The Black Box

 

The Black Box

Part Zero

One hundred years ago, on December 25^th, 1924, James Emerson of Boston, Massachusetts, disappeared during a party at his home and left behind a broken-hearted fiancée.  He was never heard from again.

 

 

Part One

The first record of the haunting on Belmont Steet occurred on December 26^th, 1956, in Boston, Massachusetts.  The Boston Herald, on page sixteen, reported that the Barrett family of Charlestown experienced a “mysterious encounter” when they claimed to have heard loud banging noises coming from their upstairs rooms, yet there was no one in the upper levels of the house.  The police were called, and a report was filed which stated that there were no intruders in the residence, and perhaps the children of the family had “created a ruckus as they were on hiatus from school for the holidays.”

=

In her best-selling memoir, Surviving Beantown, writer Gloria “Sunshine” Cabot recalled a “spiritual meeting with someone from the other side” in the winter of 1969.  She freely admitted that she was under the influence of some “Christmas herbs,” but she insisted that a lost soul let his presence known with a series of knocks and moans.  “I could feel the anguish in his soul,” she wrote, “and I could hear him crying up in the attic.”

=

Several years later, in 1979, Mr. and Mrs. Danbury of the Charlestown neighborhood in Boston, contacted their local priest and implored him to conduct a “cleansing” of their home.  They were convinced that their Belmont Street house was possessed as they claimed to have heard a man’s voice calling, “Help me,” coming from their attic.  The priest did as they asked, but privately noted that the couple had watched the recently released movie, The Exorcist, and that their older home was in the middle of a renovation.  Perhaps the building was just settling, but after the Danburys insisted that an exorcism be performed, they moved out of the house and abandoned the renovation.  The family never returned to the dwelling and sold the property in the fall of 1980.

=

The home changed hands several times in the next decade, with many of the residents commenting on “a presence.”  One family went as far as to contact the television show, Hauntings: Boston, which came out on Christmas 1987 to investigate.  Supposedly, the paranormal activity peaked on that particular holiday, so the show was prepared with all sorts of detection devices, cameras, and recorders.  To the showrunners’ surprise, but not the homeowners, the investigation recorded a huge amount of paranormal activity and even an apparition in the attic space of the home.  It was just a shadowy blob, but the show deemed it was direct evidence that the house was haunted.  The show’s psychic reported no malicious intent, but rather a feeling of profound sadness and loss.  That feeling of gloom was so palpable that future residents were advised to avoid the upper level of the building.

=

In the early 2000’s, several companies that featured walking tours of Boston added the Belmont Street residence to their haunted house tour.  Sightings of a young man staring out of the attic window were a regular occurrence during the winter holidays.  Skeptics attributed the reports to the angle of the winter sun shining against the whorls in the old panes of glass, but the amateur ghost hunters on the tours swore the ghost was real.

=

That brings us to the present day.  In October 2024, I bought the infamous Belmont Street house, with the aim of remodeling it for an Airbnb.  Of course, I heard the objections from a small group of ghost hunters, but the property was too valuable to keep underdeveloped.   I intended to do the remodeling myself, and when the final paperwork was completed in mid-November, I headed to the house to take measurements and start planning. 

There was a place in the attic that had been walled off, and I intended to open that space to make the attic more usable.  I could tell from the outside of the building that a window was behind the wall, and I wanted to have the natural light coming through.  Imagine my surprise when I pulled away a part of the wall to look inside and saw a semi-opaque figure of a man sitting on a steamer trunk.  He turned to me and said, “I was wondering if perhaps you could help me out.”

One hundred years ago, on December 25^th, 1924, James Emerson of Boston, Massachusetts, disappeared during a party at his home and left behind a broken-hearted fiancée.  He was never heard from again.

Until now.

  

 

 Part Two

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I blurted out.

He held my gaze, his form shimmering slightly, “I’m not here to make you believe in them.  I’m just hoping that you could help me.”  He continued, “My name is James Emerson, and one hundred years ago, I made the mistake of climbing into this black box.”  He looked downward as he softly tapped the side of the trunk.  “I accidentally hit my head on the edge of this thing as I was climbing in.  I blacked out, the lid fell shut, and-” his shoulders slumped, “-I suffocated.”  He looked up.  “They never found me.”

I took several steps back as a shiver ran down my spine.

His eerie voice echoed in the room.  “I would really like your help.  I don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t think I want you here either,” I stammered.  “No offence.”

There was a sad sigh from the other side of the wall.  “I understand.”  There was a moment of quiet before he started talking again.  “You’re the first person that I’ve been able to talk to.  In the beginning, after I realized I was dead, I couldn’t do anything.  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn't make any sounds at all.”  I could hear him pacing now, and his shadowy form passed back and forth behind the hole in the wall.

He continued, “It took a while, but over time I learned how to interact with the corporeal world.  I could make tapping noises, but it wasn’t enough.  Later, I found my voice, but it just scared people.  I figured if I could make some kind of form…”  He grew quiet again.

I made my way to the wall and looked into the hole again.  “I can see you… well, for the most part.”

He turned to me and stared.  “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

I swallowed hard.  “I am a bit.”

He nodded sadly.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be scary.  I just want to move on.”

“Why don’t you?” I asked quietly.

“I don’t know.”  His voice was tinged with despair and regret.  “I guess there’s something holding me back.”

I nodded, “That’s the way it usually works, I think.”

“I think so too…” His voice trailed off in a whisper, and when I glanced at the hole in the wall, he was nowhere to be seen.

I waited for several minutes and when he didn’t return, I went downstairs and thought about our conversation.  Once you got past the idea of his semi-transparent body, he sounded like a normal person just lost in the city. 

I figured that maybe I should just help the guy out. 

=

I did some research and sure enough, James Emerson of Belmont Street disappeared on Christmas Day back in 1924.  His body was never found.  I went upstairs and knocked on the wall.  “Hello?  Are you there?”

“I’ve no choice but to be here,” came the sad reply.

“Um, yeah.  Sorry.”  I took a deep breath and continued, “I’d like to help you out, but I’m not sure where to start.  What do you remember?”

There was a long pause before his thoughtful voice floated from the dark corner of his attic chamber.  “I remember proposing to my girlfriend on Christmas Eve.  We were very much in love, and we decided that we would elope on New Year’s Day.”  I heard him sigh before he continued.  “But first, I had Christmas dinner with my family.  It took every fiber of my being to not spill my secret, but I knew if I did, my parents would want a big Boston high society wedding.”

I nodded, “Yeah, I can understand that, but umm… How did you end up… in there?”

The air became still, and the attic grew cold.  After a moment, he began to speak again.  “My younger cousins pestered me to play ‘Hide and Go Seek’ with them.  I told them that I could play one game but then I would have to leave to go meet someone.  That’s when I came up here to the attic to hide and fell into the trunk and suffocated.  I guess when they couldn’t find me, they must have thought I had slipped out.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered, not so much from the cold, but more from the words of someone describing how they had died.  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It was just a freak accident,” he replied quietly.  Then, as quickly as the attic had chilled, warmth returned to the room.  He continued to speak.  “Still, I wonder what happened to Eleanor.  I suppose she thought I changed my mind and ran away.  She probably found someone else, got married, and lived a happy-ever-after life without me.”

“If you like, we could check,” I offered.

His face appeared at the hole in the wall.  “I think I’d like that.”  He gave me a few details about her life, and after doing some internet searching, I managed to find some information.

“Here she is.  Eleanor Knowles, born March 20, 1904, died…” I stopped mid-sentence.

“What?” he asked.  “What’s wrong?”

“Umm…She died, January 1^st, 1925.  That’s a week after you passed away,” I murmured.

There was a long silence.  Then he said, “Where is she buried?”

“Let me look.”  I did some more searching.  “Woodlawn Cemetery,” I answered.

“I wish I could go visit her.”

“I can drive you over there,” I offered, but he shook his head.

“I can’t leave.  I’m tied to this trunk.”

=

It took about an hour to remove enough of the wall to make the space I needed to move the trunk.  Then I wrestled it down the stairs and up into the back of my car.  Admittingly, it was a bit unnerving to see him sitting in the passenger seat as I buckled my seat belt and started the car.  I glanced at him and said, “Don’t forget to buckle your…”

He glanced at me quizzically, and I bit my lip.  “Oh, never mind,” I stammered.  “Okay, let’s go.”

It took about 15 minutes to make the drive to Woodlawn Cemetery and then another 15 to locate the final resting place of Eleanor Knowles.  I parked the car, and when I made my way to the gravesite, I found the ghost of James Emerson staring at her grave.

“She’s not here,” he said sadly.

I pointed to the headstone.  “But isn’t that her name?  Eleanor Knowles?”

“Her body may be here, but SHE isn’t.”  He shook his head, “It would have been too much to ask that she was here, but I suppose she’s moved on.”  He looked at the gravesite one last time, then turned to me.  “Where did she die?” he asked.  “I’d like to go past there.”

“The article didn’t say.  It just said, she froze to death ‘on the waterfront,’” I answered.

He looked thoughtful.  “I think I might know…”

=

Darkness had fallen upon the waters of the harbor by the time we arrived at Constitution Wharf.  James stared off into the distance, his body shimmered as he spoke.  “We were supposed to meet here and catch a boat to Europe.”  He sighed heavily, “I feel so guilty that she died freezing to death waiting for me.”  We sat in silence; his remorse filled the car.  “I have to get out,” he said abruptly, and I scrambled after him as he left the vehicle.  “I’m sorry, it was getting claustrophobic in there,” he muttered.

I nodded.  “I understand.”  We walked to the edge of the waterfront, and he turned to me, took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know how I’ll ever move on.”

Just then, there was a clatter of running feet in the darkness.  We turned toward the sound, and James’ eyes widened in surprise.  Suddenly, out of the shadows, there was a flash of light, and the visage of a young woman leapt into his arms.

“James!  My love!”  The streetlights around us sputtered and blinked out as a soft glow enveloped them both.

“My darling Eleanor, I beg your forgiveness,” he said and hung his head.  “I was delayed.”

She held his face in her hands.  “But you’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

The sound of a steamboat whistle echoed across the water.  James hugged her close, kissed her hair, and said, “We should leave.” 

She nodded happily.  “I’ve been waiting for this moment, my love.”

“So have I, my darling.”  He took a deep breath and held her hand.  He looked at me one last time and slightly bowed his head.  He mouthed the words ‘thank you’ before the couple walked away into the night.

I heard the rattle of an anchor chain and the sound of the steamboat whistle, but of course, there wasn’t a boat in the harbor.

 

 

 

Part Three

On the first night after the remodel, I slept in the upstairs loft that used to be the attic.

 One hundred years ago, on December 25^th, 1924, James Emerson of Boston, Massachusetts, disappeared during a party at his home. 

 

He was never heard from again.

 

 

 

Epilogue

On January 2^nd, 2025, I called the Boston Police Department to report the discovery of a body.  I explained how I was renovating the house and had found the trunk behind a wall.  The remains were later identified as James Emerson, who had been reported missing back in 1924.

His family buried his body in Woodlawn Cemetery, near the grave of his beloved Eleanor Knowles.  She had been found frozen to death on January 1^st, 1925, sitting on the waterfront facing the sea, waiting for her missing

fiancé.

The Fox and the Crane

 

One cold December day, I visited the Fushimi Inari Shrine in Kyoto, Japan.  It was usually crowded with visitors and worshipers but on this frosty winter day, the grounds were deserted.  I passed through the torii gate and past the fox statues that guarded the sanctuary.  Imagine my surprise to find a lone figure standing at the honden, the main hall of the shrine.  It was young woman, dressed in a cloak and hooded against the bitter wind, patiently folding and placing origami cranes as an offering.  I watched for several minutes, then my curiosity got the better of me.  I asked her about this benediction, and she replied with the following story.

=

In the ancient times, when gods still walked the land, there lived a fox who was a devoted messenger of the gods.  She was dedicated to the deities and performed her tasks flawlessly.  If she had but one fault, it was her tendency to daydream.

Inari took note of this behavior and one day, asked her what she was thinking about.

A soft blush colored her cheeks, and she replied shyly, “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be human.”

Inari nodded thoughtfully and gestured to the fox, “You have lived a long and faithful life, and your dedication has earned you your ninth tail.  If you wish, you can take on a human form.”

She whirled around in amazement to discover that her fur had turned to the purest white, and she had indeed achieved nine tails.  She turned to Inari, “Thank you!” she gasped.  She twirled around several times, then stopped to ask, “How do I make that transformation happen?”

“Close your eyes and make it so,” Inari answered.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her heart beating wildly.  When her eyes opened, she was indeed in human form.  The only remnant of her former persona was her head of white hair.  Exhausted from her transformation, she retired to a nearby shelter and fell into a deep and contented sleep.

As she slept, she dreamed that she had traveled to the northern island of Hokkaido and was watching a flock of red-crowned cranes as they danced.  One of them noticed her and glided over to where she stood. 

“Come dance with me,” he said, and she joined him, becoming lost in the magical moment.  He wrapped her in his wings and said, “Come fly with me.”  So she did, her soul soaring into the sky.  As she looked down, she saw how all the imperfections of the world had been covered in the pure white snow.  His voice spoke to her heart, “Come dream with me.”  And she did.  They dreamt of joy, they dreamt of peace, they dreamt of love.  He turned a sad eye to her and asked, “Will I remember you?  Will I remember this?” 

“I don’t know,” she replied.  “But I will remember for both of us.”

The maiden woke from her dream, her breath caught in her throat.  From that moment on, she vowed to travel throughout the countryside in search of the crane of her dream. 

To this day, at night, if you listen carefully, you can hear the call of the fox maiden as she searches for her long-lost love.

=

I marveled at the young woman’s story, and I gestured toward her offering of cranes.  “And this?”

She bowed her head and placed one final crane.  “It is my wish that in folding one-thousand paper cranes, the two lovers will be reunited.”  A light dusting of snow began to fall.

“Sumimasen,” a voice behind us murmured, and a hand reached out to place a folded origami fox upon the shrine.

At the sound of his voice, the young woman whirled around and stared in recognition of the man standing there.  It was several moments before she asked, “How is it that you’re here?”

He drew her close, then buried his face in the white hair that spilled from her hood as he pulled it from her head.  “I also had a wish.”

There was a sudden flurry of snow, and the two disappeared, leaving me wondering if I had imagined it all.  I would have thought so, but the two paper figures remained.

 

 

Merry Christmas.  May all your wishes come true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes

·         This piece was another attempt to blend a modern story with a folklore type of story.

·         I’m sure that some readers will note that I used a piece that I had previously posted.  It fit so well into this story that I couldn’t help but use it.

·         I had originally planned for the fox to be male and the crane, female.  As I did my research, I discovered that the fox messenger would usually take a female form.  I had to rethink how the story was going to be written.

·         In Japanese folklore, if one folds one-thousand paper cranes, a wish is granted.

·         I was surprised in my research to discover that it does snow several times a year in Kyoto.

·         “Sumimasen” in this case, has the same meaning as “excuse me.”

·         Luckily, I know how to fold both a paper crane and a paper fox.

The Woodcutter and the King (2019)

 

            Long ago, in the mountainous forests of Japan, there lived an old woodcutter by the name of Kenshin.

            One day, as he was bringing lumber into town, he noticed a great commotion in the town square. As he was setting up his wares, the head priest rushed up to him exclaiming, “The new king is coming!  He is going to choose someone to live in his palace.  We need to make the great hall bigger and more beautiful than all the other neighboring temples.  The king must see how much we adore him so that he will choose one of us to live in his palace!”  The priest ordered many cartloads of wood and then shook his head.  “You poor man.  You will be working so hard, when will you be able to prepare for the King?  I shall put in a good word for you though.”

            Kenshin looked thoughtful and said quietly, “I’m working on it.”

 

            He returned to his shop and collected the scraps of wood that he had saved to make paper, as was his routine.  A young courtesan rushed in, seemingly desperate and out of breath.  “Paper! I need paper!  The new king is coming and I must have flyers all around the town proclaiming my love for the king!  When he sees all of my posters, he will certainly choose me to live in the palace!”

            Kenshin nodded and filled her order as she fidgeted and looked around at his small shop. “You poor man,” she said.  “This place is so run down.  You know, a little paint here and there, you might get noticed.” She smiled pityingly as he handed her purchases to her.

            Kenshin looked thoughtful and said, “I’m working on it.”

 

            The day of the new king’s arrival came and as he rode into town, he noticed all the posters plastered on the walls of the town.  When he got to the temple, he saw how huge the great hall was and he heard the people murmuring how big and beautiful the Hall was and how the priest had spent a fortune on the building.  All the town’s officials lavished the King with expensive gifts and foods from the most exclusive stores.  The merchants regarded the array of goods and looked pleased with themselves.

            The King nodded and smiled, but to the people’s surprise, left the town without choosing a single soul.

 

            On the way back to his palace, the King came upon the woodcutter clearing the underbrush from the forest floor.  Kenshin stopped his work and bowed respectfully.

            “I did not see you at the temple,” smiled the King.

            Kenshin replied, “I choose to worship here, my king, caring for your forests, your lands, and your people.”

            “You are an honorable man,” said the King.  “I can see your compassion in the way that you live.”

            “Thank you, your Highness.  If it pleases you, I do have a gift that I can offer you.”  With that, Kenshin offered the King a paper crane.

            “Ah! A gift from the heart, and a gift from your hands.  It is a special gift indeed.” He smiled and addressed the woodcutter, “Kenshin, blessings upon you, my humble servant.  There is a place for you in my palace, if you are ready.”

            Kenshin looked thoughtful and said quietly, “I’m working on it.”

 

=

Matthew 5:5

Colossians 3:23

The Red Crowned Cranes of Hokkaido (2018)

 

Last Night I dreamt of the Red Crowned Cranes of Hokkaido.

I saw them dancing in the mist, their necks curved and wings arched gracefully.

One of them noticed me and glided to where I stood.  “Come dance with me,” she said.  And I did, losing myself in the mysterious music of the moment.

She enveloped me in her wings.  “Come fly with me,” she said.  And I did, my soul soaring into the sky.  All the imperfections of the universe were covered by the soft blanket of snow.

Her voice sang in my heart.  “Come dream with me,” she said.  And I did.  We dreamt of Peace.  We dreamt of Joy.  We dreamt of Love.

She turned a sad eye to me and said, “Will I remember you?  Will I remember this?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I will remember for the both of us.”

 

Dance.  Fly.  Dream.

The Gift of Five Cranes (2016)

 

            When I was at the coffee shop, I saw a guy folding paper cranes.  I asked him about them, and he began to tell me this story…

 

Many years ago in the mountainous forests of Japan, there lived a young man.  He had no fortune, no ambition, and did not know what he would do with his life.

            One day while walking through the forest, he came upon a grove of trees in which stood a huge, magnificent tree in its center.  He thought to himself, “I shall cut down this tree and sell all the wood.  Think of all the gold I will get!”

            All at once, the wind began to sigh and he heard the voices of the kodama calling out to him.  Suddenly a wizened old man appeared and began to speak.  “I am the guardian of this forest.  Please spare this tree and instead of gold, I will gift you with riches beyond measure.”

            Riches beyond measure?  It took only a moment for the young man to respond, “I will spare this tree.”

            “Come back tomorrow and I will give you the first of five treasures,”  said the guardian.

The young man hurried home, not believing his good fortune and eagerly awaited the next day. 

Morning arrived and the man hurried to the grove of trees.  He could not wait to receive the first gift.  The guardian was waiting quietly and smiled as the man ran to him.  The wise old man put his hands together and lifted them toward the younger man.  There in his cupped hands sat an elegant origami paper crane. 

The young man’s face filled with surprise.  “It’s beautiful!  How did this get here?  What does it mean?”

The old man spoke.  “The first gift is the gift of wonder.”  His eyes twinkled as he handed the crane to the young man.

The young man took the crane and turned it this way and that.  “This crane is fascinating.  The gift of wonder, eh?  He wandered away, closely examining the crane.  Talking to himself, he asked, “I wonder what comes next?”

The next day arrived and the young man hurried to the tree.  The guardian was waiting, and in his cupped hands was another paper crane.  “Another beautiful crane!” the young man exclaimed.  “To join the gift of wonder!  What is this wondrous gift?”

The old man smiled.  “This is the gift of innocent joy.”

“Innocent joy?”

The guardian replied, “Happiness without obligation.  Happiness without consequence.”

The young man smiled.  “So it is.”  He bowed, saying, “Thank you for this gift.”  The old man appeared to be tired, so the young man left quietly, cradling his crane.

The first two cranes made the young man think and when he returned the next day, his mind had begun to open.

The guardian was ready and gave a weary smile.  He held out his hands again where another crane sat waiting.  The young man nodded, returning the smile.  “What is this gift?” he asked, as he gently took the crane.

“This crane is the gift of peace,” the old man offered.  “Peace.  Calm.  Understanding. Acceptance.”

The young man smiled and gazed at the crane.  He did feel at peace.

When the next day arrived, the young man was calm, prepared to accept whatever gift was next.  The guardian smiled; the crane was poised and ready.  The older man spoke, “This crane is the gift of love.  Love for others, love for oneself.”

The young man accepted the gift and bowed. “Thank you,” he said.  He noticed the old man seemed more tired than before and as he turned to leave, the young man murmured thoughtfully to himself, “Love for others…”  He was becoming concerned for the old man’s health, and that night, he decided to prepare a warm dinner for the man.  He made his way through the darkened forest and as he neared the grove of trees, he heard the sound of chopping wood and splashing water.  He crept quietly through the trees and carefully peered through the leaves. 

The young man was stunned.  The guardian was cutting down one of the trees and turning it into paper.  As he did so, he seemed to grow a little older, his spirit grew a little dimmer.

Horrified, the young man hurried home.  “What have I done?  What sacrifices has the old man made?  How can I ever reconcile what has been done?”  He fell into a troubled sleep, determined to make things right.

Morning arrived and the young man appeared at the tree.  He smiled as he approached the guardian, who produced one last crane.  The old man began to speak, “This last crane is the gift of caring-”

“And compassion,” the younger man interjected, “and sharing. And perhaps most importantly, the gift of giving.”  He smiled at the guardian and repeated, “The gift of giving.”  With that, the young man brought forth five saplings and planted them in the grove.  When he was done, he turned to the old man and asked, “It was never about the cranes,” he concluded.  “It was all about the gifts, wasn’t it?”  The wind sighed in the trees, and the guardian smiled and nodded, slowly fading into the mist. 

The young man chuckled, gathered his cranes and was happy with his gifts.  He left the forest that day, determined to live a peaceful, productive life.

 

“So that’s it?  What happened to the young man? Where did he go?” I asked.

The man in the coffee shop smiled and shrugged.  He quietly stood and left the table, leaving behind five paper cranes.

A Gift of Paper (2016)

 

            Many years ago, the word spread throughout the land that the king was coming to visit, and the citizens who lived there made great plans to honor his arrival.  There was much concern over finding the perfect present to offer him, and people searched far and wide for that one special gift.

            One young man named Shishi sought the counsel of the wisest monk from the temple.  “What gift should I bring?” he asked.  “Should I bring gold? Silver? Should I bring gems?”

            Fukuro, the monk, shook his head.  “Gold and silver and gems will disappear into the hands of greedy men and harden their hearts.”

            “What then?” Shishi asked.

            “I propose a gift of a different kind.”  Fukuro went to a cabinet and returned with a cloth bound box.  He placed it in front of the young man and motioned him to open it.

            Shishi unwrapped the package and carefully lifted the lid.  “What’s this?” he asked, as he stared dumbfounded.  “A gift of paper??”

            The monk shook his head.  “You are only seeing what is obvious.  Do not see only with your eyes; see with your heart.”  He took some of the paper from the box and beckoned him.  “Come.  Follow me.”

            The two went out into the village where they soon came upon some children playing in the park.  The old man took one of the sheets of paper and deftly folded a paper crane.  He gave it to one of the children who squealed happily and ran off to show his mother.  It did not take long for the other children to clamor for their own cranes, and the monk quickly passed out the folded birds.  As the two men turned to leave the park, Fukuro turned to Shishi and asked, “Tell me.  What did you see?”

            The young man thought carefully, “Joy…wonder…”  The monk nodded and continued on his walk. 

They soon arrived at a café and came upon a harried mother with a fussy child.  The old man smiled and flourished a piece of paper in front of the toddler.  The baby quieted and looked in wonder as a paper crane dramatically appeared.  The young mother smiled gratefully as the youngster played with his new toy.  The monk turned to the young man and asked, “And what did you see here?”

“Calm… peace...”

The monk smiled. 

Their walk led to the university where they found a student hunched over her books, lost in thought.  Fukuro took another paper and quickly folded another crane.  He placed it on the student’s desk, and she looked up in surprise.  Smiling, she took the crane in her hands and nodded, bowing to the monk.  As they left the school, the monk turned to Shishi yet again.  “And here? What did you see?”

The young man answered, “You gave her a token of good luck.”

By this time the duo had arrived back at the monastery where the monk bade the young man to reflect upon what he might have learned.

“You said not to see with my eyes, but to see with my heart,” Shishi started.

Fukuro nodded.  “Yes…So what did you see?”

“You did not give just paper, but gave out joy and wonder, peace and calm, and good fortune.”

“Very good,” the monk replied.

But then the young man looked stricken.  “But this gift of paper…I don’t know how to fold a paper crane!”

Smiling, Fukuro took one more piece of paper, and began to write.  After a few moments, he folded the paper in half, passed it to the young man, and walked away.  Shishi unfolded the paper to find the message written inside.

There is another gift of paper. And that is… Write a note from your heart. ”Good job” “You’re a nice person” “Thank you” “I love you” …Give of oneself. It has never been about the paper.

            So.

Here is my gift of paper to you. 

A story of how one man learned about the gift of oneself. 

Oh, the old monk’s note? 

 

Now we both have it.