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タイトル: 「冬の入口」

山間の小さな村に、ひとりの若い女性が住んでいた。名を沙織（さおり）という。夜がすっかり長くなり、朝は冷たい霧が谷間を覆う頃のことだ。日差しがやわらかに届く冬の入口、彼女は朝早く家を出て、山の中腹にある畑へと向かっていた。薄手の羽織りをまとい、手には籠を持っている。

歩く道すがら、葉を落とした木々の間から見える空は、晴れていてもどこか冷たく青白い。沙織はふと足を止め、目を細めて空を見上げた。秋に見た虹は、もう姿を消してしまった。この季節、雨の後にもあの鮮やかな弧を見ることはできないのだ。冷たい風が頬を撫でるように通り過ぎ、彼女の黒髪を揺らす。その風は北からのものだと彼女は知っていた。幼い頃、祖母が語ってくれたように、冬が来ると北風が木の葉を一枚ずつはぎ取っていく。

畑に着くと、沙織は手慣れた様子でビワの木を見回した。枝の奥、葉陰に白い小さな花がひっそりと咲いているのが目に留まった。彼女は微笑んでその花に手を伸ばし、そっと指先で触れた。触れた瞬間、かすかに甘い香りが鼻をくすぐり、彼女の心をほんのりと温かくした。

その足でさらに山道を進み、沙織は小さな森を抜け、古い祠（ほこら）の前に立った。そこには一本の橘の木があり、実が小さな黄金色に色づき始めている。彼女は祠に手を合わせ、静かに目を閉じた。橘の香りが微かに漂い、冷たい空気の中に温もりを感じさせる。それは、冬の深まりを告げるものではあったが、どこか柔らかで優しい気配を纏っていた。

祠のそばの道を下りる途中、沙織は畑の隅に植えたアロエが、オレンジ色の花芽をつけているのを見つけた。この時期にしか見られない、鮮やかでいてどこか凛とした色合いだ。山の風に揺れるアロエの花は、かつて沙織の祖母が植えたものだった。幼い日の記憶がよみがえり、彼女は一瞬、過ぎ去った日々の温もりを思い出す。祖母と共に冬支度をしたことや、囲炉裏の火を囲んで語り合った夜のことが、頭の中に鮮やかに浮かんでくる。

沙織は籠にビワの花と橘の実を摘み入れ、足早に家へと戻る。家の土間には、冬の準備で干し柿が吊るされ、囲炉裏には薪がくべられている。冷たい外気から逃れるように家に入ると、温かな火の匂いが彼女を包み込んだ。

夜が訪れると、沙織は囲炉裏の前に座り、摘んだ橘の実を手に取った。その明かりの中で、彼女の横顔が淡く照らされる。橘の果皮を剥きながら、白い花の香りと火のぬくもりに包まれ、彼女はそっと目を閉じた。祖母の面影が静かに胸に蘇り、彼女は静かな夜の中にひとりの時を過ごす。

外では、冷たい北風がますます強く吹いている。枯れ葉が舞い上がり、冬がいよいよ本格的に始まろうとしていた。沙織の手元の橘の実は、まるで小さな太陽のように輝いて、彼女の心に温かな光を灯しているかのようだった。

その夜、囲炉裏の火はしっかりと燃え続け、家の外の冬の寒さを忘れさせてくれた。沙織はひとり、橘の香りをまといながら、夜更けまで祖母の記憶と共に過ごした。そして、長い冬の始まりを穏やかに迎える準備を心の中で整えたのだった。

翌朝、まだ静かな朝の光が差し込む中、沙織は橘の実を摘んだ庭先に佇み、冬の冷たい空気を胸いっぱいに吸い込んだ。季節は確実に巡り、また新しい冬が始まっていく。冬の匂い、風の音、そしてかすかに残る橘の香りが、彼女の心に深く刻まれていった。

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English Title: “The Scent of Tangerines at Winter’s Threshold”

In a small village nestled among the mountains, there lived a young woman named Saori. It was the time of year when the nights had grown long and the morning mist clung to the valley like a pale, fragile veil. The sun, low in the sky, cast a soft, golden light over the landscape, hinting at winter’s quiet arrival. With a light shawl draped over her shoulders and a wicker basket in hand, Saori left her house in the cool early hours, making her way to the small field halfway up the mountain.

As she walked along the narrow path, the bare branches of the trees formed dark lines against the pale morning sky. The air was crisp and cold, and she paused for a moment, turning her gaze upward. There would be no rainbows now, she thought. The arc of colors she had seen in the autumn rains had disappeared with the season, hidden by the chill and the clarity of the air. A breeze brushed past her cheeks, stirring the strands of her dark hair. It was a wind from the north, and she knew—just as her grandmother had once told her—that it would soon strip the last of the leaves from the trees.

Arriving at her field, Saori moved among the rows with practiced ease, stopping at a loquat tree near the edge. She noticed the tiny, white flowers blooming discreetly beneath the thick green leaves. With a gentle smile, she reached out and touched one of the blossoms, feeling its delicate petals cool against her fingertips. A faint sweetness rose into the air, warming her heart against the growing chill.

She continued along the mountain path, deeper into the grove, until she stood before an old shrine. By the shrine, a solitary tangerine tree stood, its small fruits beginning to turn a warm, golden hue. Bowing her head, Saori closed her eyes and brought her hands together in a silent prayer. A soft scent drifted from the ripening fruits, mingling with the sharp, cold air. It was a scent that hinted at winter’s deepening presence, yet it carried a gentle promise of light and warmth.

On her way back, Saori stopped to check on the aloe plants she had planted at the edge of the field. They had begun to show their bright orange flower buds, vivid and resilient against the cold. The aloe flowers swayed lightly in the mountain wind, their vibrant color standing out against the fading landscape. Her grandmother had planted the first aloe here long ago, and Saori could almost see her face, feel her presence beside her, as if those days were still within reach. Memories of winter preparations, of warm evenings around the hearth, filled her thoughts like the drifting smoke of a fire.

She gathered a few of the loquat flowers and the yellowing tangerines into her basket, and began her descent back to the village. Her house was ready for winter—the dried persimmons hung neatly from the eaves, and the firewood was stacked high by the hearth. She stepped inside, away from the chill, and the warmth of the house enveloped her like a soft embrace.

That night, as the cold north wind howled outside, Saori sat alone by the hearth. She held a tangerine in her hands, its golden skin glowing in the dim light, and began to peel it slowly. The scent rose around her, mingling with the warmth of the fire and the lingering memory of white blossoms in the cold air. Her grandmother’s spirit seemed to fill the room, and Saori let herself sink into that comforting quiet, the rhythm of the crackling fire, the scent of citrus, and the slow drift of time.

Outside, the wind grew stronger, tugging at the last of the dead leaves. Winter was settling in, casting its cold, clear spell over the village. But here, in the warmth of her home, Saori felt the gentle light of the tangerine glow in her hands—a small, steady warmth that would carry her through the deepening dark.

The next morning, with the first light of dawn, Saori stood in her garden and took a deep breath of the clear, icy air. Winter had truly begun, and the world around her was wrapped in stillness. Yet, even in that stillness, the faint fragrance of tangerine lingered, a promise of the season’s quiet beauty.