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David Christopher Lane, Ph.D, is a Professor of Philosophy at Mt. San Antonio College and Founder of the MSAC Philosophy Group. He is the author of several books, including The Sound Current Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 2022) and the graphic novel, The Cult of the Seven Sages, translated into Tamil (Kannadhasan Pathippagam, 2024). His website is neuralsurfer.com

The Vanishing Book of Telegraph Avenue

A Mystery That Begins at the Dozing Cat Bookstore

David Lane

PREFACE

Last month, I found myself wandering the vibrant yet ever-changing streets of Berkeley, visiting my youngest son, Kelly, a Junior at U.C. Berkeley. Both he and his older brother, Shaun, have become my guides through the labyrinth of artificial intelligence, a field as mystifying as it is exhilarating. Decades earlier, in 1979, I had walked these same streets as an M.A. student at the Graduate Theological Union, taking courses at U.C. Berkeley. Back then, Telegraph Avenue was a bibliophile's paradise, lined with legendary bookstores—Shambhala, Cody's, and Shakespeare & Co.

But time is an insatiable force. Those cherished sanctuaries of knowledge are now mere echoes, their absence a quiet void in the city's intellectual landscape. Only Moe's remains, a survivor against the tides of time, even weathering the brutal storm of the pandemic. Across the street, however, stands a small yet enchanting refuge—Sleepy Cat. A quaint bookstore, it holds a curated trove of literary treasures, a mesmerizing collection of old and new volumes, and a display of art cards that whisper stories of their own, some adorned with the whimsical touch of anime.

It was here, amid the stacks and silent paper whispers, that I spotted a book—a title so strangely compelling that it seized my curiosity at once. I reached for it, feeling that peculiar pull, that fleeting certainty that I was meant to have it. But the shop was closing. When I returned the next day, the book had vanished. Not sold, not relocated—just gone, as though it had never existed.

The experience left me haunted, not with frustration but with fascination. Was it merely an odd coincidence, or had I stumbled into the realm of the unexplainable? It was this eerie encounter that sparked the story you are about to read—one that dances on the edges of Jungian synchronicities, reincarnation, déjà vu, and those peculiar disturbances in reality that we brush off too quickly. I have never been one to subscribe blindly to the paranormal, but I do believe this: reality itself is far from normal.

And sometimes, when the right book appears—or disappears—it is an invitation to look beyond the veil.

CHAPTER 1: THE UNFORGETTABLE COVER

Mari pressed her palm against the cool glass door of the Dozing Cat Bookstore on Telegraph Avenue, inhaling a momentary whiff of nostalgia as the bell above the door jingled. She had only moved to Berkeley a year ago to begin her Master's in Computer Science at UC Berkeley, but Dozing Cat already felt like a second home. The store was one of those slightly cramped, perpetually dusty places that seemed to exist in a comforting twilight of time, ignoring whatever year pressed upon it from the outside world.

She was in a rush, as always. Her next class began in less than half an hour, and it was a fair walk across campus. Yet the store had called to her. Something about the playful, hand-lettered sign reading “Today's Curiosities” beneath the store's ancient cat logo drew her inside.

A gentle hush fell as the heavy wooden door closed behind her. The interior was dimly lit with mismatched lamps, each sporting a unique shade. On the left was a round table featuring local poetry chapbooks and pamphlets. On the right were narrow aisles stuffed to the brim with used novels, secondhand textbooks, and rare collectors' items. The Dozing Cat, named for the bookstore's resident cat (who was often actually asleep on the counter), seemed to promise that if you took your time and looked closely, you might stumble upon something magical.

Mari glanced around to see if Mr. Rivkin, the silver-bearded proprietor, was at the counter. He was usually perched there, reading thick tomes of obscure literature. But the counter was empty. She might have considered leaving right away, because she really was short on time—but something across the store caught her eye.

There, propped on a small wooden easel, was a book with an illustrated cover that almost seemed to glow in the store's dimness. Unlike most books in the Dozing Cat, its design was strikingly modern, reminiscent of anime or manga art. On the cover, two figures—one a boy, one a girl—walked side by side down a narrow street in Kyoto, Japan. The boy carried a small bag, the girl clutched a closed parasol, and the street around them was framed by cherry blossom petals drifting on the breeze.

Mari's heart quickened the moment she saw it. The pastel hues, the warm light reflected in the characters' eyes, the delicate line work on the architecture—every detail enchanted her. It was as if the cover was whispering, Pick me up. Come closer.

She stepped over gingerly, as though afraid any sudden movement might break the spell. The book had no dust jacket, and the title was embossed in silver letters on the spine, though in a language she couldn't immediately identify. Perhaps it was Burmese script, or stylized Japanese—she wasn't sure. She eased the book from the easel, and the cover artwork felt smooth beneath her fingertips.

When she opened the book, the pages revealed a series of short passages interspersed with small grayscale illustrations. From the quick glance she took, it seemed to be a fictional story about the two characters on the cover. The storyline, written in English, referenced bizarre coincidences in the characters' lives. One passage she skimmed said:

“We looked into each other's eyes under the falling petals, and in that moment, we both realized: somewhere, in a lost time, we had been here before—only back then, we were not in Japan. We were in Burma. And perhaps we were not even the same people we are now.”

A gentle shiver raced down Mari's spine, a sensation she always took as a sign that something had captured her imagination. Reading on, she realized the characters in the story came to believe they had once lived a past life in Burma, now Myanmar—an unexpected twist. And it seemed the story toggled between scenes of Kyoto and scenes of a strange, dreamlike Burmese village. The text was poetic, reminiscent of a literary novel merged with a manga aesthetic.

She had never encountered this book before, never seen a review online, never even heard of the author. And yet it felt like it had somehow been written just for her.

Glancing at her phone, she noticed the time: 3:12 PM. Her class started in eighteen minutes on the other side of campus. If she didn't sprint, she would never make it. She quickly looked for a price sticker but didn't see one. The store's disorganization was charming at times but frustrating now—she'd have to track down Mr. Rivkin.

She found him at last in the second aisle, kneeling by a stack of old textbooks. The man's silvery hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he wore rectangular spectacles that perched on the edge of his nose.

“Oh, Mari,” he said, looking up. “Didn't see you come in.”

“Hi, Mr. Rivkin. I'm kind of in a hurry—this book, how much is it?” She held out the volume as he stood, adjusting his glasses.

His brow furrowed. “Which one is that? Let me see.” He glanced at the cover, running his hands over it. “Odd. I don't remember putting this one out. But we've been getting a lot of used shipments lately.”

“Do you have any idea of the price?”

He scratched his chin. “Well, it's not marked, so I might have to check the system. Tell you what: if you give me a day, I'll figure out where this came from and get you a fair price.”

Mari's face fell. “I'm running late for class&hellilp; Could I just buy it now?”

He shook his head apologetically. “Let me log it first. It's store policy. I need to put everything in inventory. Can't sell it off the record.”

Mari opened her mouth to protest but realized she was already on the verge of being disastrously late. Pressing her lips together, she sighed. “Okay, I'll come back tomorrow for it. Please don't let anyone else snatch it.”

He smiled, already carrying the book toward the back office. “Don't worry, my dear. I doubt anyone else will be rushing in to grab it. I promise I'll set it aside.”

Feeling that she was leaving part of her heart in the store, Mari dashed out. The whimsical jingle of the doorbell behind her felt strangely hollow without the book in hand. She ran down Telegraph Avenue, weaving through the clusters of students, coffee cups, and street vendors, her mind not on the upcoming class but on the bewitching story that had beckoned to her from those pages.

CHAPTER 2: VANISHED

The next morning, Mari woke earlier than usual, determined to get to the Dozing Cat Bookstore before her midday study group. Her dreams had been cluttered with scenes from the book: drifting cherry blossoms, two ghostly figures in Burmese attire, and a sense that she was forgetting something crucial the moment she opened her eyes. She dressed quickly, threw her laptop into her messenger bag, and hurried down the street, ignoring the crisp morning air.

Telegraph Avenue was already buzzing with energy. Vendors set up their tables of jewelry, crystals, and protest pins. Students in hoodies and jeans ambled by, sipping coffee and typing furiously on their phones. Berkeley never truly slept, but mornings brought a fresh wave of optimism that Mari usually embraced.

When she reached the Dozing Cat, she hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, brimming with anticipation. Please let that book be here, she thought. Pushing inside, the familiar smell of old pages and the quiet shuffle of footsteps welcomed her.

Mr. Rivkin was there, perched on his stool behind the wooden counter, reading a thick hardcover. The bookstore's actual cat—an orange tabby, ironically named “Napoleon”—dozed near the register. Mari approached with a bright smile.

“Morning, Mr. Rivkin,” she said. “I'm back for that book.”

He looked up, blinking. “Which book?”

Confusion flashed through Mari. “The one with the anime-style cover. About two characters in Japan who think they lived a past life in Burma. Remember, I found it yesterday. You were going to check the price.”

Mr. Rivkin pursed his lips and set aside his hardcover. “I don't recall that. Let me think&hellilp; Are you sure it was here?”

Mari's heart skipped a beat. “Yes, it was on that little wooden stand near the front. You took it back to the office to log it in inventory.”

He shook his head slowly, eyebrows knitting together. “I'm sorry, Mari. I don't recall any book like that. And I've been trying to catch up on new arrivals, but none of them sound remotely like what you're describing.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “But I talked to you about it yesterday. You said you'd set it aside for me.”

The older man shrugged helplessly. “I'm sorry. Maybe it was another shop? Or maybe you saw it but never brought it to me? Let me check the new arrivals list. If I logged it, there should be a record.”

He typed on the ancient computer behind the counter, scanning the store inventory software. Mari felt her chest tighten as he scrolled, frowned, and shook his head. “Nothing here. Could it have been a dream?” he asked gently. “Or maybe you're mixing it up with something else?”

Mari's cheeks flushed with frustration. “It's not a dream. I literally held the book in my hands. You took it, said you'd find out the price.”

He came around the counter to place a soothing hand on her shoulder. “I believe you believe that, Mari. Let's do a quick search of the store. Maybe I misplaced it.”

They spent fifteen minutes scouring the aisles, the back office, even the piles of unpriced books. But it was nowhere to be found. Mari hovered near the wooden stand where she had first seen it. The stand was empty now, except for a small sign advertising half-off fantasy novels. She ran a fingertip across the dusty surface, half expecting a glimmer of leftover magic to spark beneath her touch.

No luck.

Still baffled, Mari left the store, the bell chiming behind her in a strangely mournful way. Outside, she paused on the sidewalk, scanning the street as if the book might appear in someone's hands. But passersby hurried along, oblivious.

She was not the type to accept such coincidences easily. Mari's mind worked like a puzzle solver's, methodical and logical—traits that had served her well in computer science. And yet logic failed her here. She knew she had seen and touched that book. How could it just&hellilp;disappear?

Heading off to her study group, she promised herself she'd dig deeper. But as she walked, a small flicker of dread lit inside her, as though she'd brushed against the fringes of something she couldn't explain.

CHAPTER 3: THE ONLINE SEARCH

Later that night in her tiny studio apartment—located not too far from campus, with the typical eclectic Berkeley charm—Mari sat cross-legged on her bed with her laptop propped on her knees. A steaming mug of mint tea sat on her side table, and the faint hum of traffic outside was her only companion.

She'd searched for nearly an hour, trying every possible combination of keywords she could imagine:

• “anime style cover novel cherry blossoms Japan and Burma”
• “fictional story reincarnation Japan Burma young characters”
• “manga style Burmese past life novel”

The list went on and on, yet yielded nothing conclusive. She scoured Goodreads, Amazon, obscure blogs about translated Japanese fiction, and even specialty sites focusing on Burmese historical novels. It was as if the book didn't exist. Or as if it were so rare that no one had reviewed or listed it online.

Mari slammed her laptop shut in frustration. The memory of the book's cover was still vivid. She remembered the gentle curve of the street, the cherry blossom branches overhead, and the color palette of soft pinks and blues. The stylized Japanese text—if it was indeed Japanese—had been subtly placed, as though it might be part of the illustration. And the story snippets she had read were definitely in English.

The strangeness of it all consumed her thoughts. She even called her best friend, Lina, who was back in her hometown of San Diego, to vent about it.

“Sounds like you're obsessed,” Lina said with a teasing lilt. “Are you sure you're getting enough sleep? Grad school can mess with your head.”

Mari huffed. “I'm telling you, I didn't imagine this. It was real. The store owner just&hellilp;forgot. Or something.”

“You said the store is called Dozing Cat?” Lina let out a short laugh. “Maybe the cat is magical and stole your book.”

A reluctant grin formed on Mari's face. “Maybe. I just&hellilp; I can't shake the feeling that there's something important about this book. Like I'm supposed to find it.”

“So keep looking,” Lina said. “Knowing you, you won't let it go. But don't let it distract you from your classes, okay?”

Mari sighed. “I won't. But I also won't give up. I have this gut feeling.”

After they hung up, Mari sipped her mint tea, letting the warm steam calm her. She told herself she'd give it a few more days. If it was truly out there, maybe it would turn up again.

CHAPTER 4: A SECOND CHANCE ENCOUNTER

A week passed, and life marched on. Mari tackled her assignments, attended lab sessions, and studied with friends. She'd swing by Dozing Cat occasionally to see if the book had surfaced, but Mr. Rivkin would only shrug apologetically each time. If she had more time, she'd scour the store herself, but the demands of classes loomed.

Despite her efforts, she found no sign of the mysterious volume. Slowly, she began to think she might have to accept that the book was gone forever. Perhaps someone had snatched it while Mr. Rivkin was distracted, or it had been part of some ephemeral stash that had vanished back into the ether.

But fate had other plans.

On a rainy Thursday afternoon, with droplets pattering on her umbrella, Mari decided to pop into Moe's Books, another local favorite on Telegraph known for its extensive used section. She was browsing the Japanese literature shelves—an interest she'd developed ever since she read certain authors in undergrad—when her eyes froze on an all-too-familiar image.

The boy and girl on the Kyoto street. The pastel hues, the falling cherry blossoms.

There it was! The same book, perched quietly among tattered paperbacks and scholarly treatises on modern Japanese history. Her heart soared, her hands trembling as she reached for it. The cover felt the same, though a touch colder to the touch than she remembered.

She flipped through it eagerly: the same text, the same style, the same mesmerizing references to a past life in Burma. The bookstore lighting flickered as the clouds shifted outside, giving the cover a ghostly sheen. Mari felt that chill again, that electric sense that she was on the cusp of something profound.

Without a second thought, she clutched the book to her chest. She checked the price sticker on the back—six dollars. A total steal. She took it to the counter, where a tired-eyed clerk rang her up. She also snagged a few other books on art and poetry because she couldn't resist a sale on used volumes. The transaction was ordinary enough: she gave her credit card, the clerk handed her a receipt. He bagged all her purchases in a brown paper sack. Mari left Moe's feeling triumphant, hugging the bag close beneath her umbrella.

It wasn't until she got home, changed into pajamas, and decided to curl up in bed with her new treasure that she discovered the horrifying truth.

The mysterious book was missing.

She upended the paper bag on her bed, letting the other items tumble out: a small volume of haiku, a used introduction to Japanese woodblock printing, a slender poetry anthology by Shuntaro Tanikawa. But no sign of the anime-style reincarnation novel. Frantically, she rummaged through her backpack, her messenger bag, even the pockets of her jacket. Nothing.

Her immediate thought was that maybe the clerk at Moe's had forgotten to bag it. Angry at her own oversight, she pulled out the receipt to see if the book's title was listed—and it wasn't. Only the other three books were accounted for.

“This can't be happening,” Mari muttered aloud. She sank onto her bed, a mixture of anger and confusion coursing through her. She knew she had carried that book to the register. She'd watched the clerk ring it up&hellilp; Or had she? Maybe she'd become distracted and the clerk never actually scanned it. Could the book have simply vanished from her hands as she left the store?

She slumped back, staring at the spinning ceiling fan. Twice now, the book had appeared, and twice it had slipped from her grasp. But why? And how? Was she hallucinating? She couldn't help but recall that strange conversation with Mr. Rivkin. Could both bookstore owners be colluding in some bizarre conspiracy? That seemed ridiculous.

Tired but too agitated to sleep, she resolved to go back to Moe's first thing in the morning. She'd demand answers, check the shelves, maybe even scan the entire store if she had to. A cold sense of inevitability settled in: she was going to chase this book wherever it appeared, however many times it might slip away. She had to know its secrets.

She drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by images of Burmese temples and floating pink petals, hearing faint echoes of distant voices calling her name.

CHAPTER 5: A PERPLEXING RECEPTION AT MOE'S

The next day, Mari walked into Moe's with a determined stride. The rain had subsided, leaving the sidewalks glistening under a muted sun. Students, tourists, and locals milled about the store, flipping through pages and inhaling that sweet perfume of old paper. The clerk from the previous day was there, behind the register, looking as tired as ever.

Mari approached, clutching her receipt. “Hi. I was here yesterday and bought three books. Four, actually. But only three show up on my receipt. And the fourth one wasn't in my bag when I got home.”

The clerk eyed her warily. “Huh. Sorry to hear that. Let me see.” He took the receipt from her. “We have a pretty straightforward system—if a book isn't on here, it wasn't scanned.”

“I know. That's the problem. I had it when I came to the register, I'm certain of it. It's a small book with an anime-style cover depicting two kids in Kyoto.” She paused, realized her voice was shaking with emotion. “Could it have been set aside? Or maybe left behind by accident?”

The clerk shrugged. “If you left it, it'd be in our lost-and-found section or back on the shelf. Let's take a look.”

Mari followed as he led her to a corner behind the main desk, where a few lost items sat: gloves, receipts, a half-empty water bottle. No book. Then he gestured for her to check the shelf in Japanese Literature again.

She combed through every single title, pulling out volumes and sliding them back in. But she found nothing resembling her phantom novel. The clerk hovered nearby, shifting awkwardly as though uncertain what else to do.

“Are you sure it wasn't some other store you visited?” he asked gently.

Mari bit back an exasperated response. “I'm positive. I saw it here. I held it.”

“Well,” he said, tapping the toe of his sneaker, “it's possible someone picked it up right after you. Or it got filed incorrectly, but that's unlikely. We can leave a note for staff—if it turns up, we'll put it aside for you.”

She sighed, fighting the sinking feeling in her chest. “Okay, thanks. Please let me know if you see it. My name is Mari Sakamoto.” She jotted down her phone number and email on a slip of paper.

As she turned to leave, she couldn't help feeling a twinge of déjà vu, the same as she had with Mr. Rivkin. Bookstore employees claiming no knowledge of the text. No record of the book in the system. No sign of it on any shelf. Yet she knew she'd held it. Twice.

On her way out, she paused by a display of new manga arrivals. One cover had a vaguely similar pastel style—two teenage characters strolling through a Tokyo neighborhood. But it wasn't the same. She found herself staring at it, trying to pinpoint the difference in atmosphere. The mystical aura, the faint hush that seemed to emanate from that elusive novel—these were nowhere to be found in this random manga.

With a heavy heart, she left Moe's, wondering if fate was toying with her. The wind blew softly down Telegraph, rustling her hair.

It can't just vanish into thin air&hellilp; can it?

CHAPTER 6: STEPPING INTO A NEW JOURNEY

Determined not to let her frustration go to waste, Mari hatched a plan to systematically search for any clue about the book. She created a spreadsheet where she listed local bookstores: Pegasus, Half Price Books, Green Apple (though that was in San Francisco), Eastwind Books of Berkeley, and various smaller used shops near campus. Her goal was to call or visit each one in turn, describing the elusive cover and storyline, hoping someone might say, “Yes, I've seen that. We have it right here.”

But as the days passed, she encountered polite bafflement, confusion, and the occasional gentle suggestion that she might be mixing up titles. She left her phone number with several proprietors, but no leads surfaced.

In her free time—whatever scraps were left around her heavy course load—Mari dug deeper into Burmese history, searching for any references to reincarnation beliefs or historical crossovers with Japan. She found tangential references to Burmese folklore, some mention of Buddhism's concept of rebirth, but nothing that tied neatly into the story she'd glimpsed in the book. Every thread she pulled unraveled into generalities, never revealing the unique combination she had seen so vividly on the page.

Through it all, her studies took on a surreal quality. She'd sit in a computer lab, debugging code for an AI project, only to have her thoughts wander back to the boy and girl in Kyoto, crossing a threshold into a memory of a life in Burma. At night, her dreams swirled with half-formed images of Burmese temples and the shimmering Japanese skyline.

One Saturday, she decided to visit a small cultural event being held at a Burmese restaurant near the campus. She figured, if the book truly had Burmese elements, maybe someone there would recognize her description. She sipped on a cup of tea leaf salad and chatted with a few of the attendees, mentioning the storyline of the novel. But the older Burmese expats she spoke to simply shook their heads, offering her well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful tidbits about Burmese folklore.

She left the event feeling a peculiar mix of disappointment and intrigue. She couldn't let it go. She felt compelled, as though the mystery of this book was intricately tied to her own life in some cosmic way.

In the following days, she noticed subtle changes in herself: she became more introspective, her mind meandering into philosophical questions about reincarnation, fate, and the cyclical nature of life. Her closest friends, noticing her preoccupation, asked if she was okay. She'd brush off their concerns with a half-smile, too consumed by the puzzle.

Late one evening, Mari found herself reading about Burmese architecture online. There was a photograph of the Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon, golden spires glowing against the night sky. A pang of familiarity struck her—had there been a similar illustration in the book? She recalled a sketch that might have depicted a pagoda, though the memory was hazy.

She fantasized about traveling there someday, stepping through ancient temples, trying to locate the exact spots described in the novel. The prospect both thrilled and scared her. She had never been outside the U.S. beyond a few family trips to Japan when she was little, and the idea of traveling alone to Myanmar felt daunting. Yet she kept telling herself: If the book hints at such a journey, maybe that's the path I'm meant to take&hellilp;

These thoughts were so unlike her usual pragmatic self, the woman who planned her life around classes, internships, and predictable outcomes. It was as if the mere brush with the phantom book was rewiring her priorities.

CHAPTER 7: WHISPERS OF THE PAST

Three weeks after her second encounter with the phantom book, Mari found herself once again in Dozing Cat Bookstore. She was wandering the aisles aimlessly after finishing an especially tricky coding assignment. Her mind needed rest, and she craved the bookstore's quiet comfort.

Napoleon, the orange cat, was curled atop a stack of antique dictionaries. Mari scratched his ears gently, thinking about how life in Berkeley had changed for her. She had come here to become a top-notch computer scientist, but now found herself enthralled by mysteries and half-glimpsed illusions.

As she meandered past the store's small reading nook, she spotted an elderly man browsing a shelf of Eastern philosophy. He wore a worn tweed jacket and had a cane leaning against his leg. For reasons she couldn't explain, Mari felt compelled to speak to him.

She approached him timidly. “Excuse me,” she said softly. “I couldn't help but notice you were looking at books on Buddhism. Could I ask you something?”

He turned, his expression kind. “Of course, my dear. I'm always happy to chat about these topics.”

Mari explained her search for a book that bridged Burmese and Japanese settings, mentioning reincarnation and that haunting sense of déjà vu. The man listened attentively, occasionally nodding. When she finished, he tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“That's quite a story,” he said. “I've heard of many books that weave Japan and Burma together, but not quite in the way you describe. Yet your experience&hellilp; it sounds almost akin to an initiation, in some esoteric traditions.”

Mari blinked. “Initiation?”

He smiled enigmatically. “There are stories and legends across many cultures about mystical objects—books, relics, paintings—that appear to individuals at critical junctures in their lives. Perhaps the universe is nudging you. Have you considered that the book may not want to be found easily? That maybe it's guiding you somewhere else—like a clue in a treasure hunt?”

She felt a shiver. “I&hellilp; that sounds far-fetched,” she admitted. “But I can't deny this has shaken me up. I feel almost&hellilp; chosen.”

“Chosen, or awakened. Whichever it is, your longing for this book might be the first step of a longer journey.” He chuckled softly. “You might try exploring that path instead of merely hunting the object. Look within, and see what calls you forward.”

She wanted to ask more—where to start, what to look for—but the man gave her a polite bow, retrieved his cane, and hobbled toward the register. Mari watched him go, her mind spinning. An initiation? She'd never considered herself a believer in mystical phenomena. But the two encounters with the book, the vanishings&hellilp; maybe it wasn't about the book so much as it was about her.

She left Dozing Cat in a swirl of emotions. The sky outside glowed with the last hints of sunset. She felt caught between two worlds: one in which she was simply a stressed-out grad student chasing a figment of her imagination, and another in which a grand cosmic plan was unfolding, urging her to unlock new parts of herself.

CHAPTER 8: AN INVITATION

The next day, Mari's routine was disrupted by a curious invitation in her campus email. The subject line read: “Kaleidoscope of Lives: Exploring Reincarnation and Transcendence – A Student Workshop.” The event was scheduled for the weekend in one of the older buildings on campus, sponsored by a small philosophy club.

Under normal circumstances, Mari might have deleted such an email as spam. But given her recent fascination with past lives, she decided to attend. Perhaps someone there would have heard of a novel that bridged Kyoto and Burma. At the very least, the discussion might shed light on the theme that had captivated her so profoundly.

When Saturday came, she made her way across the campus, the late-morning sun weaving through thick clouds. The building was old, ivy creeping along the walls, and inside, the workshop took place in a modest lecture hall. About a dozen students were seated in a semicircle, with a couple of presenters at the front.

The workshop began with a short lecture on various cultural and religious beliefs in reincarnation. Mari listened with rapt attention. One presenter spoke about Buddhist perspectives, referencing countries like Myanmar (Burma) and Thailand, and how the concept of rebirth was woven into daily life for many. Another spoke about lesser-known Japanese spiritual traditions with parallels to reincarnation narratives.

During a discussion break, Mari mustered her courage and introduced herself to the speakers, describing the mysterious book and its ephemeral appearances. Though they exchanged intrigued glances, neither had heard of such a text. However, they both seemed fascinated by her story. One was a tall young man named Tenzin, who told Mari he was from a Tibetan Buddhist family. He offered an interesting angle.

“Sometimes, texts appear in the dream realms or ephemeral states,” Tenzin said softly. “There are Tibetan stories of terma—hidden teachings—that reveal themselves only to a destined terton, or discoverer. If this book is real, maybe it's functioning like a modern terma for you.”

That notion gave Mari chills. She had never heard of terma or tertons, but the parallels to her own predicament were uncanny. She thanked Tenzin, feeling both excited and unsettled.

Later, as the workshop transitioned into small group discussions, Mari ended up in a circle with three other students, none of whom seemed to have any special knowledge of Burmese-Japanese crossovers. They did, however, share personal anecdotes of déjà vu, recurring dreams, and spiritual experiences that shaped their lives. The conversation was unexpectedly intimate, forging a sense of camaraderie among them.

By the end of the session, Mari felt a strange mixture of relief and restlessness. She hadn't found the book, nor had she gained a definitive lead—but she had found a community of sorts, people open to the idea that life held more secrets than meets the eye. It reminded her of the elderly man's words about initiation. She wondered if the workshop was yet another signpost guiding her forward.

As she walked out of the building, Tenzin caught up to her. “Hey,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “This is an invite to a small meditation group I host on Sunday nights. We sometimes talk about reincarnation, past life experiences. You're welcome to join, if you're interested.”

Mari stared at the paper, feeling a flutter in her stomach. “Thanks,” she said, slipping it into her pocket. “I might just show up.”

He nodded with a calm smile. “I hope you do. Sometimes, sitting still and letting your mind wander can reveal more than we expect.”

Walking away, Mari replayed his words. The puzzle was still unsolved, but doors were opening, offering her glimpses of a world she'd never explored. Her pursuit of the phantom book was morphing into a pursuit of understanding herself, her beliefs, and possibly her destiny.

CHAPTER 9: THREADS ACROSS TIME

That Sunday evening, Mari did indeed attend Tenzin's meditation circle. They met in a small lounge in a student residence hall, and about eight people sat on cushions arranged in a circle on the floor. Candles flickered on a low table, and the tang of incense hung in the air.

Mari was nervous. She had never meditated outside of an occasional yoga class, and she certainly didn't consider herself particularly spiritual. But the group welcomed her warmly, and Tenzin guided a simple mindfulness practice. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, trying to focus on the present moment.

To her surprise, she felt a growing clarity, as if the incessant chatter of her mind had quieted just enough for deeper insights to peek through. Fragments of memory surfaced: her father once reading her a Japanese fairytale, a Burmese restaurant she'd visited as a child, even a fleeting recollection of a travel documentary about Buddhist monks in Myanmar.

Then came a vivid flash—two figures on a small street, Kyoto rooftops overhead, their silhouettes illuminated by pink cherry blossoms. In the vision, they turned toward Mari. She couldn't see their faces clearly, but there was a sense of recognition, an unspoken We're waiting for you.

She let out a small gasp, her eyes fluttering open. The candle flames danced, distorting the circle of people around her. She glanced at Tenzin, who caught her eye and offered a calm, knowing smile.

After the meditation, the group discussed their experiences. Mari hesitated but decided to share. “I keep seeing these two figures. They're from a book I lost—twice. In the vision, they seem to be&hellilp; beckoning me somehow.”

A young woman with short hair named Jasmine spoke softly, “Sometimes, images linger in our subconscious when we have unfinished business. It might help to follow that pull, see where it leads. Maybe it's not just about the book.”

Tenzin nodded. “Yes, perhaps it's guiding you to discover something about yourself or your path.”

Mari mulled over those words as she left. The fresh night air felt charged with possibility. She walked slowly back to her apartment, letting her mind wander to wild places. She was no longer sure if the book was a literal object or some kind of symbol crossing her path. But the call was real. She could feel it in her bones.

The next morning, instead of diving straight into her coding assignments, she found herself purchasing a small notebook and writing down every detail she could recall about the phantom novel, from the color palette on the cover to snippets of text. If she was being led to something deeper, she wanted to be ready.

In the days that followed, Mari continued her usual routine—classes, labs, group projects—yet she also committed to meditating daily, even if just for ten minutes. She started journaling her dreams, which became increasingly vivid. Oddly, she dreamed not only of Japan but of a lush, tropical land where golden stupas gleamed in bright sunlight. She heard faint chanting, smelled incense mingling with the scent of frangipani flowers. Sometimes, she'd catch a glimpse of the two characters from the cover, but their faces remained hidden.

Each dream left her with a stronger conviction that this journey was about more than a missing book. She started reading about reincarnation in Burmese Buddhist traditions, about the significance of cherry blossoms in Japanese culture, about how memory and identity can transcend borders.

One evening, after finishing an endless coding session, she ventured to the corner of her apartment where she kept her newly purchased spiritual and cultural books—relics of her ongoing quest. She ran her fingers across them, feeling a strange sense of destiny stirring.

She thought back to the last lines she'd read in the phantom novel, something about the boy and the girl realizing they had once stood on the same ground in Burma. It struck her that perhaps she had her own parallels. She was Japanese-American, but had she also shared a link with Burma in a past life? It sounded absurd, yet her gut told her there was a kernel of truth.

A flicker of excitement lit her. What if, instead of continuing this endless search in bookstores, she saved up and actually traveled to Myanmar? The mere thought made her heart pound in equal parts excitement and fear. But maybe that was the entire point: to break away from her old constraints, to follow the thread pulling her across oceans and timelines.

She shook her head, trying to be practical. She had only begun her Master's program—could she really consider such a trip? Her scholarship covered tuition, but extra funds were tight. She'd have to plan carefully. Maybe she could do it over summer break, find a cheap flight, stay in hostels.

The notion refused to let go. Like a lit fuse, it sizzled in her mind, urging her to see what might happen if she acted on this call. She recalled Tenzin's mention of terma, hidden teachings that appear only when you're ready. Maybe the text was the impetus for her to find her own hidden path.

CHAPTER 10: THE SURPRISE ENDING

As the semester progressed, Mari juggled her academic responsibilities with her secret plan: She was going to Myanmar right after finals. She scraped together savings, found a budget airline routing from San Francisco to Bangkok, and then a cheap flight from Bangkok to Yangon. She would have a month before her summer internship began—a small window, but enough to at least set foot in the land that had started to fill her dreams.

She continued her meditations, her journaling, her quiet searching. Though she occasionally popped into local bookstores just in case the phantom novel reappeared, she no longer felt frantic about finding it. A peaceful acceptance washed over her. If she was meant to see that book again, she would. Until then, she'd follow the path it had illuminated for her.

When finals were finally over, Mari boarded a plane with trembling anticipation. The flight was long and a bit uncomfortable, but the moment she stepped onto Burmese soil in Yangon, an inexplicable sense of belonging enveloped her. The city was a swirling mosaic of old colonial buildings, golden pagodas, street markets, and friendly faces. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of spices.

She wandered through Shwedagon Pagoda at sunset, candle flames dancing in golden reflections. As she removed her shoes and walked the cool marble floors, she found tears welling in her eyes, though she couldn't fully explain why. There was a profound familiarity in this place, as though she had indeed walked here before, in another time.

Over the next days, she journeyed by bus and train to smaller towns and villages. Everything felt like a dreamscape, interlaced with her waking life. In one particularly remote area, she saw a small temple overshadowed by ancient banyan trees, the air filled with birdsong. A sudden wave of déjà vu struck her: she'd seen a sketch like this in the phantom novel. She could swear it.

She stood there, hands trembling, a sense of wonder flooding her. I'm here, she thought. And somehow, this place was calling me all along.

Yet the book itself remained out of sight. She didn't see it in any stalls or souvenir shops, nor did she ask the locals about it, lacking Burmese language skills. But she felt that she was living the story it contained, piece by piece.

On her final day in Myanmar, she boarded an overnight bus back to Yangon, intending to catch a flight the next afternoon. The bus rumbled through the darkness, headlights revealing dusty roads and flickers of roadside tea shops. Sleep claimed her eventually, bringing a flurry of vivid dreams—of pink cherry blossoms falling into golden temple courtyards.

When she arrived at the airport the next day, she wandered into a small, tucked-away gift shop. It was mostly souvenirs: postcards, T-shirts, and glossy coffee-table books about Burmese culture. Her heart nearly stopped when she noticed, sandwiched between two larger art books, a slender volume with a pastel cover.

She reached out with trembling hands. There it was: that cover. The same boy and girl walking in Kyoto. The title, which now appeared in stylized English, read: “Threads of Kyoto and Mandalay: A Tale of Two Lives.”

Mari's breath caught in her throat. How was this possible? She opened it, flipping through the pages. Yes, the text was the same, the black-and-white sketches identical to her memory. But now, the Burmese script on the inside seemed more explicit. She recognized a few of the letters from signage she'd seen during her travels.

She rushed to the cashier, a middle-aged woman who smiled in greeting. “How much for this?” Mari asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

The woman looked at the book. “Oh, that must have come in with our last shipment. It's five thousand kyat,” she said, which translated to a bit over three U.S. dollars.

Mari fumbled with the local currency, heart pounding. The cashier placed the book in a small plastic bag. Was it finally hers? She gripped it tightly, half expecting it to vanish again.

She walked to a nearby seating area, ignoring the bustle of the airport. With shaking hands, she removed the book from the bag to confirm it was still there—and it was. Quickly, she thumbed through the pages, reading random passages. One line jumped out at her:

“When you chase what seems like a phantom, sometimes you find yourself instead.”

Tears stung her eyes. All this time, she had been the one changing, the one discovering new parts of herself, the one learning to take risks and embrace the unknown. The book had disappeared on her twice, but maybe it was only because she needed to embark on her own journey first.

Boarding the plane back to the U.S., the precious novel safely in her carry-on, Mari felt a sense of closure—and a sense of beginning. She had no illusions that her life would go back to normal. The path she'd stepped onto was still unfolding. The promise of more discoveries hummed beneath her thoughts.

Upon returning to Berkeley, she settled back into her apartment, the swirl of her journey still fresh in her veins. She placed the book on her desk. Each day after finishing her internship tasks, she read a chapter, savoring every word. The story chronicled the lives of two young souls: Emiko, a girl from Kyoto, and Ro, a boy who believed he was once a Burmese novice monk. Their modern-day meeting in Japan revealed echoes of their past, forging a bond across reincarnations.

The synergy between the Burmese and Japanese settings resonated deeply with Mari's own experiences. While reading, she sometimes felt as if she was gazing into a mirror, seeing glimpses of her newly awakened self. The final lines of the book were especially poignant:

“We are wanderers across time and space, and when we meet ourselves at last, it is like greeting an old friend. The petals of the past and present interlace, leading us down the path we were always meant to walk.”

When she closed the back cover, tears wet her cheeks. This was not just a novel. It was an invitation, a catalyst for transformation, a living symbol of how life's mysteries could nudge us in directions we never dreamed.

In the weeks that followed, Mari visited Dozing Cat Bookstore again. She told Mr. Rivkin about her trip, about how she finally found the book. He listened with an expression of awe, then chuckled quietly. “Mari, that's quite a story. I'm sorry I ever doubted you.”

She grinned, feeling only warmth. “It's okay. Maybe it wasn't meant to be found here.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Will you show it to me sometime?”

She clutched her backpack where the novel rested. “I will,” she promised, “But give me a little time with it first. I'm not sure if it's done working its magic on me.”

That night, she walked through Telegraph Avenue, the city lights casting dancing shadows. Her journey was just beginning, and she welcomed whatever came next. The mysterious novel had served its purpose, but she sensed there was more to discover. More doors would open, more coincidences would guide her toward uncharted realms.

Surprise endings are often just a threshold, she thought. A gentle nudge to remind us that every ending is also the start of a new tale.

And so, as she passed Moe's Books, and as the neon signs buzzed overhead, Mari glanced at her reflection in the dark window. The reflection blinked back at her, wearing a knowing smile. She thought she saw, for just an instant, the silhouettes of a boy and a girl standing behind her in that reflection—cherry blossoms drifting around them. When she turned, they were gone.

But the smile lingered on her face. She didn't need to see them anymore. She carried them within her now.