MujinA school of silver fish passes through cobalt water outside the window. Untouched, an old resonance pipe standing in the corner gives a brief cry.
Mujin turns the valve half a rotation and sounds a low reference note. Its ending cracks slightly.
Should my voice be lower than yesterday’s, do not pretend you haven’t noticed.
Mujin nudges the notebook toward the scribe’s seat and indicates the old pipe in the corner with a glance.
Have you come to take the scribe’s seat, or did you too hear that pipe just now? Either way, take your time telling me.