I usually wake very early, at around five, and as I wait for daylight to come, I often watch the clock next to my bed. This is how I knew the exact time of the first gunshot. Although my block is situated only two hundred metres from the busy Hatsudai expressway, it’s well insulated from noise, but that sound made its way into my room. A muffled bang, which made me flinch, then another, then two more. I had never heard a gunshot before, except on television, so I did not know what to think. Perhaps that it was fireworks? And I couldn’t be sure where it was coming from.

It took me several minutes to climb into my wheelchair, but gradually I made it over to the window where I spend most of each day. I don’t go out very often. There is a lift in the apartment building, but it’s hard to get through the door without help, and my sister can only find the time to visit me once a week, when she brings me groceries. I lived here for many years with my husband, and when he died I decided I would stay. This is my home.

It was not yet light, the sun was still struggling into the sky, but because of the streetlights I could see from my position that the Kamamoto family’s front door was open. It was too early for Kamamoto-san to leave for work; he left every day at six, so that did give me some cause for concern. No one else in the neighbourhood had stirred. When I was questioned by the police later that day, they said that my neighbours who’d heard the gunshots assumed they were hearing a car back-firing.

I opened my window to let in some fresh air, then waited to see if the sound would come again or if anyone would emerge from the house. Then, I saw two figures walking towards the house from the direction of the Hatsudai. When they passed beneath my window, I recognised the girl as Chiyoko Kamamoto and I could tell by his long hair that her companion was the boy I’d seen hanging around in the children’s playground many times before. Once, I’d seen him spray-painting a message on the pavement, but he’d cleaned it off, so I did not complain. Those two were very different types of people. Chiyoko walked upright as if she owned the streets; he would hunch over as if he was trying to appear smaller than he was. I had seen Chiyoko slipping out of the house many times at night to meet him, but this was the first time I had seen her returning. They were talking quietly, so I could not hear the details of their conversation. Chiyoko laughed and nudged the boy with her elbow and he bent down to kiss her. Then she playfully pushed him away and turned to walk into her house.

She hesitated when she saw the door was open and turned back to say something to her companion. She went inside and thirty seconds later I heard a scream. Not just a scream, a howl. The anguish in that sound was terrible to hear.

The man, who was still waiting outside, jerked as if he had been slapped, then ran into the house.

Several neighbours started emerging from their doorways, disturbed by the screams, which sounded as if they would never stop.

Chiyoko staggered out into the street, the boy in her arms. I thought at first she was covered in black paint, but as she stumbled into the light beneath my window, it became red. The little boy, Hiro, was limp in her arms, and… and… I couldn’t see his face. Just blood and bone where it should be. The tall boy tried to help her, as did the neighbours, but she screamed at them to leave her alone. She was yelling at Hiro to wake up, to stop pretending.

He was such a dear little boy. Whenever he left the apartment, he would always look up at me and wave. My sister didn’t believe me at first when I told her that the miracle child was living in the house across the street from me. The whole of Japan took that boy into their hearts. Sometimes there were photographers waiting in the street; once, one knocked on the door and asked if he could film the house from my apartment, but I refused.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes later that I heard the ambulance arriving. It took three paramedics to take Hiro’s body away from Chiyoko; she fought and hit and bit them. The police attempted to drag her towards one of their vehicles, but she twisted out of their grasp, and before they could stop her, she started running away, still drenched in blood. The long-haired boy sprinted after her.

The crowd of onlookers and reporters grew as the news spread. There was a hush as the bodies, encased in their black plastic shrouds, were removed from the house. That was when I turned away from the window.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I thought that I would never sleep again.