Goro wanted the center seat of Round Town more than he wanted anything else in the world.
Old Tsuru had held that seat for forty years. In Round Town, the heaviest person always sat in the middle — and everything in town, sooner or later, rolled toward whoever was heaviest. Nobody had to ask. Things just came.
Round Town sat on a giant plate that never stopped turning, slow and steady. Nobody could really say what anyone’s face looked like anymore, because everyone was always in motion — you caught a back, a profile, nothing more. Out at the rim, the spin threw houses around so hard that roofs sometimes flew clean off, which is why every house out there kept its roof lashed down with rope.
Nobody could see old Tsuru clearly either. But everyone knew she was there. Lost things, arguments, stray cats — they all rolled her way eventually. The whole town tilted quietly toward her, all the time.
Goro, for his part, was a loud man. Loud, and yet somehow forgettable — the second his voice stopped ringing, it slipped out of everyone’s memory. “One day I’ll sit in the middle,” he bellowed every single day, and every single day, everyone who heard it had already forgotten by nightfall. Marbles set down near his house slid straight past him, out toward the rim. Not even a sigh drifted his way.
So one year, Goro got to work. He bribed the neighborhood kids with candy to roll their marbles into his yard. He lent out money and told people, “Pay me back whenever, the festival’s fine” — quietly banking favors in his own front yard. At night, he’d sneak out and tip everyone’s water jars just slightly in his direction.
On the morning of the Round Festival, the whole square tilted, and people’s eyes went wide. Everything in town was sliding toward Goro’s house — marbles, spare coins, fallen leaves, all of it. The needle on the town’s official weighing ledger crept steadily over toward his name. It looked like, this year, Goro was the heaviest man in Round Town.
“Goro? In the middle?” “Yeah. That loudmouth.”
Goro puffed out his chest and walked to the center. There sat the cushion, worn into the shape of an old woman after forty years — Tsuru’s shape, pressed into the fabric. Beside it, Tsuru herself stared vacantly up at the sky. Funny thing about the middle: for all its supposed honor, it might just be the most boring seat in town. No wind reached it. The festival’s circle of dancers never came close, either.
“Sorry, old lady. Starting today, this seat’s mine.”
Tsuru looked at Goro for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, her whole face lit up.
”…Really? You mean it? You’ll really trade with me?”
“What, going soft on me now?”
“That’s not it.” She braced herself and hauled her body upright with a groan. “Forty years, boy. Forty years, and I never once got to join the festival circle. You can’t move from this seat, you know. I had persimmons drying out here — forty years, and not one of them ever dried.”
Goro was still grinning. Her words weren’t quite landing.
“You can’t stand up from here, kid.”
Tsuru gave his shoulder a pat, then leaned into the tilt of the great plate. Just like that, she went rolling, light as anything, out toward the rim. Her laughter faded into the festival crowd, farther and farther away.
Goro was alone in the middle now.
No wind reached him. The festival circle kept turning, far off in the distance. When he tried to stand, the whole plate lurched, and the houses at the rim let out a collective groan. He had no choice but to sit back down.
Coins from all over town, fallen leaves, somebody’s forgotten sigh — they were already drifting his way. One, then another, rolling steadily toward him.
Right on cue, Yoshi from next door came rolling around the curve, both arms full of some argument or other. He plopped himself down in front of Goro with a thud. Bringing your troubles to whoever sits in the middle — that was just how things worked in this town.
“Hey, Goro. You got a minute? Listen to this.”