Keitaro Nakamura kissed his daughter Akiko on the forehead and watched her leave with her grandson Tadashi on their way to school. Unlike the previous days, that Monday the sky had dawned clear over the city.

He went to the cage in the dining room where he kept his two albino Society finches, two young males of whom he was very proud. The little birds responded with melodious chirps to his presence. Keitaro changed their water and added fresh birdseed. He watched them for a few moments. He noticed that they were a bit nervous, as if anticipating a thunderstorm, which seemed strange to him, given that the sky was completely clear.

He picked up the newspaper and sat down to read it in his favorite armchair in front of the window overlooking the manicured garden. The breeze swayed the branches of the maples and the bamboo spikes. The flower beds glowed with hydrangeas and sunflowers in bloom.

The summer heat would probably start to set in later, but for now, the temperature was more than pleasant. It was a beautiful morning, as perfect as anyone could wish for, although he had a bad feeling. His tired bones ached more than usual, something that happened to him when some misfortune was about to befall the family, as when his father died of a cerebral hemorrhage. He thought of his daughter and his little grandson and said to himself that he had no right to worry about old man’s nonsense.

Keitaro had the radio on low volume, as an essential precaution in wartime. As always, military music and the occasional patriotic song of dubious taste were playing. Keitaro was passionate about music, whether Japanese, American or even European music coming from the Philippines, which was frowned upon by many nationalists.

The newspaper did not talk about anything relevant. It was as if the outside world did not exist, and the country was in order. But Keitaro knew better. War always brings death and destruction. He couldn’t make sense of it. Besides, it never seemed to end, even though he knew it was already lost.

He put down the newspaper and got up from his armchair. He went to his precious record player and put on a record by his favorite jazz musician, Koichi Sugii. He was fascinated by those melodious chords that fused Western jazz with traditional Japanese music, even with some influence of Spanish flamenco, which never ceased to amaze him with a certain admiration.

Keitaro gave thanks for enjoying those wonderful moments of epiphany. One never knows when one will leave this world, he said to himself, waxing philosophically.

He was startled by the bombing alarm that sounded on the radio, but he didn’t care. He was used to false alarms.

However, his little finches began to give desperate squeals, while Koichi Sugii’s song continued to play, with triumphant trumpets and violins.

Suddenly, the air caught fire and Keitaro Nakamura’s world disappeared in the radioactive inferno that fell on Hiroshima.