I am terrified of a sound. I’ve tried to forget it, tried to evade it, tried to make peace with it. But every time I remember it – every time it reverberates through my mind – I’m crushed all over again. How can so much pain, disillusionment, and devastation be prompted by one short burst of noise?

This is how.

My wife Rungtiwa and I desperately wanted to have children. As we entered our mid-30s, we were aware this aim was increasingly elusive. Rungtiwa, in particular, was becoming fearful that we may never succeed. She’d achieved some tremendous things in her life, from earning a university degree, to forging an impressive career and being a wonderful daughter, sister, and friend. Becoming a mother, though, had always been the pinnacle.

That is why she made that sound – the scream that haunts me – as three years of trying for a child resulted only in a second miscarriage. Now, the memories of those two harrowing moments are weighing me down as I approach one of the saddest sites in Japan.

Here, in a 600-year-old temple in downtown Tokyo, is the Garden of Unborn Children. I was meant to visit yesterday, and the day before. But I kept finding excuses not to go, protecting myself from the misery I knew it would cause. Today is my last day in Japan, so I have to face it.