the head nurse’s permission, she began to proactively talk to other long-term patients and anxious newcomers in the dayroom. She shared her experiences, listened to their stories, and sometimes, with trembling hands, made small embroidered charms for someone. To me, it looked like a poignant, brave struggle where she confronted her own anxiety and tried to find meaning.
One calm, clear autumn afternoon, in our usual corner of the dayroom, Hina sank deep into the sofa, her eyes closed with a serene expression. Her profile looked slightly thinner than before, but possessed a wondrous tranquility. Thinking she was asleep, I started to quietly move away when she whispered:
“…I’m awake, Yu-san.” She must have sensed my presence. “I was just dreaming a little. A dream of walking along a wide, wide beach with you.”
“The sky was endlessly blue, and the wind felt so good… I was walking properly on the white sand with my own feet. You were smiling next to me… It felt so real.”
The sad yet warm scene came to my mind, and I lost my words. It painfully conveyed how much she longed for that sight.
“You know, Yu-san,” she slowly opened her eyes and looked up at me. Her eyes were clear and infinitely deep. “Meeting you, I’m truly, truly glad. Thank you.”
The moment I heard those utterly pure, direct words, the walls of professional composure and rationality I had painstakingly built to suppress my emotions crumbled with a crash. I couldn’t stop the hot lump of overwhelming emotion rising in my throat.
“Hina-san…”
The voice I managed to squeeze out was trembling.
“Surely, even after I’m gone… you’ll be alright, Yu-san. Because you’re the kind of person who can become a warm light, supporting many people. I believe that. So, please, live properly.”
It was like her final prayer, a wish entrusted to me. Words like crystals of transparent, infinitely gentle light, condensing the immense pain hidden behind her smile, her deep trust in me, and her own unwavering courage. I strongly felt that I must never let this light extinguish.

Chapter 4: The Entrusted Light, and the Vow to Regenerate

Hina quietly disappeared from our daily lives, like light snow, in early winter when the cold winds began to rattle the bare branches.
The sky that day was oppressively low, as if smeared with heavy lead-colored paint. I stood frozen in front of the door of her hospital room, now cleaned out, all personal belongings removed. The empty space was filled only with the fact of her absence. Mixed with the smell of disinfectant, I almost felt I could hear the echo of the last words we exchanged. Only the afternoon light streaming through the window cast an unnaturally bright rectangle on the sterile linoleum floor.
Her gentle voice, her sharp questions that unexpectedly hit the core, her carefree laughter – none would echo here anymore. The sofa where she did her cross-stitching, the window where she gazed at the sky, had reverted to being mere parts of the scenery. Yet, precisely because she was lost, the outline of what she left behind emerged more clearly. It was warmth, a question, and above all, a definite light that had shone into my frozen heart.
A few days later, at the end of my day shift, the head nurse stopped me, slightly hesitantly. “Doctor Miyazaki, this…” She gently handed me an envelope, as if handling something fragile. A thick, pure white envelope. No sender’s name was written, but its texture, its weight, eloquently told me who it was from. Returning to my room, I opened the seal with trembling fingers, revealing apricot-colored stationery she favored. Just one sheet, carefully folded. The moment I opened it, the faint scent of the citrusy hand cream she used knocked on the door of my memory.
— To Yu-san
Writing a letter like this feels a little embarrassing.
Because I probably couldn’t have said it to your face until the end,
Please forgive my selfishness.
Instead of a proper farewell, I desperately wanted to convey
All of my “thank yous”.
The time I spent with Yu-san is my treasure.
The view from the hospital window, which I thought was gray,
Strangely looked colorful when I talked with you.
Not just your kindness as a doctor, but your occasional clumsiness,
And your sincerity in trying to face your own pain, saved me many times.
The day I found the “light like freshly squeezed lemon,”
I won’t forget the slightly surprised look on your face, your wide eyes.
The pain of the illness, the unbearable anxiety about the future.
When I felt like sinking into that kind of darkness,
Your presence, Yu-san, was my anchor.
It was a short time, but being able to laugh beside you,
Being able to touch upon your worries just a little,
Knowing that my words might have reached your heart, even slightly.
Just that makes me feel that the time I lived had meaning.
So, please.
Don’t stay trapped in sadness for long, for my sake.
I want you to live, Yu-san.
Not just live, but live in the way you believe in,
Facing the pain before you with sincerity.
Do you remember the story of the “baton of evolution” you once told me?
Yu-san, you are someone who can pass that baton
To the next person with warmer hands than anyone else.
If you feel overwhelmed by difficult cases or unreasonable realities,
Please, just remember our time together for a little while.
That there was a small patient who tried to search for light without giving up.
And that that patient is cheering for your future from the bottom of her heart.
If you happen to look up at the sky,
Whatever the weather, I’d be happy if you thought
It was filled with my “thank you” and “I’m cheering for you.”
May the kindness you showed me
Brightly illuminate your path ahead.
With much gratitude.
To my first and last, special doctor.
— Hina
It felt as though her breath resided in every single inked character. With trembling fingers, I read it again and again. Tears overflowed ceaselessly, creating numerous stains on the stationery. They weren’t just tears of sadness. My chest tightened at the sheer warmth, strength, and unwavering trust in me conveyed by the words she left behind. Sobbing aloud, I solidified a single resolve within the darkness.
She didn’t give me light. She found the light that must have originally been within me but that I had lost sight of, and lit it anew. And she showed me, through her way of life, how that light should be used.
I tucked this letter, this fragment of her soul, into the deepest part of my chest. It might ache like a scar, but at the same time, it would become a guidepost that would never disappear. To keep lighting the flame she entrusted to me, in my own way, for someone else. That was the unspoken final promise I made with her, and the beginning of the path I must now walk. The light entering the empty room no longer symbolized emptiness, but looked like the light of hope heralding the arrival of a new dawn.

Chapter 5: Painting the Soul – Seeking the Flame of Rebirth

Several months had passed since Hina disappeared from my world, like a patch of winter sunlight fading away. The season had passed the freezing winter and was shifting towards early spring, where the breath of life could be faintly felt, but my heart still remained sunk in the depths of profound loss. I carried out my daily duties dispassionately. Donning the white coat, applying the stethoscope, letting my pen glide across medical charts. But it was like an automaton, mere work devoid of emotion. The cold void that once occupied my heart felt deeper, vaster due to Hina’s absence. The letter she left comforted me each time I reread it, yet simultaneously pulled me back into the abyss of deep sorrow.
Then one day, walking down the corridor with a mind exhausted from an overnight shift, I saw the light streaming through the dayroom window making the dust on the floor sparkle. Hina’s words from that day suddenly echoed in my ears. “Hey, Doctor. Doesn’t today’s sky look like ‘freshly squeezed lemon’?” In that moment, my world had certainly gained color. And the image of her cross-stitching, her concentrating profile, overlapped with memories of my grandfather’s studio. That’s right, Hina too, within her limited time, was trying to “leave something behind.” Just as my grandfather tried to imbue landscapes with soul, she imbued each thread with prayer.
Impulsively, I pulled out the oil painting toolbox I had stowed deep in the closet. Covered in dust, it was a symbol of both the brilliant memories with my grandfather and my own helplessness I had kept averting my eyes from. Why painting, now? It wasn’t a logical conclusion. It was more that I was driven by a desperate feeling that if I didn’t grasp the light her existence radiated, the warmth she lit within me, and the heart-wrenching pain with my own hands, turning them into something tangible, my very being would dissipate like mist.
Setting up the easel, I faced the blank white canvas. The smell of paint squeezed from tubes vividly awakened forgotten sensations along with memories of my grandfather. But when I actually took the brush, my fingers felt heavy as lead and trembled. What should I paint? Hina’s smile? The peaceful time in the dayroom? That painful promise we exchanged at the end?
The more I tried to paint, the more her image shimmered like a mirage, elusive and distant. In memory, she radiated perfect light, but trying to transfer it to the canvas resulted only in a trite, faded imitation. It became like a doll, merely beautiful, devoid of living emotion. No, what I wanted to paint wasn’t just such superficiality. I wanted to paint everything – her strength, her weakness, her pain, and the unwavering light that lay beyond them.
Painting and covering, painting again and scraping away. It was less creation and more a struggle in a labyrinth with no exit. In the intervals between grueling shifts as a resident, sacrificing sleep, I shut myself in the studio (a corner of my cramped room). The more I painted, the more real her absence became, the sense of loss cutting into my heart like a sharp blade. Frustration and fatigue accumulated, leaving me utterly depleted.
One night, dozing on the studio floor from exhaustion, I had a dream. Hina was sitting on the usual dayroom sofa, smiling gently, though looking slightly troubled.
“Oh, Yu-san. Don’t make such a face. Like it’s the end of the world.”
Her voice in the dream was startlingly clear.
(…Because you’re gone, and the colors in my world have almost vanished.)
I answered with a voiceless cry.
“Hehe, you exaggerate. But you know, Yu-san. What I liked wasn’t the Yu-san struggling with paint with a difficult expression, but the kind doctor’s face – listening intently to patients’ stories, searching for words a bit clumsily, but earnestly.”
She gently placed a hand on my shoulder. There was a warm sensation.
“You don’t have to paint me beautifully. Because I wasn’t such a perfect person. I was weak, scared, and cried a lot. But still, because you were by my side, Yu-san, I could face forward. I’d be happy if you painted that ‘light’. The small, small light that might have been deep in my heart, the light you felt. That ‘light like freshly squeezed lemon’.”
I woke up then. The sky outside was beginning to lighten. The warmth of the dream still seemed to linger in my palm. Her words felt like they had slightly loosened the heavy chains binding my heart.
That’s right, I wasn’t trying to paint a perfect portrait. I wanted to express, through my own heart, the fragments of her soul, the proof of her life, and the feel of that “light like freshly squeezed lemon” she lit in me. The light her very being radiated – a mixture of beauty, pain, strength, and weakness.
After that, my brush moved a little more freely. I stopped pursuing technical skill or realistic accuracy. Instead, I entrusted the unspoken emotional fluctuations I felt during my time with her, the resonance of words that struck my heart, the light and shadow dwelling behind her expressions seen in fleeting moments, to color and form. It was a memorial to her, and simultaneously, an act like prayer to thaw my own frozen soul and move towards regeneration. On the canvas, I continued a journey of conversing with her soul and searching for my own inner light.
The finished painting, viewed objectively, might be immature and rough. Far from a realistic portrait. But I felt that Hina’s form as only I knew her – the trajectory of a soul that tried to shine even while knowing sorrow, and the faint yet certain light of hope I found through her – was certainly breathing there.
I hung the painting in my room, not showing it to anyone. It was a quiet testament to the promise between only Hina and me, and the first beacon for me to start walking forward again. Dawn might still be far away. The pain of loss would likely never disappear. Still, every time I looked at this painting, I remembered her voice. And I could feel a definite warmth in the darkness. With that light in my heart, I felt ready to start walking again on my own feet.

Chapter 6: The Place Where Hope Continues to Burn

Nearly ten years have passed since then.
I now spend my days as the proprietor of a small clinic in a seaside town where the sea breeze whispers. The me who once walked the corridors of a large hospital as a neurologist now opens the windows with the morning light, inhaling the scent of the tide deep into my chest. Around the time the afternoon sun falls softly on the old wooden floor of the examination room, a local fisherman might pop his head in, saying, “Doc, my back’s acting up a bit…” and as evening approaches, children returning from school show me their scrapes. Such are my days – calm, yet facing the weight of each individual life.
On the wall of the examination room hangs a single painting. The portrait of Hina I painted that day with my entire being. I haven’t given it a formal title, but in my heart, I call it “Portrait of Hope.” The oil paints have deepened slightly over the years, and the “light like freshly squeezed lemon” dwelling in her eyes seems to quietly shimmer, catching the natural light streaming onto the wall. It might be technically immature. But what I received from her, the pain of loss, and the prayer for rebirth are condensed there.
“Doctor, this painting… it’s strange. Looking at it makes me feel calm, but also a little sad…”
One day, a woman who had long suffered from unexplained fatigue murmured this at the end of her consultation. She always seemed to be looking somewhere far away, carrying an elusive anxiety.
“Yes, for me too… it’s a special piece.”
I looked her in the eye and slowly searched for words. Just as Hina had done for me.
“Everyone carries light and shadow within their hearts. The woman in this painting surely saw many shadows too. But I think, at the end, when she lifted her face, she found a small light. There’s no need to rush. If there are moments when you can lift your face, even just a little, at your own pace.”
What Hina taught me. That perfect cures or dramatic recoveries aren’t the only answer. Just being there, listening, believing in the person’s inner light. That attitude can sometimes heal the heart more deeply than medicine.
After the woman left, I looked up at the painting for a while. Hina, what would you say if you saw me now? Would you say, “Yu-san, you’re making that difficult face again,” with that mischievous smile? Or would you smile quietly and say, “You’re properly connecting with them”?
On another day, a little girl, after her check-up, shyly handed me a piece of origami as she was leaving. “Sensei, this is a charm for light.” It was a twinkling yellow star, folded clumsily but with great effort. Its pure brilliance struck my heart unexpectedly. That’s right, light isn’t something special. It exists like this, in everyday life, in small interactions.
Since Hina passed away, I lost my way many times, stopped in my tracks. There were nights I felt crushed by my helplessness as a doctor. But each time, the letter from her tucked away in my chest and the “Portrait of Hope” hanging on the wall brought me back to the present. The light she left behind hasn’t vanished. It lives on within me, changing form, changing warmth. In the fingertips that touch someone’s pain, in the silence listening to a patient’s story, and in the air that fills this small clinic.
Today too, I open the door to the examination room.
My gaze meets Hina’s in the painting quietly.
“I’m living properly,” I tell her in my heart.
The sorrow of the past doesn’t disappear. But it’s no longer chains that bind me. It’s a guidepost for connecting the light I saw with her to the future.
This is the place where I continue to light hope.
Together with the light you left behind.

Epilogue: Immortal Light, Portrait of the Soul

March 15, 2027 Japan Arts & Culture News (Breaking)
“Portrait of Soul, Light Illuminating an Era” — Shocking Work by Unknown Doctor-Painter Wins Grand Prize at Top Art Exhibition
Today, it was announced that the Grand Prize, the highest award in the oil painting division of the 75th Japan Contemporary Art Award Exhibition (Organizers: Agency for Cultural Affairs, The Japan Art Academy), one of the most prestigious public exhibitions in the country, has been awarded to “Portrait of Hope — Hina,” a work by Dr. Yu Miyazaki, a physician practicing community medicine in a seaside town. This exceptional achievement marks an extremely rare instance of a non-professional painter winning the Grand Prize, bringing fresh surprise and deep emotion to the art world. The work will be specially exhibited at The National Art Center, Tokyo starting tomorrow.
The work is said to be a portrait of a young woman who, while battling a severe illness at a young age, never lost the hope that illuminated others until the very end. However, its expression transcends mere realism or sentimentality, embodying deep introspection and universal brilliance of life, possessing a power that speaks directly to the viewer’s soul, earning unanimous top marks from the judging committee.
World-renowned painter Sōtatsu Arisugawa, chairman of the judging committee, stated passionately in his critique: “This painting transcends evaluation criteria such as technique or style. What is depicted is certainly the figure of a single woman. However, the light dwelling behind her quiet smile, in her deep, clear eyes, is ‘Hope’ itself, discovered from the abyss of despair, reflecting the fundamental strength and dignity of humanity. A serene yet burning hymn to life, which only those who know and have accepted deep sorrow and pain can emit, overflows from every brushstroke. This is not merely a beautiful portrait. It is an earnest prayer for all of us living in this era often called an age of loss, and for the future; it is an ode to the human soul that does not lose its brilliance even amid hardship. Discovering this unknown yet sincere talent is one of the greatest joys of my career as a judge.”
The model was Hina-san (then in her 20s), a young woman diagnosed with young-onset Parkinson’s disease whom the artist treated during his residency. Dr. Miyazaki states that encountering and parting with her fundamentally changed his view of life and his way of being as a doctor. Even amid the harsh reality of a progressive illness, he says he took up the brush solely wanting to express through his own soul the memory of the selfless, warm, yet unwavering “light” she continued to shine on those around her, including himself as her attending physician. It was both a memorial to her and his own vow to carry the baton received from her into the future.
Upon receiving the news of the award, Dr. Miyazaki provided the following comment from his seaside clinic, speaking quietly but choosing his words carefully:
“I sincerely believe that this honor is not bestowed upon me personally, but is an award won by the very proof of life of the model, Hina-san, who is the soul of this painting. Within her limited time, she showed through her very existence how strongly, nobly, and beautifully a person can live while caring for others. The light she lit for me, that ‘light like freshly squeezed lemon’ found amidst despair, continues to burn within me, and within this painting. If this painting can become even a small beacon for just one person currently in difficulty, helping them to lift their face, even slightly, and look forward, that is truly her wish, and there is no greater joy for me. Hina-san, the color of the sky you looked up at, the words you spun, the warmth you left behind, never disappeared. Your light is now illuminating the hearts of so many people. Thank you, to you who became my first and last, special light. With heartfelt gratitude.”
Dr. Miyazaki’s sincere words struck a chord with those present, spreading a quiet sense of emotion through the venue. The irreplaceable light one doctor received from one patient has now gained universal form through art, poised to become a beacon of hope illuminating the hearts of many across time.