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Pain seeped from hairline cuts in her delicate, blemished skin as she tugged fruitlessly at the carton, her bare knuckles turning white. Aiko fought against the relentless rain of Japan’s summer, meticulously removing labels and aligning bottles by colour at the roadside. Another tin scraped across the concrete, coming to a halt against the tyre of a parked car. Refreshing my emails, I had one from the housing agency. “Mr Mark, your landlord has received complaints about your recycling…”. It was the second email in two weeks. In the facade of an izakaya, paper lanterns danced back and forth violently in front of the diners. It wasn’t the weather to be outside, I thought. Since moving to Japan, where rules impregnated each layer of society, I had found it hard to fit in. I felt small and invisible, lost in a world of unknown procedures and regulations. A foreigner could easily disappear here, fading into the boundless countryside without a trace. Aiko, her fragile body hidden under a beige anorak, took her position at the roadside, a line of coloured crates at her feet. She had a system - perfected over many years - that relied on order and knowing what needed to be done. I separated my containers into the various plastic boxes before the dawn collection. Aiko was already there; her brittle, grey hair blowing wildly as she cast an attentive eye over the process. She passed an empty milk carton between her hands, her crooked fingers struggling to tear the thick card. I watched as she placed the same carton back into a shabby linen bag and begun tackling another. “Sumimasen…” I started, in my best Japanese. Her eyes, cold and encircled by thick creases, glared at me expectantly. I gently took the carton from between her raw hands and tore along the edges, placing it neatly into a crate. Her eyes softened and a simple nod showed her gratitude. Each week, we met at the roadside to sort through the piles of food containers, Sake bottles and milk cartons. Without a word, she would glance at my bucket of mixed household items. I took her bag of tin cans and placed them with the others, tying the ribbon tightly around the opening of the sack. I tore with ease down the thick edges of the cartons whilst she separated the coloured glass, cheerfully mumbling to herself. Aiko had persevered for years, arthritis creeping through her joints, to fulfil her role in the neighbourhood. One day, a woman shouted to us at the roadside, her tone a deep, hearty cackle, unable to hide her surprise at Aiko working alongside a foreigner. Aiko, embarrassed by the encounter, quickly tidied away the last few containers and picked up her coat to leave. With the gift of a small rice cracker in my hand, we walked in silence through the narrow streets, surrounded by identical cream-coloured houses and the discreet whisper of their residents. Her garden, set back from the main road, was dotted with manicured bonsai; small trees with stout branches that defied Japan’s harsh winter. The dimly-lit room of her home was filled with piles of stained newspapers, stacked high upon jagged tatami mats. Aiko had spent her life sorting out other people’s rubbish whilst neglecting her own. The following week, Aiko wasn’t waiting at the roadside. Nor the week after. Food containers, ravaged by animals, overflowed and the scraping of cans droned into the dusk sky. Each day, I passed her house in the hope that I would see her but thick bamboo blinds shielded the light and the gate was always firmly locked. My time with Aiko had come to an end. One bright afternoon in early August, I returned home to find a brown paper bag on my doorstep. An ornate bonsai tree with thick, healthy branches and vibrant, green leaves stood inside. A card, torn roughly from the side of a milk carton, had the words 'thank you' written by hand and pressed into the damp soil. I didn’t see Aiko again but her spirit lives on in this small town, in the roots of this strong but mighty tree and, most of all, in me.