I can’t talk to him or touch him anymore. Six months after the sudden terminal diagnosis, my husband is gone. I still can’t accept it. On the first seventh-day memorial another tragedy waits: his colleague Manager Chiba rapes me in front of the memorial photo. I beg, I scream, I moan—the husband in the photo never helps. By the forty-ninth day of being raped over and over, I choose the warmth in front of me over the man in the picture.