The heat became a physical weight. The sound of the cicadas was so loud it felt like it was vibrating inside Seita's skull. They reached a village that hadn't been hit by bombs, but it was hit by something worse: indifference.
Seita knocked on a farmhouse door, holding out his mother's silk purse—empty now, but still beautiful. "Please, just a little rice for my sister. She's sick."
The woman behind the door didn't even look at Setsuko. "We have barely enough for the soldiers. Go back to the city, refugee."
As the door slammed, Setsuko began to hum a song their mother used to sing. "Shojoji, Shojoji, the tanuki are dancing..." It was the most heartbreaking sound Seita had ever heard. He sat on the dirt path and held her, realizing that the "home front" was a battlefield where no one wore a uniform, and the enemy was a closed door.