A call came from my cousin on a cold, windy afternoon in early spring.

"Sorry to phone you out of the blue," he said. At first, I didn't recognize his voice. "It's been almost fifteen years, so there's no reason you should remember, but I'll never forget how nice you were to me when I was little." He seemed anxious to explain himself. "You used to play with me at New Year's and during summer vacation…"

"It has been a long time!" I said, finally placing him. The call had caught me off guard.

"It really has," he said, letting out a sigh of relief. Then his tone became more formal. "I'm calling because I have a favor to ask." He got right to the point. Still, it wasn't immediately clear why a cousin, who was so much younger and had been out of touch for so long, should be calling to ask for something, nor could I imagine what I could possibly do to help him. Instead of answering, I waited for him to continue. "You see, I'm coming to college in Tokyo in April."

"You can't be that old already!" I blurted out, honestly astonished. He'd been a boy of four the last time I'd seen him.

"And I'm looking for a place to live, but I'm not having much luck. Which is why I thought of you."

"Me?"

"Yes, I remembered hearing that you lived in a good dormitory when you were in school." My years in the dormitory came back as we spoke, but the memories seemed as distant as those of playing with this young cousin.

"But how did you know that I lived in a dormitory?"

"You know how it is with families-people talk about these kinds of things," he said.

It was true that it had been a good place to live. It was quiet and well run, but without lots of strict rules; and the fees were so low that it almost seemed the owner had no interest in making money. Unlike most places, it was privately run, rather than by a corporation or a cooperative, so it was technically a boardinghouse rather than what might normally be called a dormitory. But it was unmistakably a student dorm. The high-ceilinged entrance hall, the steam pipes lining the corridors, the little brick flower beds in the courtyard-everything about it said "dormitory."

"Yes," I said, "but it was a long way from the station, and the rooms were old and small even back then." I made a point of listing the drawbacks first.

"That wouldn't bother me," he said, as if he'd already made up his mind. "I just need something cheap." This was natural enough, since his father, my uncle, had died when he was still little-in fact, that was one of the reasons we'd been out of touch all this time.

"I understand," I said. "In that case, it might suit you."

"Really?" he said, sounding delighted.

"I'll give them a call. It was never very popular and there were always empty rooms. I doubt you'd have trouble getting in-if it hasn't gone under since then. At any rate, you're welcome to stay with us until you find a place-you can come whenever you like."

"Thank you," he said. I could tell that he was smiling on the other end of the line.

That was how I came to renew my ties with the dormitory. The first thing I had to do was call the Manager, but I had completely forgotten the number. I tried looking in the yellow pages. I wasn't sure a tiny place like that would even have a listing, but there it was, flowery advertising copy and all: "Heat and air-conditioning, security system, fitness center, soundproof music room. All rooms with private bath, phone, and ample closet space. A green oasis in the heart of the city." And the telephone number tucked in almost as an afterthought.

The Manager himself answered. He lived on the premises and served as both landlord and building superintendent, but to the residents he was always "the Manager."

"I graduated six years ago, but I was there for four years…" He remembered me as soon as I mentioned my maiden name.

He sounded exactly as he always had. My memory of him was closely tied to his peculiar way of speaking, so there was something reassuring about hearing it again, completely unchanged after all these years. His voice was hoarse, and he seemed to be exhaling each word very slowly, as if he were doing deep-breathing exercises. It was an ephemeral sort of voice that seemed on the verge of being lost in the depths of those long, slow breaths.

"I'm calling because I have a cousin who'll be starting college this spring. He's looking for a place to live, and I was wondering whether you might have room."

"Is that so?" he stammered, sounding hesitant.

"Then you won't be able to take him?"

"No, I didn't say that," he muttered, but his voice trailed off again.

"Has the dormitory closed down?" I asked.

"No, we're still open. I have nowhere else to go, so as long as I'm around we'll be in business." There was something particularly emphatic in the way he said the word "business." "But things have changed since your time."

"What sorts of things?"

"Well, it's a bit difficult to explain, and I'm not quite sure I understand myself. But things are more complicated now, more difficult, you might say." As he coughed quietly at the other end of the line, I found myself wondering what sort of "complicated" or "difficult" circumstances a dormitory could fall into. "Actually," he continued, "we have very few residents now. I know there were some empty rooms in your day, but there are a lot more now. We can't serve meals anymore. Do you remember the cook who ran the dining hall?"

"Yes," I said, recalling the silent man who had labored away in the long, narrow kitchen.

"Well, I had to let him go. It was a shame, really- he was a fine cook. And we're only heating the large bath every other day. The deliverymen from the dry cleaner and the liquor store leave us off their route now, and we've given up all the dormitory events, even the cherry blossom picnic and the Christmas party." His voice seemed to be gradually fading away.

"That doesn't matter," I said. "That doesn't sound so 'difficult' or 'complicated.' " Something made me want to try to cheer him up.

"You're right," he said. "The changes mean nothing in themselves. They're just an outer manifestation, the skull housing the brain, and what I really mean to say is hidden somewhere in the pineal gland, deep in the cerebellum at the heart of the brain." He spoke cautiously, as if weighing every word. An illustration of the human brain in my elementary school science book came back to me as I tried to imagine what sorts of difficulties the dorm was facing, but I was still drawing a blank. "I can't tell you any more than that," he said. "But in some peculiar way the dormitory seems to be disintegrating. Still, it's not the sort of thing that forces us to turn away people like your cousin. So tell him he's welcome, by all means. I'm so happy you remembered your old dormitory. Have him come around to see me, and ask him to bring a copy of his family registry and the letter of acceptance from his university-oh, and a copy of his guarantor's signature."

"I'll tell him," I said, and hung up, feeling a bit confused.

Spring was cloudy that year, as if the sky were covered with a sheet of cold, frosted glass. Everything-the seesaws in the park, the clock-shaped flower bed in front of the station, the bicycles in the garage-was sealed in a dull, leaden light, and the city seemed unable to throw off the last vestiges of winter.

My life, too, seemed to be drifting in circles, as if caught in the listless season. In the morning, I would lie in bed, looking for any excuse to avoid getting up. When I finally did, I would make a simple breakfast and then spend most of the day doing patchwork. It was the most basic kind of occupation: I would lay scraps of fabric out on the table and sew them together one by one. In the evening, I made an equally simple dinner and then watched television. I never went out to meet people and had no deadlines or projects of any sort. Formless days passed one after the other, as if swollen into an indistinguishable mass by the damp weather.