Every day has an ending. No matter how wonderful the day may be, the sun eventually sets. No matter how many things we wish to do, we cannot do all of them today. And so, we choose. What deserves our time. Who we want to spend it with. What we will do now, and what we will leave for tomorrow. There can be sadness in knowing that things have limits. A favorite season passes. Childhood does not last forever. Even the time we share with the people we love is not endless. But if nothing had a limit, would we treasure the present in quite the same way? If something can always be done later, today does not seem so important. If someone will always be there, we may simply say, “Next time.” It is because we know time is limited that we sometimes decide: “I’ll talk to you today.” “I’ll say thank you now.” A limit is not only a boundary that takes something away from us. It can also give shape to what matters. On the girl’s desk, there are still things she did not manage to do. Yet the time she chose to spend today has become an irreplaceable page in the story of that day. The sun sets. And that is part of what makes a sunset beautiful. Our time has limits. And because it does, we are able to choose what we want to place within it.

In the evening, a little girl sat at her desk. Beyond the window, the sun was slowly sinking between the mountains. There were still so many things she wanted to do. Finish her homework. Read a book. Practice the piano. Write in her diary. And visit her grandmother. The girl looked at the clock. “There isn’t enough time to do everything.” She frowned and looked down at her notebook again. Her mother came in carrying a cup of warm tea. “What’s wrong?” “I can’t do everything I want to do today.” Her mother looked at the list. “Would you like the day to be longer?” The girl nodded. But her mother pointed toward the setting sun. “If today never ended, would you know which things mattered most?” The girl became quiet. On her desk was a half-read book. There was a piano she wanted to practice. A diary with an empty page. And a photograph of her smiling beside her grandmother. The girl picked up her pencil. From the long list before her, she circled just a few things. Homework. Talk to Grandma. Write in my diary. “I’ll do these today.” She could not do everything. Strangely, though, she no longer felt quite so disappointed. Outside the window, the sun disappeared behind the mountains. The final golden light of the day remained in the sky. The girl picked up the phone and called her grandmother. Within the limits of one day, she had begun to choose for herself which moments she wanted to make precious.

Collecting this kanji brings these jukugo closer ✨