Ikigai

Gabriel Moldovan
In my town, the dead get to come back for a single day once a year. In their entirety, with their eyes moist alive and the palms of their hands heavy with regrets. I'm the one who writes the letters for those who didn't have enough time to say goodbye. People come to me with unfinished stories, and I put them into words. On the chosen day, the town turns into a mixture of laughter and sobs; the dead read but they don't answer. Until, one night I found an envelope. It was my mother's handwriting: My dear, stop writing for the others. Just come home.
 
 Laura Stanciu
The Different Week^[1] is just around the corner. It's the Japanese Week. On the WhatsApp group chat, the parents of the sixth graders are brainstorming ideas. How about Sumo, a single dad with a well-built boy proposes. No, Ikebana, the mother of twin girls responds. Origami would be cheaper, another mom texts hurriedly. I have an idea too, a food lover cuts in. Let's cook some miso soup and sushi, even though they're pricy. We could also buy sake for drinks. Ma'am, if this costs too much, I might just commit seppuku. I believe we've drifted off topic. said the form-teacher.

 
 Arthur Ianoși
What is life without sin, if not an eternal drifting through an endless ephemerality? What is man without drink, if not an obedient beast? What would Jekyll have been without Hyde, if not a flavourless being, void of glory? What is a car without GPS, if not an ongoing misdirection? What is the Word without me, if not an incomprehensible silence? Costeluș, cut the bloody morning musings - your purpose is to make me happy. And what would I be without Mila, if not an obscure dilettante in search of the absolute truth? Won't you cut it out already?

 
(Translated by Diana Gabriela Radu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)