"On Wednesday afternoon of the same week, I was driving down Gaien Higashidori, when I spied a woman who resembled Shimamoto. She had on blue cotton pants, a beige raincoat, and white deck shoes. And she dragged one leg as she walked. As soon as I saw her, everything around me froze. A lump of air forced its way up from my chest to my throat. Shimamoto, I thought. I drove past her to check her out in the rearview mirror, but her face was hidden in the crowd. I slammed on my brakes, getting an earful of horn from the car behind me. The way the woman held herself and the length of her hair - it was Shimamoto exactly. I wanted to stop the car right then and there, but all the parking spots were full. Two hundred meters or so ahead, I finally found a place and managed to squeeze my car in, then I ran back to find her. But she was nowhere to be seen. I ran around like a lunatic. She had a bad leg, so she couldn't have gone too far, I told myself. Shoving people aside, jaywalking across the streets, I ran up the pedestrian overpass and looked down on all the passersby below. My shirt was soaked with sweat. Soon, though, a revelation dawned on me. She had been dragging the opposite leg. And Shimamoto's leg was no longer bad."

South of the Border, West of the Sun - Haruki Murakami