Taisho 15, Kanda, Tokyo.

The early spring rain quietly wetted the cobblestones. A young man stood before an old Japanese house, clutching a small leather bag. His heart was a mix of anxiety and anticipation. From today, this would be his home.

And it would be the place where he lived closest to Japan's most beloved novelist.

The young man took a deep breath and knocked on the entrance.

There is no answer. He calls out again, a little louder this time.

From deep within the house, only the sound of turning paper can be heard. Stepping inside timidly, he finds a study at the end of a hallway lined with bookshelves. The sliding door is slightly ajar.

The young man catches his breath at the sight glimpsed through the gap.

Books are piled throughout the room. Manuscript papers are scattered so thickly there is nowhere to step. Amidst a thin drift of tobacco smoke, a man sits at a desk, his fountain pen flying across the page. Even as the young man watches, the man does not look back. He gazes only at the paper.