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I think this is the most powerful story made by you so far. Good work!

Lanterns

Someone’s coming.

She can see it, the distant spot of red light, bobbing up and down in the murky darkness of the forest like a lone firefly.

She goes to the open door, sticking her head out into the cool, sweet air, watching as the crimson pinprick slowly weaves to and fro on an unseen path, fading in and out of view between the trees and bushes, glinting, twinkling.

It’s quiet, peaceful, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind.

The light approaches, getting ever brighter. She can just about make out its cylindrical shape, the horizontal ribs along its paper sides visible through the warm glow of the light within.

It’s a chōchin. A paper lantern.

The pace of the lantern is sedate, relaxed, occasionally unsteady. It’s being held not too far off the ground, the texture of the dirt path before it illuminated by its dim glow. She can already make guesses at who’s holding it. Someone short, probably elderly.

A usual traveler.

She steps out, onto the path, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her right ear. Hands clasped at her waist, facing the great black void that is the forest in front of her, she waits to receive her next passenger.

Soft, rhythmic footsteps emanate from in front of her, growing ever louder as the lantern’s light finally reaches the features of its bearer.

It’s an old lady, short, with graying hair and wrinkled skin, dressed in a shawl and plain blue pants, clutching the stick bearing her lantern with bony fingers, the slightly unsteady orange glow flickering in the thick, squarish lenses of her glasses.

An ordinary grandmother from anywhere.

She suddenly stops, maybe five meters in front, finally spotting the girl in the light of her lamp, the old lady’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

The girl bows.

“Good evening.”

The old lady looks a little startled, before coming to her senses and bobbing her head in return.

“… good evening.”

Her greyish eyes drift past the girl, looking out behind her.

She sees something, and understanding suddenly fills the grandmother’s expression.

“Ah… I suppose you’ll be the one to take me across?”

A nod, and a reassuring smile from the girl before her.

“That’s correct, ma’am. If you would come with me, please.”

The girl turns on her heels, making her way back down the path, her footsteps crunching softly on the gravel.

A moment of hesitation, but soon another set of footsteps follows behind her; slower, off-cadence, that dim orange glow tracing fuzzy shadows in the ground.

They exit the edge of the forest, and the footsteps behind the girl stop. She stops, too, and looks back, finding the old lady, still clutching the lantern, gazing around in wonder.

To their left and right is a long, almost perfectly straight strip of grassy shoreline, perhaps fifty meters wide, bordering the forest on one side and a great, wide river on the other.

The river stretches out before them, its waters preternaturally calm, slow, dark, flowing imperceptibly sedately; so wide that neither can see the opposite shore.

But it’s the night sky that’s captured the old lady’s gaze, her mouth hanging ever so slightly open in shock.

It’s as though they’re in deep space. An endless blanket of bright, twinkling stars, stretching in all directions; every one of the many thousands hanging above them a beautiful pinprick of light.

In between them sit fuzzy clouds of gas, nebulas, galaxies, in every imaginable colour: red, purple, silver, gold, and running through the sky like the stroke of some celestial paintbrush, the great white band of the Milky Way, cleaving its way through the visage.

Above it all, hanging motionless, unnaturally massive, is the moon, casting the entire landscape in a creamy half-light glow, its reflection shimmering on the still water in a path of pure white all the way to the horizon.

“It’s beautiful…”

The girl smiles again. It’s indeed an awe-inspiring visage.

Otherworldly, in every sense of the word.

But they can’t linger.

She gestures to her passenger.

“It is. Let’s go.”

The duo slowly starts down towards the river once again.

They pass by a small wooden shack, painted red, little bigger than a police box, a few small steps leading to an open door where the girl had exited just minutes before.

Where the grass meets the river, separated by a narrow stretch of sand, the path terminates in a small, short wooden pier, its stilts driven into the shallow water.

Tied up alongside is a small wooden boat. It’s a bit bigger than a rowboat, with a raised fore and aft, perhaps resembling a crude, unpainted Venetian gondola, or a high-bowed sampan.

The girl steps onto the pier first, the wooden planks creaking beneath her feet. Reaching out her hands, she helps the old lady onto the pier, steadying her, the lantern in the latter’s hand swaying with every jostle.

The girl gives another reassuring smile, trying to assuage her somewhat anxious passenger.

“Hold on to me tightly, ma’am.”

Grabbing onto her shawl, supporting her by the arms, she gingerly helps the old lady onto the boat, narrowly avoiding slipping into the dark waters below as they put one foot onto the wooden deck, and then another, the boat rocking unsteadily from the sudden weight.

There’s a dull knocking sound as both find their footing, the old lady slowly seating herself on one of the thwarts, the pain of her arthritis clearly showing on her face.

The girl reaches out her hand.

“Would you like to hold onto the lantern, or should I?”

The old lady smiles, relieved, proffering the lantern with her bony fingers.

“Oh, thank you, my dear, that would be wonderful. My hands are starting to ache from carrying it all this time.”

Carrying it with extreme care, mindful of the water below, the girl moves to the bow.

Reaching up, she hangs the lantern off her boat’s raised prow, now a red beacon in the dark, moonlit waters of the night.

Making her way back to the boat’s aft, she finds her passenger glancing at her, pointing a wrinkly finger at the lonely wooden shack sitting on the shore.

“Is that where you stay?”

The shack has a single window, facing the river.

And in it is another lantern. Red, flickering, glowing.

The girl nods, reaching for the rope wrapped around the boat’s stern and methodically unwinding it, her fingers picking at the hemp with practiced ease.

“Yes. It’s small, but it’s mine. The light helps guide me back.”

The rope finally comes free, the girl throwing its length onto the pier with a dull thump.

Bending down, she pulls a single, long sculling oar, almost as long as she is, and places it on a bracket on her right side, the paddle making an ever so slight sploosh as its tip slips into the water.

It’s time to go.

Propping the oar against one of the pier’s stilts, she gently pushes the boat off into the open water, the wooden beams beneath her groaning softly.

The boat rocks, but she puts the oar into the water, steadying it, before gently beginning to twist and turn the handle in a figure eight.

Slowly at first, then gradually, they speed up, the oar pushing the craft forward with each measured stroke, her hands and arms moving methodically, rhythmically.

They pull away from the pier, gliding across the unnaturally calm moonlit river, flowing so slowly that it’s as though they’re sailing upon an endless pane of black glass.

From her vantage point at the raised stern, the entire vista of the stunning night sky is on full display, now unfettered by trees or any other obstruction.
The heavens themselves stretch out before them, rolling all the way to the horizon, merging with the dark water to create the impression that they really are floating in deep space.

The girl glances behind her, watching as the pier and the shoreline begin to melt into the twilight gloom, with only the single red lantern in the window acting as her lighthouse.

A voice interrupts her thoughts.

“I’m sorry, I never got your name, my dear.”

She turns around to see the old lady sitting demurely, hands folded, gazing at her with those greyish eyes.

The girl’s lips part, then close, then part again. It’s not often a passenger asks for her name.

“It’s Saki. Saki Enomoto.”

The old lady smiles.

“Saki… that’s a lovely name. My name is Sumi. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The girl nods, the hem of her white sundress rustling slightly in a light breeze which blows from behind. Saki doesn’t feel the cold; she can’t feel very much, to be honest.

The only sensation she can truly feel is the rough wood of the oar on her palms as she works it back and forth.

Again, Sumi’s voice punctures the preternatural quiet.

“Do you enjoy your work?”

Saki shrugs her shoulders.

“It is what it is. The view does make it a whole lot better; I will admit.”

Sumi leans back slightly, turning her eyes upwards.

“Even out in the countryside, where I lived, the night sky was never this beautiful.”

A shower of shooting stars emerges above them, a half dozen brilliant white trails streaking across the cosmic tapestry at breakneck speed before vanishing into the horizon, as quickly as they came.

“I was a bit of a singer, when I was young.”

Sumi’s still gazing upwards, talking in a hushed, croaky tone to the stars above.

“I’d be constantly following along to my mother’s record player during the summer, when there was nothing else to do. I loved all the old tunes, the love songs, the ballads, dances and jazz. I’d sing, and sing, and sing, and word would get around, and soon there’d be people from all over the village crowding around my front door to hear me perform.”

Another small smile creeps onto Sumi’s lips, and her face takes on that faraway expression of someone lost deep in memories of the past.

“When I was about your age, they even got me on the local radio, once. Everyone was saying I was certain to move to the big city, make a name for myself, become a star. They all said that.”

Saki listens, patiently, quietly, her arms moving back and forth with the motion of the oars.

The old lady’s reminiscing. A life story, compressed into a few words, merely to fill the silence, or ease her burdens as they move further and further away from the shore.

Saki’s just the ferryman. She can only listen, and row.

“But I didn’t. Nothing more came of it. After I graduated, I married a farmer’s boy from the same village and settled down. He worked the farm, and I worked the house. I sang, for him, for the children, every now and then, but mostly when I did the dishes or washed the clothes. We stayed in that same village we grew up in. And that was that.”

Sumi finishes her tale.

And closes her mouth.

Oh.

That’s…

… anticlimactic.

Usually, her passengers tend to ramble, waxing mournful or poetic, trying desperately to push years of happiness, sadness, anger, anguish, off their chest in the time it takes to cross the river, like a man at his last confessional.

Not this old lady, though. She still sits, dignified in demeanour and posture, describing the path of her life like she had merely gone down to the shops.

Saki can’t help but be a bit disappointed at the abrupt end to Sumi’s story.

She finds herself asking questions.

“Do you… regret not going to the city? That you didn’t sing?”

Sumi closes her eyes.

“…no. I don’t. I often wonder what might have happened if I did, but I don’t regret it.”

Perhaps it’s because Saki can’t keep the surprise from her face, but Sumi’s smile grows wider.

“People asked me the same thing, and I always replied the same way. This was the life I chose for myself. I was happy in my little corner of the world, isolated as it was. I had my house, my family, and failing that, I’d always have the sun, the moon, and the mountains. My music was my own. My voice was my own. That was always enough for me.”

To be just a face in the crowd. To live, seeking not the highs and the lows, but equilibrium.

Saki can’t help but be a little baffled as Sumi continues.

“Old fashioned, they call it. ‘Grandma,’ they tell me, ‘why didn’t you roll the dice? Why not escape? Why not take the risk?’”

Sumi leans in, ever so slightly, straining against her stiff back, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, as though imparting unto Saki some secret, forbidden knowledge.

“Ambition, my dear. Success. Fame. Young people are always ambitious; they have to be, I suppose. It’s how they grow. But not everyone can walk on stage. Not everyone can become a millionaire. For everyone else, an ordinary life awaits. And what is so bad about that? It’s called ordinary for a reason, is it not?”

Ordinary.

Saki’s never known ordinary.

She never had the time to.

To live sedately was a luxury she could not afford. The ordinary was as unattainable as flying by flapping her arms.

What choice did she have?

Her path was chosen for her from the start.

Only here, in this place, shadowed by the perpetual night and guarded by the hanging moon, can she reflect. To do small things, ordinary things.

Like gazing at the stars.

Like watching the flowing waters.

Like crossing this river.

Saki glances behind them. The shore they departed has almost entirely vanished, the lone lantern at the window now little more than a dim red speck.

The only light is from the lantern at the bow, the stars, and the great moon hanging above it all.

“You’re quite young, my dear. Do you have any regrets? Something that you did you wish you could take back?”

Sumi’s sudden question takes Saki by surprise.

“I…”

Well.

Where to start?

She doesn’t know if she should’ve done anything differently.

Would it have made any difference if she did?

The people she loved, the people she hurt, all the choices she made, they all inexorably led her here, to this place.

There was never an alternative. This oar would inevitably end up in her hands. She would inevitably end up at this river.

So why does Sumi’s question pain her so?

“… not really. Only regrets for what could’ve been, I guess.”

Nothing more.

It won’t do to spill her heart.

Saki is just the ferryman, after all.

Sumi nods.

“I see. Those are the greatest regrets of all, because your imagination has no limit to the possibilities it can supply. To wonder is much worse than to want to take back.”

That’s true.

With nothing for company except the moon and the stars, wondering is all Saki ever does, nowadays.

She doesn’t respond.

Then, on the horizon.

The other shore.

It comes into view, stretching out endlessly stretching out to the left and right, growing ever clearer in the half-light as Saki continues to row.

There’s the same thin strip of pebbly beach, followed by grass, but in contrast to the thick, dark forest from which they departed, there is naught but open country behind the shoreline.

Through the gloom, she spots her destination, an identical wooden pier on stilts, jutting out into the shallow water.

She’s dead on.

She looks down at her lone passenger, who’s gazing out into the water, watching the moonlight shimmer on its surface.

“We’re almost there.”

Saki’s motions begin to slow, her oar catching the water, gradually slowing the vessel as they approach the shoreline.

With practiced ease, she deftly maneuvers the boat alongside the pier, the hull scraping along the wooden stilts as she brings them to a stop.

Saki reaches for the hemp rope dangling off the pier, grabbing onto it and pulling them in, winding it around the stern.

She can feel Sumi watching her with curiosity as she works.

“You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?”

Satisfied that the line is tight, Saki turns around and offers the old lady her hand.

“It’s just my job. Hold onto me one last time, ma’am.”

Getting to her unsteady feet, Sumi grabs Saki’s hand, and they both carefully climb onto the pier, one foot at a time.

Saki can hear the old lady hissing with pain at every step. It’s unpleasant, but they’re almost done.

After making sure her passenger is alright, she bends down and plucks the lantern from the boat’s prow, gently holding onto its thin sides with her palms.

Standing up, she gazes at the landscape they find themselves in.

It’s as though they’ve been set down on an alien planet.

There’s not a single tree, or shrub, or any other kind of vegetation.

There is only an endless carpet of wispy, shin-high grass stretching all the way to the horizon.

There are a few rolling hills and undulating valleys, covered in grass that moves and shimmers in the wind like waves in the water.

It’s desolate, haunting, but strangely beautiful.

They walk onto the shore. There’s no path here, just the sea of wavy grass.

They’ve gone as far as they can.

Turning around, Sumi looks into Saki’s eyes, and bows deeply.

“Thank you for taking me across, my dear.”

Saki can see the old lady’s joints trembling at the exertion, and she moves quickly to respond in kind.

“It’s nothing.”

The sound of the cicadas is gone. There isn’t even the sound of the water.

Only the wind and the rustling of the grass remains.

It’s time.

There’s only one last thing to do.

Saki holds out the lantern, still glowing in her hands, scattering its crimson light over the dark ground.

“Would you like to blow out your lantern, or should I?”

Sumi considers for a moment, then shakes her head.

“My lungs are poor, and old. Could you, please?”

The old lady gives one final, reassuring smile.

Saki would really prefer not to do this herself.

But she has a duty.

She chose this.

She gives one last look to her passenger, and gazes into the lantern before her.

Inside, the flame flickers, perched in its little drum of clear oil, its warmth tickling Saki’s nose.

Saki closes her eyes.

She takes a deep breath in.

And blows.

The light disappears.

She opens her eyes.

She’s holding nothing. The lantern in her hands has vanished.

She looks around her.

The old lady is gone, too.

Saki is once again alone, surrounded only by the endless waves of grass.

She sighs.

Turning on her heels, she makes her way back to the boat.

It’s time to return.

…

This is her work.

Most come solo, their lone lantern floating in the darkness.

They are of all different ages, sizes, genders, though her passengers skew much more elderly, as might be expected.

Their dress and bearing vary wildly. Some come in home clothes, or suits, some in jackets or sundresses, others in tattered fabric and unkempt hair.

They come from every walk of life, from every place. Neither language nor culture poses any barrier here.

There is only the river, the boat, and their lantern.

Some limp, some struggle to walk, fighting to hold the stick that carries their lantern. Others are in perfect health, proceeding to the pier at a hurried pace, or dawdling on the other side to gaze at the stars or pick at the leaves, some to the point that Saki has to manhandle them to the boat.

Their demeanor varies wildly, too.

Some are silent, brooding, staring dejectedly at the water or the horizon, saying not a word to, or sometimes even acknowledging, the girl quietly rowing them across the river.

Others are emotional, hysterical, weeping, sobbing, crying aloud about this or that, about the things they left behind, the people they’ll never see again. They wail, their tears falling onto the boat or over the side, making tiny splashes in the water.

It rips at Saki’s heart, but she tries her level best to remain resolute, to give a few words of comfort, of sympathy, feeling very much like an untrained therapist, or a priest receiving some sinner’s final confession.

Some plead, on their hands and knees, to not make them cross the river, to stay on the shore and in the forests for as long as they can, telling wild, anguished stories or promising impossible things for her favour.

But there’s nothing they can offer her here, no words to alter the path that they all must eventually walk. There’s only so many seats on her boat, and it won’t do to clog her pier with waiting souls.

Many are simply dumbfounded, sitting stunned and idle on the thwarts, staring at the wonderous vista above them, or at her as she rows.

They talk; some, about trivial things; others, about life, or their sorrows, or their happiness. Some tell such grand stories that she forgets what she’s doing and stops rowing, or ends up off course, necessitating an embarrassing reroute.

Others ramble, and she mercilessly tunes them out by picking out craters on the moon or counting how many ripples her boat makes in the water.

Many ask Saki if she’s God.

Hah.

She wishes.

No matter who they are, what they do, what they say, their journey always proceeds the same way.

Saki departs with passengers, and always returns with an empty boat.

Again, and again, and again.

Countless faces, their features illuminated only by the moonlight, meld together in her memories. An endless stream of passengers, waiting for their one-way journey beyond.

She’s long lost count of how many she’s taken across. In many ways, it feels as though this is all she’s ever known.

Saki comes back to the pier by the forest, always alone.

Sometimes, there’s someone already at the shore, waiting for her. Many times, only an empty path greets her, and she retreats to her little wooden shack to wait.

It’s tiny and spartan. A desk and chair by the window. Seated on her windowsill, by the corner, is that same red lantern, her lighthouse, still burning bright, casting its glow in the otherwise dark room.

There’s often a long wait between arrivals; exactly how long, she cannot say. There’s naught to do but stare at the river, or gaze at the stars, wandering along the shoreline, her thoughts her only company.

Some of her passengers stand out like a sheet of flame in her mind.

A few arrive in twos, or threes.

One particular group of four won’t leave her mind.

She can remember them clearly, being shocked at the four lanterns bobbing up and down in the depths of the dark forest.

Stepping into the moonlight, they revealed themselves to be a group of young men, clearly close friends, almost exactly her age, wearing fashionable clothes and sporting slicked back hair.

Despite their surroundings, they showed no signs of fear or trepidation. They laughed, sang, cracked jokes at one another, paced this way and that, ambling down the path as though they were merely out for a midnight walk in the countryside.

She ushered them onto the boat, which they boarded with all the ruckus of an amusement park ride, rocking the vessel, even splashing water into each other’s faces.

They implored her to join them in song, bantered amongst themselves even as a bemused Saki rowed them inexorably to the other side.

There, they bade her a joyful farewell, and, gathered in a circle, blew out their lanterns together, their laughter vanishing with their presence.

On the journey back, she tried desperately not to speculate on why all four would’ve arrived together.

It’s the children, though, that most seriously test her strength.

They don’t come often, but when they do, it hurts.

Some are older, eight or nine, ten or eleven, wandering down the pathway with sandal-clad feet or colourful Velcro shoes, the glow of their lanterns dancing in their somewhat dazed, disorientated eyes.

The worst are the youngest, the toddlers, maybe slightly older, staggering through the forest on short, stumpy legs, chubby fingers grasping their lantern with all their might, guided by a force altogether beyond her.

Standing there, waiting in the path to receive them, it’s all Saki can do not to fall to her knees when they come into view.

Instead, she steels herself, putting on her most ingratiating and assuring smile, bending down, talking in hushed tones and singsong-like verse, trying to assuage them, comfort them, in the little time she has with them.

She leads them to the boat; the youngest, she merely picks up and gently places them on the thwarts. The older ones, she leads by hand, carefully ensuring their little legs don’t slip on the wood.

She rows them across. The youngest, their eyes wide and confused, she coos at them, waves at them, trying her best to distract them, fighting to keep that smile on her face against the crushing weight of it all.

The older ones, she talks to them. She points at the stars, the grand cosmic vista that surrounds them, pointing out constellations, galaxies, the North Star and the planets.

Some understand what’s happening. Many don’t. Either way, she refuses to acknowledge it, and tries to keep them in this bubble of peace, far away from the world, for as long as she can.

She’s always on the verge of collapse by the time they make it to the other side.

Holding back the tears, she has to force herself to come up with the air to blow out the lanterns of the youngest ones, her eyes always squeezed tight, dewdrop tears leaking from the sides.

The older ones, she tells them with choked words that it’s just like blowing out a birthday candle.

They disappear.

And she runs.

She rows back as fast as she can.

The moment the boat is safely tied to the pier, she all but flees to the safety of her little shack, sits down on the wooden chair…

And weeps.

It’s at those moments, when she’s at her weakest, that she reaches for her lantern, brushing the sides with her fingers.

It’d be so easy to just grab it and go.

But she can’t.

She made a choice.

The pact she brokered, that binds her to this place, to the oar, that keeps her rowing back and forth across the river.

“Is that your lantern in the window?”

The voice cuts through Saki’s thoughts.

She’s on her boat, untying it from the pier.

Before her, sits her passenger.

A young man with long, black hair, a little older than she is. He’s dressed in a long brown overcoat and dark pants. On the street, he might have looked mysterious, but now, sitting hunched on the thwarts, he just looks deflated.

“Yes.”

He narrows one eye at her.

“How long have you been here?”

Saki is taken aback.

“I… don’t know.”

She really doesn’t know.

Time ceases to have any meaning in this place. The stars wander across the sky, yet the moon hangs motionless above everything, so there’s no way to tell how long she’s been here.

She could’ve been here for a few months. A year, perhaps. Ten years. A thousand years. Who knows.

All her memories in this place in this place have melded together.

Her passenger cocks his head.

“Why stay? Why not take your lantern, and cross the river yourself? What’s stopping you?”

Why stay?

Why stay indeed.

“I made a promise to someone. I have to keep it.”

She’s spent her whole life taking. Taking from people, from places, from those closest to her. Every action geared towards giving her an extra few minutes on earth. She couldn’t do otherwise.

Still, she wants to give it back, even if it is just for one person, even if it’s just one promise.

“I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes.”

Her passenger seems unconvinced, raising an eyebrow at her declaration.

“Even if it takes an eternity?”

It’s almost funny, how clichéd it is, until she realizes that she may as well have spent an eternity in this place.

What’s another eternity after that?

Promises must be kept.

“If that’s what it takes.”

At that, he gives a short laugh, shaking his head and smiling.

“Ahh, the foolishness of young love. Well, I must respect your fortitude, if nothing else.”

Saki can’t help but feel she’s being mocked, but it’s the truth.

No matter how tough it gets, she’s still going to stay.

She’s been through much worse before.

As long as it takes.

She begins to row.

…

Someone’s coming.

Startled, she raises her head from the table. She wasn’t asleep. Sleep doesn’t seem to exist in this place of perpetual night.

She goes to the open door, sticking her head out into the cool, sweet air.

She can see it, the distant spot of red light, bobbing up and down in the murky darkness of the forest like a lone firefly.

The light approaches, getting ever brighter. The pace of the lantern is steady, measured, being held some distance off the ground. She can already make guesses at who’s holding it. Someone taller, and younger.

Not her usual traveler.

She steps out, onto the path, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her right ear. Hands clasped at her waist, facing the great black void that is the forest in front of her, she waits to receive her next passenger.

Soft, rhythmic footsteps emanate from in front of her, growing ever louder as the lantern’s light finally reaches the features of its bearer.

Her heart stops.

She almost can’t believe it.

“H-Hisao?!”

It’s him alright.

Lanky. Short brown hair, with a little sprig dangling from the top. Clad in checkered shirt and full-length black pants.

And deep brown irises, staring wide-eyed at the girl in front of him.

“… Saki?”

His voice is soft, almost breaking. He clearly can’t believe it either.

The fingers holding the lantern in front of him tremble.

“What… what are you doing-”

There’s no more distance between them.

Instantly, Saki has her arms wrapped around him, Hisao’s reflexes only just saving his lantern from being crushed as she slams into his chest.

He’s warm. His body is wonderfully familiar, a memory recalled from an eternity ago.

For a second, it’s just her, and him.

“Saki, what… what are you doing here?”

She looks up at him, the tears trailing down her cheeks glinting in the moonlight.

“I waited, Hisao.”

He frowns at her, as though he can’t quite comprehend what she’s saying.

“… why?”

More tears. She pulls even closer, her chin resting on his collarbone.

She smiles.

“I promised, didn’t I? I promised I’d wait for you on the other side.”

“Well, I…”

Hisao’s seems to choke on his words as he looks to the side, tears welling up in his own eyes.

Regret.

“Saki, you didn’t have to wait…”

He gazes past her, at the pier, at the river, at the night sky beyond them.

“How have you been waiting here?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

She still doesn’t have an answer.

She merely shakes her head. The only timeframe she knows is eternity, and she doubts saying it aloud will improve the mood.

Hisao grits his teeth, clearly in frustration, but says nothing.

The moonlight catches his face, and she can finally get a good look at him.

Everything’s the same. The same hair. The same height. The same warmth. The same face, just as she remembers it.

Everything’s the same.

Which means…

Saki comes to a realisation.

“You’re…”

Instantly, it’s as though ice has filled her veins.

“You’re still young.”

For all the time she’s spent here, Saki still doesn’t quite know how this place works. Whether people arrive as they truly are, the same age, the same bodies, the same clothes.

She doesn’t know if she’s been taking people chronologically, or if they come from anytime and anywhere. Time and distance doesn’t exist here.

But the moment she says those words, guilt floods Hisao’s face.

He turns away.

Her mind is immediately deluged with dark possibilities.

“Hisao, what… what happened to you?”

He refuses to meet Saki’s eyes, even as she breaks the embrace, moving to the side and grabbing Hisao by the shoulders.

“Hisao… tell me. What’s going on?”

Hunched over in the gloom, he doesn’t answer. He looks so defeated.

Saki’s heart is beating in her ears.

What is he hiding?

“Can… can we just go, Saki?”

His voice is tiny, timid, warbling.

He looks up with glistening eyes, the first tears beginning to stream down his face.

“Wha…”

Even in her final memories with him, so, so long ago, he didn’t look like this.

“Please?”

He’s begging, pleading now.

The lantern in his hand shudders with the shaking of his hands.

There’s something he’s not telling her.

He’s hiding something.

Something very wrong.

She wants to know.

Needs to know.

What happened to the people she left behind?

The questions begin to swirl in her mind.

But…

But…

But she’s tired.

She’s been waiting for so long.

Every cell in her body is crying out for answers.

But he’s right here.

With his lantern.

Ready to cross the river.

Isn’t that good enough?

Isn’t this what she wanted?

Isn’t this what she’s been waiting an eternity to do?

Saki sighs.

Grabbing his hand, she begins to lead him down the path, to the lonely wooden shack by the pier.

They enter the cramped room, Hisao having to duck his head through the doorway.

“… is this where you’ve been staying all this time?”

Saki simply nods at Hisao’s tentative question, pushing the chair out of the way and bending down to retrieve something behind one of the table legs.

Standing back up, she reveals what’s in her hands.

Her cane. Black handle and polished steel.

She hasn’t touched it in forever.

Hisao simply blinks at it in shock.

“I just realised… you’re walking without it.”

Saki smiles a little.

“Yeah. I guess they couldn’t have me take people across the river while using it, could they?”

Hisao glances out the window, to the boat tied up at the pier.

“Is that what you’ve been doing here?”

She nods.

“Yes.”

Cane in one hand, Saki reaches for her lantern with the other, lifting it from the place where it has sat, acting as her beacon, her lighthouse, for an untold eon.

“Let’s go.”

They head outside, Hisao stepping out onto the path, Saki halting at the wooden steps.

She shuts the door for the last time.

They make their way to the pier, the wood creaking beneath their feet.

Saki carefully leans over the side, hanging her lantern on the prow of the boat.

She turns back to see Hisao gazing up at the celestial vista above them, like every other passenger she’s taken.

He seems totally amazed, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“It’s… beautiful.”

Despite everything, she giggles a little.

It’s been so long since she’s seen him like this.

It’s been so long since she’s seen him in general.

“Everyone seems to say that.”

They board the boat, Saki helping Hisao find his footing on the curved hull. As she grabs onto Hisao’s arms and guides him onboard, she can’t help but laugh at the reversal of roles.

With her passenger seated comfortably, his lantern held in his hands, she pulls at the rope anchoring them to the pier, casting it away with a sense of finality.

Saki reaches down to grab her sculling oar when she spots the cane, sitting innocently on one of the thwarts in front of Hisao where she’d left it.

She picks it up, running over the steel body with her fingers.

“I always felt that the cane was a part of me, almost like an extension of my arm. But when I got here, and when I discovered I could walk without it… I never thought about it again.”

Hisao purses his lips, reaching out to touch the cane with his fingers, too.

“Do you want to take it with you?”

Saki stares at the cane in her hands.

It’s the last vestige of her past life. A physical talisman of her struggle. Her suffering. Her story.

It feels wrong to leave it behind, as though she’d be leaving behind a part of her body.

But she’s here now.

She’s about to cross the threshold.

She can never go back.

She’ll never return to this shore.

So, Saki makes her decision.

She grips the cane in her right hand…

And throws it over the side.

For a brief moment, it spins in the air, tumbling end over end.

Then it hits the dark, moonlit waters with a splash, sending droplets flying in all directions, immediately disappearing from view.

It’s gone.

They watch it sink.

Wordlessly, Saki reaches for her oar, sets it on the bracket, and begins to row.

She glances behind her, at the empty pathway, at the dark forest, at the wooden shack that no longer has the lantern in the window.

One more thing to leave behind. One more thing to consign to her memory.

Even if it was never home, she’ll miss that shore. She’s been waiting there too long for it to not have grown on her, in an odd way.

In tranquil silence, they pull away from the shoreline, gliding their way across the pitch-black river, Hisao’s eyes flitting between the moon, the stars and the galaxies that array above them.

There’s just the two of them.

She wants this to last forever.

But Saki can’t let her final concern go so easily.

She takes a deep breath.

“Tell me the truth Hisao.”

Her passenger jolts.

Her tone is hardened, determined. He clearly wasn’t expecting another round of this.

“Hisao, what happened? Did you do something?”

She can’t keep the thoughts out of her mind. Hisao is here, yes, but why? How?

What price has he paid to join her in this way?

What have you done, Hisao?

Her voice rises.

“I need to know, Hisao. You can’t keep this from me forever. If you-”

“Saki.”

He interrupts her. His tone is bitter, desperate.

She stops rowing.

The shore they left is no longer in sight. They can’t see their destination, either.

It’s as though they’re in the middle of the ocean.

Only the moon watches.

“Saki… I’ve been waiting so long to see you. To be with you.”

That same pleading voice. The voice he used when they first reunited in the forest.

“To hold you, talk to you, cross this river with you… it’s all I ever wanted.”

Hisao shakes his head, his eyes once again glistening, as he moves over, his hands closing over Saki’s, who’s still gripping onto the oar with whitened knuckles.

“I know I’ve been selfish before, but… please? For one last time, can you allow me to be selfish, and just be here with you?”

He gazes deep into her eyes.

He knows her weak point. Sentimentality. And what could be more sentimental than this earnest plea, on a placid, glassy river, under a canopy of endless stars?

She knows she’s being deceived. She knows the wool is being pulled over her eyes.

But the bliss of ignorance is simply too strong.

Here, in this place of perpetual night, where time is meaningless.

She can forget.

Forget about her regrets, the things that could have been.

Forget about her past, her cane, the things that held her back.

Forget about the secrets Hisao is keeping from her.

And just live in this wonderful, tranquil moment.

They’re almost there.

Saki…

…relents.

Her oar moves again, the water rippling and churning with every stroke.

Finally, the other shore comes into view.

The lone pier sticking out into the water, and then the endless grassy fields beyond.

Saki goes through the motions she’s done countless times before as she ties the boat up against the pier.

Yet, she can’t help but feel a sense of longing. This has been her entire existence, her work, for so long. The first and only work she’s ever truly done.

For a second, she wonders who will take the boat back to the other shore.

But for her, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Like Hisao, she’s going to be selfish one last time.

They disembark, with Hisao helping Saki out of the boat this time, carefully removing her lantern from the prow so that each carries their light in their hands.

Hand in hand, they walk onto the shore, the grass rustling beneath their shoes in the gentle breeze.

In front of them.

Desolation.

There’s only the moon, the stars, and each other.

The countless gone before.

The lanterns in their hands.

It’s time to go.

“On the count of three?”

Saki glances to her right.

Hisao, a small smile on his lips, the wind gently blowing at the tips of his hair, his fingers wrapped around hers.

She waits no longer.

Saki nods.

“On the count of three.”

They close their eyes…

…and take a deep breath.

Three.

Two.

One.

Their lanterns go out.

( Back to Index)

To Eurobeatjester, whose work continues to inspire.

Good on ya, mate.

Stay safe, everyone.

Wow. That one got me to tear up a little. The mystery you create by not really answering what happened to Hisao just makes the imagination run wild. It hurts real good.

Your Molly fic is incredible. As someone with (very) mixed parentage myself, it really captures the feeling of belonging and unbelonging that being tied to multiple cultures, but not really a part of any of them, creates.

Amazing, as always!

This was originally an independent multipart fic which has since been discontinued. If I ever pick it up again, I'll put it back into its own post. For now, though, it'll live here. Thanks for reading.

Subduction [Pilot]

Part One: Foreshocks

“Thank you very much to the third-years of the Yamaku Music Club, for their beautiful rendition of the Academy song.”

Another thunderous round of applause fills the gymnasium, echoing off the bare steel trusses and lacquered wood floorboards. The musicians in question, high up on the wide, open stage, take their bows, clutching violins, trumpets, flutes, and all manner of different instruments.

The cacophony slowly fades as the club members depart the stage, some wheeling themselves to specially constructed ramps, others on crutches, or assisted by other students, arm in arm. It takes a little time, but the stage is eventually emptied, save for the Student Council President at the podium, flanked by her Vice-President and sign-language interpreter.

The president’s voice, clear as water and brimming with self-assuredness, resounds from the speakers.

“Now, we move to the Student Council handover ceremony, where we will pass on the great responsibilities of council leadership to our duly elected successors.”

Misha’s neck begins to turn a little sweaty. It’s not stage fright, but she still feels a bit out of place as one of the only two second-years at the graduation ceremony, surrounded by third-years about to embark on the next stage of life’s journey.

It brings her anxieties into sharp relief. This time next year, it will be her up on that stage, preparing to leave for the wide world beyond, and she still has absolutely no clue what she’s going to do.

Misha’s hands move reflexively, translating the president’s speech to no one in particular. She looks to her right at Shizune, who’s watching the president and her interpreter with rapt attention.

“Being President of the Student Council has been both a privilege and an honour, especially at a school as unique as Yamaku Academy. We were faced with many challenges this year, but I am proud of how well this council has surmounted every obstacle in budgets, administration, and relations with the Foundation and higher staff. I am sure that the trust the staff and students of this academy have placed in me, and the council, has not been misplaced.”

The current president’s a nice person and all, but, as her speech goes on, Misha can’t help but feel it’s all a little too… flowery.

Maybe that’s why Shizune is so engrossed, Misha muses, because she hopes to emulate the president’s style for her graduation speech next year.

A small smile creeps onto the pink-haired girl’s lips.

“We now invite the president-elect of next year’s council, Shizune Hakamichi, and the vice-president-elect, Shiina Mikado, to the stage.”

Jolted from her thoughts, Misha scrambles to her feet, quickly falling in behind Shizune who leads the way to the stage with graceful, measured strides.

Waiting to meet them is the president and vice-president, standing side by side, hands clasped in front of their waists.

Misha and Shizune turn to face them, and all four girls bow before approaching one another.

Stepping up to the outgoing vice-president, with her boy-cut brown hair and black eyepatch on her right eye, Misha shakes her hand.

Suddenly, the vice-president leans in and quietly whispers in Misha’s ear.

“You’ll do great, Misha, I know it.”

Caught a little off guard, the girl can only blush and stammer out a response.

“Ahh… t-thank you, Naoko-senpai.”

They’ve been great leaders, even if their relationship was sometimes soured by Shizune’s… assertive attitude. Misha’s going to miss them.

Breaking their grasp, the president and Shizune turn back towards the crowd, with Misha following.

“Congratulations to Hakamichi and Mikado for winning this year’s elections. We wish them all the best in their stewardship of the council.”

The thunderous applause washes over them once more, the cameras at the back of the gymnasium flashing like stars.

For the first time, Misha’s actually a little excited for the future. A leadership position with her best friend in the lead, a job she knows Shizune will be awesome at.

Maybe this year will be alright.

...

“Runners, find your marks!”

The brand-new track team captain’s barked order cuts through the idle chatter of the athletes, who promptly break from the disordered gaggle where they’d been warming up and move quickly to the maroon running track.

A few sprightly souls can’t help but rib the newly minted club leader as they storm past.

“You’ve been working on that voice of yours, haven’t you, Captain Kenta?”

“Ah, shaddup, Hana.”

Emi lets out a chortle, her twin blades bouncing as she jogs into position.

The air is brisk but unusually cold, pricking her exposed skin. Short sleeves are certainly not suitable winter athletics attire, but the current queen of the academy’s track team is not about to handicap herself with something as bulky as a jacket, damn the consequences.

Arriving at the white line, Emi’s eyes do a quick sweep of the track, of the small piles of snow clinging to the bleachers or the branches of bare trees, before refocusing her gaze down to the one thing that matters.

The finish line.

Emi closes her eyes, steadying her breathing, opening them again to focus down the two white lines that are her boundary, leading to her prize at the very end.

She bounces on each leg, flexing them, readying them for-

“Is first place gonna be yours again, Fastest Thing On No Legs, hm?”

Her concentration broken, Emi can’t help but let out an annoyed huff. A tall shadow passes to the right of her field of view, but the voice alone gives it away.

Her again. How long is this bullshit going to go on for?

Bending over to test and adjust her footing, Emi lets fly with her own barb, disdain saturating her tone.

“You’ll know it when you see it, Miki.”

What was that motto those English suffragettes once used? ‘Deeds, not words?’ Something to that effect.

Miki can talk whatever game she likes, Emi tells herself. The rankings will speak for themselves. They already do speak for themselves, incidentally, which is why Emi is having to use all her willpower not to verbally demolish the one-handed smart alec. Again.

“The higher the pride, the longer the fall…”

The smarminess in Miki’s voice almost sets Emi off. Anger floods her veins.

Breathe, girl, she’s just trying to get a rise out of you to throw you off your game. Don’t fall for it.

Inhaling and exhaling several times, Emi manages to get her heart rate under control.

Keeping her voice steady, she tries to get the other girl to buzz off.

“Run the race first, then talk shit to me.”

There’s dead silence for a few moments. Emi can feel the eyes of the entire team on both her and Miki, silently watching the drama unfolding before them.

The tension between them almost seems to be crackling, daring each other to make a move.

Silence.

Then, finally, Miki backs off, her shadow disappearing from Emi’s peripheral vision with a parting jab.

“We’ll see, Emi, we’ll see.”

The tanned girl strolls away to her position, snickering to herself.

“Tch…”

Trying to shake the interaction from her mind, Emi stands back up, locking her eyes on the goal once again, sealing herself in that world where there is nothing but her, and the track.

Where she can be free.

The piercing voice of the captain pulls her out of it again.

“Alrighty people, consider this your last race of the school year. Exams are just around the corner, so if you want to cement those rankings to better rub it in everyone else’s faces during Spring Break, I advise you to put in your best shot now.”

There’s some scattered laughter from the team, but the captain’s trademark jokes only seem to inflame the tension between the top two competitors.

Her eyes narrow.

The stakes have been upped. Now she has to win this race.

“100-meter sprint, people, nothing too fancy. Listen to the commands.”

Blocking out everyone else around her, the seven or so other girls on either flank. It’s her, and the finish line.

Nothing else.

“Ready…”

The athletes bend as one, hands finding their place on the rough texture of the track.

Emi looks down one last time, adjusting, then snaps her head back up.

Let’s do this.

“Set…”

...

“Tea, Hanako?”

Lilly’s voice shakes the girl from her reverie.

Her friend is standing before her, a white ceramic pot held carefully in the dainty fingers of both her hands.

“A-ah… y-yes please, thank you. I-I can pour, if you want”

Lilly smiles and shakes her head.

“No, no, I’ll pour this time Hanako. Thank you for offering.”

With a familiar fluidity, Lilly gently places the pot down on the table, her fingers delicately tracing the rims of the teacups. Moving them side by side with a soft clink, she picks up the pot and begins to pour, the other pinky finger testing the height of the liquid.

It’s a ritual both girls have been party to on hundreds of separate occasions. For Hanako, seeing this blind, blonde girl pour tea with better grace and precision than most sighted people has become a fact of life.

With both cups full, Lilly slides one over to Hanako, the gentle fragrance of the tea quickly filling the air.

“It’s just ordinary green tea, but I feel that it’s good to sometimes return to the ordinary every now and then.”

Hanako gingerly lifts her cup to her lips, taking a sip of the floral, lightly bitter brew.

“I-It’s perfect Lilly, thank you.”

The blonde girl gives a satisfied smile as she too sips from her cup.

“It’s nice to be able to do this in the early afternoon for a change. Half-days are such a rarity, so we must be thankful for the third year’s graduation.”

Oh, right. That brings up a point Hanako has been meaning to ask.

“I-Isn’t the whole student council supposed to attend the graduation ceremony?”

Lilly’s smile turns cheeky.

“Only the incoming president and vice-president. The little workers like us can relax and soak in the afternoon sun.”

Hanako can’t help but smile at that, too. The less time she spends in the classroom, the better.

Lilly sets down her teacup.

“Have you finished reading anything interesting this week, Hanako?”

The innocent, ordinary question surprises the girl.

“A-Ah… y-yeah…”

She’d rather not talk about it right now, to be honest.

Oblivious, Lilly plows on.

“What book was it?”

Shame begins to burn within Hanako’s heart. Her voice trembles.

“Ehm… n-nothing in particular…”

The slightest touch of a frown seems to cloud Lilly’s face before she corrects her expression, a gentle, comforting smile once again upon her lips.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Hanako, but I promise you I will not judge.”

Well.

In a tiny voice, she silently admits the truth.

“S-Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes…”

At this, Lilly’s head tilts.

“Ah… isn’t that supposed to be a children’s novel?”

Caught, her embarrassment blooms fully, a bright red flush spreading across her face.

“Y-yes.”

Lilly opens her mouth, but before she can get a word out, Hanako scrambles to explain herself.

“I n-never got the chance to read it when I was in e-elementary school… so I wanted to f-find out what it was about…”

Hanako dips her head, even though her friend can’t see her expression.

Lilly appears to put two and two together, and her face suddenly turns apologetic.

“Ahh. I understand now. Sorry, Hanako, if I offended you. Whether or not it’s a children’s novel, it’s a beautiful work to read.”

The air turns somewhat awkward; both evidently had the wrong idea going into this conversation.

Thankfully, Lilly breaks the spell by adjusting in her seat and speaking once more.

“Did you like it?”

That’s a complicated question. Hanako doesn’t really know herself.

“W-well… it wasn’t bad… it was just a bit too… m-melodramatic…”

It seems a bit of a faux pas to be so critical of a book about a young teenage girl dying of cancer after being caught in the blast of an atom bomb, but it’s her true feelings.

“A-and I read elsewhere that it’s n-not very accurate… apparently the real-life S-Sadako finished way more than one thousand c-cranes before she died, which… kind of took the impact out of t-the ending…”

At this, Lilly raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“I did not know that, Hanako. I suppose it’s a good habit to question the assumptions one is taught at an early age. Well done for finding that out.”

Hanako’s face once again turns red, this time, at the praise.

It’s… nice.

Suddenly, Lilly’s eyebrows shoot up, as though she’s just remembered something.

“Speaking of cranes…”

There’s the sound of her chair being moved on the carpet, and she stands and starts to turn for the door.

“I’m going to my dorm room to collect something. I’ll be right back.”

Caught off-guard by this abrupt declaration, Hanako stands up, too.

“I-I can come with you, Lilly.”

Lilly turns her head to her, the motherly smile which defines the tall blonde playing on her lips.

“It’s okay, Hanako. Enjoy your tea. I’ll only be out for a few minutes.”

Leaving the still-steaming cup of tea on the table, Lilly reaches for and extends her cane as Hanako resumes her seat.

Hands around her teacup, she watches as her best friend gracefully moves for the sliding door, her fingers finding the latch as she moves it aside and steps out into the hallway.

There’s a small shunk as the door is closed on Hanako, the muted, rhythmic tapping of Lilly’s cane echoing down the hallway until it disappears.

Leaving her alone.

In the silence.

Except for the ticking of the classroom clock.

For some reason, Hanako turns her head to read the time.

2:45pm.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

…

It’s…

…eerie…

Part Two: Epicentre

It begins with a ripple.

Hanako stares into her half-hidden reflection in the teacup as it twists and warps with the movement of the pale brown liquid.

Except she’s not holding it.

Then, a jolt.

The teacup rattles in its saucer, its contents sloshing violently against rim.

The sudden movement surprises Hanako, who reflexively grabs the side of the table with her left hand to steady herself.

What was that…?

Then, a lurch.

Hanako watches, spellbound for the briefest of moments, as her reflection is subsumed in the surging wave of the teacup’s contents, which spills over the threshold of the rim, almost in slow motion, and splashes onto the saucer below.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

Her chair jerks beneath her, throwing her body against the table, forcing her to gasp for breath in shock. It’s as though she’s seated on a train riding over a railway switch much too quickly.

The ground sways, all but tipping her out of her chair and onto the floor, instantly knocking the wind out of her lungs.

Her right shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, setting her on her side as she slides a few centimetres, her face mere inches away from the legs of the table in front of her.

Hanako is totally stunned. The rational side of her brain seems to have locked up. Only her senses, her wide eyes and ringing ears, are working overtime to make sense of the sudden nightmare she has found herself submerged in.

There’s the sound of wood screeching against linoleum, of ceramic clinking in random atonality, of the glass windows behind her clattering like some great wind is hammering them from the outside.

Against the protests of her right arm, she unsteadily tries to raise herself up with her hands, the floor itself moving as though it were liquid beneath her fingers, as if solid ground has lost all its properties.

Smash.

There’s the sound of ceramic shattering. Hanako turns her head in time to see Lilly’s teapot disintegrate into a cloud of misshapen shards and hot tea which splashes, rapidly expanding into a large, steaming puddle, tendrils of liquid haphazardly snaking their way along the shaking floor.

Another lurch. A series of impacts like gunshots come from behind her- books, or something similar, dislodge from their shelves and thunder to the ground in machine-gun like bursts.

The fluorescent lights above Hanako flicker, suddenly brightening, then go out with an audible pop, casting the room in the creamy half-light of the cloudy mid-afternoon sky filtering in through the jostling curtains.

This is like nothing she’s ever experienced.

Except for...

Out of the corner of her eye, the tearoom bookshelf, off to her right and now emptied of its contents, creaks, then topples, smashing into the ground with a resounding thud and the cracking of wood splintering in all directions.

Reflexively, her hands go up to protect her face, her knees curling into her stomach.

When she next opens her eyes through the gaps between her fingers, she’s no longer in the classroom.

She’s no longer in Yamaku.

The floor is a familiar wood paneling.

The kind she once had in her living room.

She’s back.

She’s back in the house of her youth.

She swears she can hear the crackling of burning wood, smell the acrid smoke of burning plaster and insulation stinging her nostrils.

And the fire.

She’s drowning in her memories, but she can’t help it. The crashing of masonry, the lurching of the building, what’s real and what's her past is becoming nigh indistinguishable.

It feels as though her body is being subjected to extremes from every angle. Her mind and extremities are frozen solid, numb, yet she can feel the heat from the raging inferno at her back, on her neck, radiating like lava along the lines of her scars.

Her hands reflexively beat against the right side of her body, trying to put out flames that don’t exist.

Hanako’s breaths come in rapid gasps; she’s hyperventilating, it’s making her lightheaded.

She can’t control it.

The flames are going to consume her.

She’s going to burn up.

She’s going to die.

She's going to die.

Her parents are going to…

To…

But… but…

Something’s different.

Her parents…

Aren’t here.

There’s no one around her back, deflecting the flames with their body.

No one to shield her. To protect her.

It’s…

Just her.

Just Hanako.

And if it’s just her.

She’s not in the past.

She’s not in a blazing house.

She’s not in a raging inferno.

She’s in the classroom.

At Yamaku.

And she can’t die here.

Not like this.

I can’t die here.

There’s another great lurch, tipping her from the foetal position onto her back.

Suddenly, she’s no longer surrounded by heat, no longer under a fiery, crackling roof about to cave in upon her.

She’s once again on the linoleum floor, staring up at the white panels of the roof, which appear to be breathing with every movement of the building.

I can’t die here.

The shock of the impact snaps something within her. Her mind is suddenly moving again.

In the tangled mess of her psyche, she’s recalling something, some blurry and half-remembered drill from elementary school, in another era, another lifetime.

Get under the table!

A voice. Hers? Her elementary school teacher?

Her mother?

Now!

With the earth still undulating beneath her, it’s all she can do to comply, slowly, robotically, moving one limb out from the other, making herself as small as possible and tucking herself underneath the wooden table, trying to avoid the ceramic shards which seem to dance with the motion of the linoleum floor.

Despite the cacophony, more and more memories are coming back to her. Of a bright classroom, bucket hats and colourful randoseru from a time long past.

Crouch! Face away from the windows! Cover your head!

There’s the tinkling laughter of schoolchildren, no older than eight or nine, huddling under the desks, making faces, cracking jokes.

She’s laughing too, bright, cheerful, innocent. A sound she hasn’t heard in forever.

The stern voice of an authority figure, almost certainly her elementary school teacher, rings out in her head.

Take this seriously! You won’t always have grownups to protect you, you know…

She laughed at that, too, along with the rest of her class.

It echoes in her mind.

She knows that, now. She knows that better than anyone else.

She’s alone. Alone in this classroom, alone in this lurching, roiling, cacophonous universe where the earth itself has turned into a raging sea.

There’s no one here to help her.

Except for herself.

I can’t die here!

Hanako turns, facing away from the windows and towards the door, covering her head with her left hand, as she was once instructed. Protecting herself.

Hold on to something!

Her right hand shoots out, aiming for the leg of the table she’s hiding under.

She grabs at it, gripping it with all her strength, her knuckles turning white, her anchor to a world falling to pieces.

She’s under the table. She’s covered her head. She’s facing away from the windows. She’s holding on.

She’s done all she can by herself.

There’s nothing else to do but ride it out.

The room, the building, is positively roaring now, a never-ending roll of thunder as it’s subjected to a thousand competing forces, all far beyond human comprehension.

A ceiling panel dislodges with the sound of tearing paper, impacting the floor right in front of the sliding door with a bang, kicking up a cloud of white dust and flakes of paint.

Hanako shuts her eyes tight.

She’s not religious. She never has been.

But in this moment, she prays.

She begs.

Not to any particular deity. But to the universe. A plea.

Please, please, make it stop.

Please, stop the earth from moving.

It’s all she can do.

Hanako seems to be stuck in a turbulent purgatory, the gaps between each breath feeling like a lifetime as the world continues to shift and shudder around her.

For a second, it seems that the shaking is beginning to subside, but it immediately starts back up again, even stronger this time, careening her almost to the floor as she clings on to the table leg for dear life.

The ceiling panels begin to rain down en masse, smashing onto the chair she was sitting on a mere minute before, onto the ground she was frozen in the foetal position in a few seconds before, onto the table above her, causing curtains of white dust to fall from the edges.

Things falling over, rolling out of place; what, she doesn’t know. She’s shut her eyes tight now, waiting, desperately, for it to end.

An endless, endless eternity of shaking. It feels like this is all she’s known.

I can’t die here.

I won’t die here.

I’ve followed your instructions.

Please, please, don’t let me die here.

She repeats herself, over and over and over again.

Until.

Slowly.

The shaking begins to fade.

The roaring in her ears softens to a dull rumble.

The terrific lurching and rocking lessen, the walls no longer buckling and heaving under the strain.

There’s still the sound of metal on metal, of something falling and grating elsewhere deep within the building, but they’re strangely distant.

They, too, fade.

The shaking turns to vibrations.

The rattling of the windows stops.

The vibrations turn to stillness.

The rumbling turns to quiet.

Slowly, carefully, Hanako cracks open her eyelids and lifts her head, her hand still locked in its vice-like grasp around the table leg.

The room is in total chaos. Everything not bolted down has been toppled, splayed and scattered across the floor, and covered in the shattered remnants of the white ceiling tiles from above.

Right in front of her lies the shards of the teapot and teacups, the spilled liquid catching motes of white dust from the ceiling panels in strangely beautiful swirls and patterns on its surface, along with the inexplicably pleasant smell of green tea.

But, above it all, an eerie silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

(Back to Index)

Someday, someday.

Stay safe, everyone.

Cape

“Miss?”

Huh?

“Wake up, miss…”

Something shakes Miki’s shoulder.

She snaps awake.

“Huh?!”

She jerks, bolting upright in her seat.

Frantically rubbing her eyes, she feels something sticky dripping down from the corner of her lip, which she tries to wipe away. Saliva.

Taking her bearings, she blearily makes out the face and uniform of a train conductor, his right hand on her left shoulder, his concerned face bent down to her eye level.

“Sorry, miss. We’ve arrived at Wakkanai. It’s the end of the line.”

Miki gazes around, finding the carriage she’s riding in totally empty, save for her and the conductor. The train’s stopped, and the lights from the station outside flood in through the windows.

Embarrassed, she quickly thanks the conductor, who bows in acknowledgement before making his way through the carriage and onto the next, the connecting door rattling shut behind him.

Her brain still soggy from sleep, she grabs the two duffel bags dumped at her feet and stands up, making her way out the open automatic doors and onto the platform.

Immediately, she’s hit with the sharp smell of salt riding on the chilly breeze blowing through the station.

The sea. It was a scent she’d grown used to, when she was living here, but now it’s a little surprising, a little foreign.

Miki yawns loudly, the sound echoing across the deserted platform. She’s totally knackered. The flight to Sapporo and the subsequent train ride have drained her of the will to continue.

For a solid moment, she seriously considers collapsing by the station fence and falling asleep again.

Then, the wind picks up, blowing the sea breeze hard against her skin. Frightfully cold, unusual for the season. Miki shivers, breaking out in goosebumps.

Cursing her foolish decision to wear short sleeves and shorts to this town at the edge of the world, she picks up her pace and heads for the station exit.

…

It’s dark by the time she reaches the house.

Her family’s home is nothing special. Two stories, a sliding front door, fading beige paint and streaks of rust trailing down from some exposed piping. Now that she’s lived in Sendai for a few years, it looks pretty shabby, but in comparison to the rest of the houses in this country town it’s actually not that bad.

How her sensibilities have changed.

Miki breathes, in and out, the sea air still tingling her nostrils.

She steels herself. It’s a bit like swapping faces, if changing demeanours were like changing masks at a carnival. Smile. Nod her head. Don’t act like a bitch. Don’t talk shit. Oh, and don’t swear, for crying out loud.

In essence, don’t act like she does at school. A tall order, considering she hasn’t been back in well over a year.

Walking to the front door, she finds it unlocked, as always. The one luxury of the boonies. Nothing worth stealing inside her home, anyway.

She kicks off her shoes with much more violence than necessary and slides the door open with a resounding bang.

“I’m home…”

There’s the sound of pots and pans banging, and the shuffling of feet. Miki has barely made it past the threshold when her mother appears, wearing an apron and looking a little harried. Short dark hair with the tips dyed a dull bronze. People say they look alike, but Miki’s never really understood where they’re coming from. Her mother’s very pale, for starters.

“You’ve made it! How was the trip?”

Bubbly. Sprightly. Somehow, living at the ass-end of civilisation for twenty years has yet to dampen her mother’s spirit. Miki definitely recalls acting like her mother, with that same bright excitability, when she was younger and times were better.

For Miki, though, it’s all just exaggerated overconfidence, nowadays. And when her energy runs out, it’s a herculean struggle to keep the smile on her face.

“Oh, the usual. Long. Boring.”

Her mother’s grin grows even wider as she playfully clicks her tongue.

“My, my, aren’t you a Debbie Downer? Not gonna give your own mother a hug?”

Miki drops the duffel bags on the floor and leans into the embrace. It’s warm, a blessed relief from the frigid air outside.

It’s nice. For a second, she doesn’t have to play a part or keep up appearances.

Then her mother breaks the hug, and a guilty expression takes over her face. Her voice drops to nearly a whisper.

“Miki… I know your father swore up and down to you that he’d be here to welcome you home. Trust me, I was there when he made the call. But an hour ago, he called me… and… uh… well…”

Any pretence of happiness immediately vanishes. Miki grits her teeth and resists the urge to kick the wall with all her might.

Of course. What was she expecting?

“Let me guess, he’s out with the boats, isn’t he?”

Gone is any semblance of lightness. Her voice is now cutting, bitter.

The motherfucker couldn’t even work up the courage to call her himself. Coward.

“H-He told me to tell you that he’s really, really sorry. Some of them haven’t come in yet and he said he has to be there to supervise and he-”

“Forget it. I’m not doing this fucking song and dance again.”

So much for smiling. Or not swearing. Or just keeping the mask on in general.

Why make the effort if the end result is the same? Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result; the very definition of insanity.

Miki picks up her bags and brushes past her mother, walking through the living room and to the stairs.

“I’ll call you down when dinner’s ready, alright?”

She has enough sense to stop and nod at her mother’s uncertain call. It’s not her mother’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, really, and that only pisses her off more.

She climbs the stairs, her muffled footfalls falling dully on the carpet as she reaches the second floor and turns to her bedroom.

It’s just as she left it. Messy as all hell, of course, clothes and other knick-knacks strewn across the floor, clearly untouched by the exhausted mother who’s long since given up on trying to reign in the chaos. It’s comforting, in a way, that her bedroom’s trapped in time like this, exactly the same as it was last year, the year before that, and the years before those. The same band posters, the same haphazard stacks of manga in the corner, the same ancient Walkman sitting on her desk.

A place in stasis, even when so many things have changed. Even when she’s changed.

Dumping the duffel bags on the ground, Miki simply flops down onto her bed, letting out a great, exhausted, frustrated huff.

She’s angry.

A lance of guilt pierces her heart. She gets it. She really does. Running a fishing fleet is not exactly a 9 to 5 job, and someone has to pay the frankly exorbitant fees the academy charges. An education, her conscience reminds her, she’s currently squandering. Another lance of guilt.

She’s already so angry at school. No point bringing it here, too, where it’s supposed to be an escape.

The quiet of her bedroom envelops her, save for the occasional muffled clatter of kitchenware downstairs.

With nothing else to do, Miki flips open her slightly battered mobile phone, navigating to her inbox. She hasn’t checked it since she left Sendai.

It’s empty, save for a single unopened message sent a few hours before.

Despite her sour mood, she can’t help but smile when she spots the sender’s name.

Heya Miki! Hope you didn’t get lost on the way to Hokkaido! Text me when you arrive, ok? Missing you already :<

Suzu.

She chuckles softly. Miki has to count her blessings. At least she’s still got someone in her court. One person who will stand by her, even after all she’s done, even when no one else will come near.

She flips the phone closed and lets her hand fall on her stomach. She’ll reply later.

Turning onto her side to face the drawn grey curtains, she can’t help but wonder if she should’ve done things a little differently.

Better to be the Queen Bitch of Class 3-3 than the country hick. At least, that’s what she told herself.

But now, she’s at the top of the pecking order, and she can’t get down. She can’t rip the mask off, lest the illusion shatter and she’s put back right where she started. Sure, few will challenge her, but she can’t quite tell if it’s because she’s managed to terrorise them into submission, or because everyone else in the cohort is simply fed up with her.

In her heart of hearts, Miki suspects it’s a mixture of both.

It weighs heavily on her mind.

She recalls, not too long ago, encountering the new kid, sitting alone during lunch, staring listlessly at the textbook in front of him.

She’d observed his mannerisms, his movements, the way he rapidly and obviously became infatuated with a certain scarred classmate who always keeps to herself.

She’d come up to him with a smile, grabbing his textbook and playfully flicking through the numbers and equations that turn to soup in her brain.

They talked. About math, about life, the future (not that she had much in mind), and his little budding romance within which he seemed as lost as a castaway sailor.

It was nice, really nice, to talk to someone normally, to talk without all the baggage and her history weighing everything down.

To act normal, for once. To smile, to chat, to give advice, to share a simple, straightforward connection with another human being.

No doubt everyone else figured she was out to prey on him. She wonders if he’s since been warned to stay away, as though she’s some rabid wild animal.

She can’t blame them.

Miki turns over, facing the bedroom door that’s slightly ajar, her fingers tracing the folds and ridges of the bedsheets beneath her.

See me for who I am.

Her true self. The other sides of her; beyond this bitter, calculating façade she’s created as a shield that she now doesn’t know how to remove.

A whispered question spills from her lips.

“I wonder…”

She wants her words to cross the distance, over the Tsugaru Strait and the intervening mountains, to reach the ears of a certain blue-haired narcoleptic, even though she knows she will never hear her.

It’s a question that she can never say to her only real friend’s face, lest the reply break the last few strings that hold Miki Miura together.

“Suzu, I wonder… after everything that’s happened…”

She closes her eyes and wraps a hand over the bandages around her stump.

“… if you could speak your mind, would you still be my friend?”

Miki’s whisper hangs in the still air. Even the sounds of the kitchen below have ceased.

She’s answered only with silence.

…

Breathe in.

Out.

In.

Out.

The dull crack of her feet against the asphalt resounds with every step. The salty sea breeze whips at her back, sending tiny droplets of sweat flying in all directions, bringing a little cool relief.

It’s hard going, all the way uphill, but Miki doesn’t let up the pace. Her eyes are firmly locked on the road, the white markings bobbing up and down in her vision as she pounds forward.

Ahead of her is her destination, her imaginary finish line. The Centennial Memorial Tower, standing like a giant sentinel overlooking the port below. It’s a rather garish and pompous structure for such a small town, its flared surfaces coated in peeling and faded red paint.

To her right, the radar domes of the nearby JSDF base sit like giant white mushrooms on the summits of the bare, grass-covered hills. Behind her, the ocean; an uninterrupted carpet of perfect aquamarine stretching out from the distant town below to the horizon many miles beyond, meeting the blue sky in a hazy line that blurs the boundary between the heavens and the sea.

A small minivan putters past, its ailing engine clearly struggling to make the relatively shallow climb.

Even so, Miki can’t help but speed up in a futile attempt to overtake it, gasping for breath as she sprints up the incline. It’s because she can’t bear to be overtaken, even here, in her hometown, at the edge of the world.

Running. Her pride and joy, one of the few activities left in school that she still enjoys, that she can still call her own.

But in her mind, she hears the tittering laughter of a certain twintailed girl, and a bolt of childish jealousy floods through her veins.

God, she feels like such an elementary schooler.

Perhaps it started off as merely a friendly rivalry, a way to egg each other on to greater feats of athletic ability. Perhaps it was originally just some innocent fun. But somewhere along the way, it devolved into something much more personal.

It’s almost like some shitty television drama. The girl on shining blades, the darling of the racing track, pretty, clever, outgoing, perfect in every way, or so it seems, feted by the club as their athletic liege.

Then, on the other side, herself. The antagonist, the dark horse, the one always nipping at their hero’s heels, threatening to steal her thunder. She’ll make jabs, spar verbally, spit self-confident barbs and insults, until, of course, the girl with no legs claims victory from the jaws of defeat and she’s yet again left in her dust.

Again, and again, and again, as though every race has a script. Always coming second place, no matter how hard she tries, as though it’s ordained by the universe. Playing the villain, not because she wants to, but because it’s what everyone expects of her. She’s caged herself in that role, but at least the iron bars are familiar to her; comforting in a painful sort of way.

Again, the question of if she should’ve done things differently. A kinder word here. An approving gesture there.

Yet now, even here, where there’s no crowds, no script, no drama to play and no competition to beat, she’s racing an old minivan with an engine that barely functions, just because it’s how she always does things.

The minivan drives on ahead, heedless of her ruminations, leaving the choking stench of exhaust in its wake.

She finally reaches the tower, swerving left into the carpark and slowly coming to a halt, swiping away the sweat that coats her forehead. Catching her breath, she gazes out, over the ocean and the evergreen trees that coat the distant coastline in a layer of dark green.

The blood pumping through her veins, the burn of her calf muscles, the salty air she inhales with every heaving breath. At least she still has those. Nothing can take them away.

She goes to the lonely vending machine by the side of the tower and buys a bottle of water, cracking it open and downing half its contents in one great gulp.

Looking upwards, she spots a bird, covered in black and brown feathers, some sticking out like fingers from its wingtips. Beady, vigilant eyes peer from behind a sharp, curved beak.

It’s a black-eared kite, a common bird of prey this far north.

Miki watches as it glides gently, slowly, its wingtip feathers twitching and turning in the wind, keeping it stable and aloft. It roves too and fro, seemingly surveilling the entire town, its sharpened talons tucked close to its body, poised to snatch the merest prey at a moment’s notice.

Then, it spots something and dives, flapping its great brown wings in smooth, fluid strokes as it gains speed, turning into a darkened blur as it slips below the treeline and disappears from view.

She’s spellbound.

Almost without meaning to, she extends her arms in a poor imitation of the beautiful manoeuvres she just saw, her fingers tilting up and down to match the turning of the kite’s wingtip feathers.

There’s no corresponding movement on her left. Her bandaged stump sits, mute, the odd wayward fibre waving in the passing wind.

It’s a childlike wish. To be able to fly just by flapping her hands. To soar, above the landscape, above everyone else and her troubles below, armed with camera-like eyes to pick out the smallest details and a killer instinct.

She’d like that.

But a bird missing a wing cannot fly.

And if it cannot fly, what can it do?

She wonders if missing a hand, too, means that she’s missing something more fundamental.

It’s easier to fall than to fly, after all.

…

The bus comes to a halt, jolting as the driver engages the brakes.

The doors open with a sigh and a rattle, the lone passenger stepping out onto the pavement.

It’s still sunny, the warmth from the clear, cloudless sky above pricking her skin.

Miki rubs her eyes and takes in her surroundings. On three sides, the sea, little white tufts of foam rising and falling with every crest of the waves. Behind her, a bare, grassy hill, adorned with a small, squarish red and white lighthouse that looks as though it were built out of Lego bricks.

Cape Soya. The northernmost point of Japan.

A single road divides the shore from the hills. The bus she’s just departed huffs once from its exhaust, before pulling away and disappearing around the curve in the road into the small fishing village beyond.

Miki turns on her heels and begins to climb the short distance up the hill, following the narrow single-lane road up and over the crest.

There’s not much here, and the elevation is so slight that the view isn’t any better. There’s an empty carpark and a small field dotted with the odd memorial:

An old watchtower.

A weathered copper statue of a man and a woman, commemorating an American submarine and the hundreds of lives it sent to a watery grave.

A tall white obelisk, for a jumbo jet, shot down, its passengers scattered to the dark waters below.

For a second, she closes her eyes and tries to imagine what it must have felt like. The sudden sensation of falling, the air being violently ripped from one’s lungs, then an eerie, decompressed silence.

Her heart’s suddenly beating in her ears, and she gasps for breath. She opens her eyes and grips her chest with her one good hand.

Why she tortures herself like this, she doesn’t know.

Miki runs a finger along the smooth marble surface of the obelisk. It’s darkly comedic, in a way, when she thinks about how her classmates would react if they could see her now. The Queen Bitch of Class 3-3, flaunter of authority and the embodiment of flippancy, reflecting solemnly at a memorial to a tragedy many decades in the past, to people she has not the slightest relation to.

If only they knew.

If only she could show them.

But how?

How can she dig herself out of this hole, no, this veritable mineshaft she finds herself in?

How can she break the mold? How can she take off the mask she’s staked her entire self on wearing?

She wants to giggle at silly jokes. She wants to weep at tragedy. She wants to smile as she enters the classroom, to walk to her desk without the judgmental eyes that come her way, envious at her status or disgusted at her actions.

She wants to be chipper, frivolous, and carefree. She doesn’t want to worry about status or position or rankings or rumours or lies or slander or cliques or any of that.

She wants to get off the pyramid she’s built for herself.

Miki makes her way down the hill, past the bus stop, across the empty road and to the strange triangular monument that marks the very edge of the coastline.

The wind is strong here, the spray lashing at the rocks and breakwaters. Her long, dark hair flutters in the sea breeze, and she has to hold some of the more wayward strands down with her good hand.

They say, on a good day, across the great expanse of water before her, one can just about glimpse the very tip of Sakhalin Island, right on the horizon.

Miki squints, standing on her toes and shielding her eyes with her hand as she scans the horizon, searching for the thin craggy film of land she knows lies somewhere in the distance.

She can’t make it out. A light haze hangs low over the sea, the line between the sky and sea obscured by a thin, brownish fog that shimmers in the heat.

If only she could walk on water, then she might be able to reach that horizon, to run with those powerful legs of hers, away from her hometown, away from her troubles, away from the mistakes she’s made and the words she can never take back, to that faraway land she knows is there yet cannot see.

But she can’t.

It’s a foolish escape.

Miki walks to the white metal railing along the coastline, leaning over it to see the waves breaking upon the dark granite rocks below. She’s almost entirely alone; maybe fifty meters to her right, she can see a young man with a long-lens camera, his eye to the peephole, snapping photographs of passing birds. To her left, in the distance, an elderly couple, hand in hand, watching the rolling waves from a bench.

Distant.

No different to how she feels in the classroom, or when surrounded by her clubmates.

It’s lonely, being at the top. She’s fashioned a hill upon her burnt-out reputation to lord over everyone else, and for what?

So she can play the victim? So she can lament her bitterness, her isolation? So she can distract herself from the things she’s done, the words she’s said, the hurt she’s given?

If only.

If only she’d been a little kinder.

If only she’d reached out her hand.

If only she’d walked through those ornate academy gates as a student and not as a fighter, ready to scramble her way to the top of the tree by any means necessary.

See me for who I am.

Who is she?

Rumourmonger. Competitor. Narcissist. Bully. Intimidator. Queen Bee. Queen Bitch. Delinquent. Truant. Good-for-nothing. Second-place.

A hundred labels, a thousand insults, hurled at her face and whispered behind her back. Staff and students, no exception.

Once, she’d considered these titles as badges of rank, a signifier of her success.

How naïve. How childish.

See me for who I am.

The girl who likes to jog. The girl who likes to gaze at the waves. The girl who loves to read manga, who listens to old folk tunes on that ancient Walkman, who giggles at silly jokes and weeps at the slightest tragedy.

With but one exception, everyone else is oblivious.

She wishes she could take it all back.

She’ll have to return to Wakkanai before sundown. Then, when the holidays are over, she’ll have to go back to Sendai. Then, when school starts, she’ll have to go back to her classroom, to wear the mask, to play the part, to start this stupid, shitty cycle all over again.

If only, if only.

The haze refuses to lift. That distant land remains out of sight, out of reach.

Miki turns on her heels and slowly heads towards the bus stop.

It’s time to go home.

(Back to Index)

Hokkaido is so beautiful. I hope to return someday soon.

Kindly edited by Piroska.

Stay safe, everyone.

Bonfire

Iwanako finds a box.

It’s a plain, brown cardboard construction, no bigger than an archive box, sitting innocently at the bottom of her now empty closet.

She puts aside the coat hangers in her hands, the last vestiges of the bedroom she’s cleaning out, and kneels to get a closer look. It’s a little dusty, but it’s otherwise undamaged. There aren’t any markings on it at all, so she has no idea what it could contain.

Lifting the box to move it out of the closet, she’s surprised by how heavy it is, so much so that she almost tips forwards and faceplants into it.

She only narrowly saves herself from such an embarrassing fate. The lid is taped shut, and she can’t seem to peel it off with just her fingers, forcing her to head downstairs and retrieve a kitchen knife. It’s a poor substitute for a box cutter, but it’ll do.

Returning to her room, she kneels down and carefully rests the sharp edge along the seam of the tape, careful not to cut too far down and damage whatever is hiding underneath.

She takes a deep breath, and with one, fluid motion, slices the tape in two, the sound of ripping plastic filling the air.

She opens the box.

Oh.

Oh.

She jolts. Her blood turns to ice. Her tongue instantly turns to sandpaper.

Iwanako knows what’s inside.

Oh, she knows.

She wishes she hadn’t touched the bloody thing.

Sitting there, folded neatly with nary a wrinkle or blemish, is her old high school winter uniform. The black winter blazer. The short maroon skirt with white trim that just barely cleared length regulations. The thigh-high black socks and the accompanying pair of brown leather loafers.

The same uniform she wore while waiting in the snow for a certain someone.

The same uniform she wore the day her life changed forever.

It’s all here.

She thought she’d long thrown it away.

Why?

Why is it here?

Her heart seems to be beating in her throat.

Calm, girl. It’s just a school uniform. Nothing to get fussed over.

As if. There’s a good reason why she never wanted to see it again. Why it shocks her that it’s been living just meters from the foot of her bed, hiding in plain sight all these years.

With quivering fingers, Iwanako begins to carefully lift the clothing out of the box, like each one is primed to explode. The shoes, then the socks, then the skirt, laying them out beside her.

She goes to lift the blazer.

Oh. There’s more stuff underneath.

Her fingertips trace the laminated cover of a large book. She places the blazer aside and picks it up, bringing it into the light.

Class of 2007.

It’s a yearbook.

She sits cross-legged on the carpet and places it in her lap, slowly flicking through the pages. It’s the first time she’s read through it properly. She couldn’t bear to look at it when they received it during the graduation ceremony.

Now, though, her eyes skim over the brightly coloured fonts, the photos of smiling students in athletics gear and in winter uniforms, the decorative illustrations and flourishes that fill the empty spaces between paragraphs and pictures.

It’s lively, vibrant, full of fun and laughter, what she supposes is meant to be a nostalgic reflection of good times gone by.

More photographs.

The school orchestra; a sea of wood, silver and gold, sparkling under the lights of a stage.

The art club; a semi-circle of students seated behind easels, every pair of eyes focused on the canvas before them.

A candid shot; two girls walking down the row of cherry blossom trees that line the school entrance, pink petals floating all around them.

Archery; a male student with a buzzcut, pulling back on a bow, arrow ready to strike right through the left side of the frame.

Page after page after page. A thorough chronicle of third-year life at any ordinary high school in the land. Every club, every event, every moment, every memory painstakingly preserved.

Except there’s a rather conspicuous absence.

Herself.

It’s as though the Iwanako of her first and second year were a totally different person. Sure, she’s present in the early photos, smiling, laughing, waving, but by the time the yearbook reaches her third year, she’s all but vanished.

It was inevitable. How could she show her face to the camera if she couldn’t even show herself to her classmates?

She flips to the gallery, the faces of every student in her cohort lined up, row upon row, forming a wall of portraits that goes on and on for pages. A hundred different expressions stare back. Many are smiling. Some smirk. Others appear totally disinterested. A few hide their eyes in their bangs or look down.

Then, she’s on the page for her class.

And Iwanako sees them.

A row of six rather fashionable girls, their hair dyed, faces adorned with tasteful makeup. They’re grinning, as though there’s some secret joke amongst themselves that the camera isn’t privy to.

She knows every single one of their names. She knows every one of their voices, their likes, their dislikes, what middle school they went to, their favourite pop stars and most hated subjects.

She knows everything there is to know about them, even though she earnestly, desperately, wishes she could erase them from her memories forever.

Erase what they did to her.

It all comes back in an instant.

Her breath catches. She squeezes her eyes shut, the tears threatening to leak out, as the hushed, barbed whispers once again begin to surround her.

Heartbreaker.

Vamp.

Man-eater.

The questions. The interrogations. The posse of girls surrounding her at her desk.

Voices flood her mind, accusing, attacking.

Were you the one who confessed to Hisao?

Is that why he’s in hospital?

What the fuck did you do to him, Iwanako?!

With a gasp, she snaps her eyes open.

Her hands are at her ears, pressing against her skull, as though the pressure alone will force the voices back down.

Lowering her arms, her trembling fingers grip the yearbook in her lap.

Despite how much it pains her, Iwanako keeps reading.

She gets to the quotations. Some of her peers have written veritable essays, filling their allotted space with dense paragraphs of text, gushing about their friends, exams, teachers, their memories and their hopes for the future.

Others wax poetic, or write short, humorous tidbits. A few of the more highbrow students quote their favourite authors or famous philosophers.

She turns to her page.

Hers is the most succinct of all.

There’s only a single, solitary word sitting in the sea of white.

Goodbye.

What else was there to say?

She gets to the last few pages. Signing sheets, intended to be filled with the scribblings of one’s friends and peers, a final goodbye from their own hands.

They’re equally bare, save for a lonely apology, written in perfect handwriting at the bottom of a page.

I’m sorry.

Mai.

Below that, a phone number she would end up never calling.

Iwanako gently traces the characters with the tip of her index finger. Maybe she should’ve reached out when she could. She doesn’t even know if the number is in operation anymore.

Another regret, but what’s one more to put atop the pile?

Smaller mementos occupy the rest of the box. A dog-eared English textbook. A cylindrical Doraemon pencil case, still filled with half-empty mechanical pencils and misshapen erasers. A ruler and protractor. Half a dozen highlighters. A multicoloured bracelet of tiny beads, likely from her middle school days. A lumpy, malformed clay sculpture of a dolphin from a particularly embarrassing art assignment.

The box is nearly empty.

She lifts the last textbook out to reveal one final, unwelcome surprise.

Six little plastic keychains, adorned with cute, colourful cartoon animals branded with the logo of the Ueno Zoo. A present for her 18th birthday, from her very last birthday party. A joint gift, from a certain group of six rather fashionable girls.

A gift from when their group once numbered seven. A gift from when Iwanako thought she knew who her friends were.

The Iwanako they gave this gift to may as well be dead.

Anger begins to replace the anxiety in her veins.

She makes a decision.

Her flight is tomorrow morning, the one-way ticket to Sydney sitting right there on her desk, but she doesn’t care. She needs to do this, for her peace of mind, if nothing else. She won’t have another chance.

Before dinner, she walks to the nearby hardware store. She returns bearing a full four-liter container of turpentine spirits.

Then, she waits until long after darkness falls and her harried, overworked mother turns in for the night. Iwanako’s well and truly an adult, but it won’t do to keep her poor mother worried about where she is at such an ungodly hour, before such an important day. She just has to make sure she returns before her mother wakes up.

It’s past midnight before she works up the courage to slip out, silently walking down the staircase and out the front door, taking great care to turn the lock and shut the gate slowly and quietly.

She makes her way to her car, a tiny, secondhand hatchback that’s served her well during her university years. It’s due to be sold tomorrow, along with quite literally everything else she’s not taking with her, but she figures it can’t hurt to take her trusty metal steed out for one last spin.

Opening the boot, she heaves the turpentine inside before bending down to pick up her true cargo.

That cursed brown box, all its contents once again packed neatly within. She pushes it into the boot and shuts the rear door before getting behind the wheel.

Twisting the key and starting the engine, Iwanako winces as it loudly revs to life, the putter of its pistons echoing into the gloomy, lamplit suburbia. She can only pray that her mother is still sound asleep.

She flicks on the headlights and shifts the car into gear, slowly pulling out of the driveway and turning right, onto the narrow, one-way street before her.

The moon shines down from above, and she steps on the gas.

…

The low hum of the wheels on the asphalt surrounds her in a cocoon of hypnotic white noise. It’s late, and she’s tired, but she fights to keep her brain awake and her eyes on the road.

There are oddly few streetlamps here, even on this major highway. She’s in the countryside now; the unlit, hilly forests lining the road forming a wall of darkness, interspersed with the occasional flat farmland and the distant lights of passing towns. She can still see the dim glow of Chiba in the rear-view mirror, but at this ungodly hour, there are few cars to join her on this stretch of highway.

A hundred different emotions bubble in her chest.

Anger. Sadness. Regret. Betrayal. Confusion. Loss. Longing. Feelings she’s kept locked away, deep inside the recesses of her heart for so many years.

She thought, back then, that she had everything she ever wanted, or needed. She was doing well at school. She had a group of loyal friends with which to confide in. She had a roof over her head, food to eat and a mother who cared for her.

She remembers that day in the snow, in the clearing, at the foot of a bare maple tree, the designated spot for couples to have a little privacy. She’d slipped a note into his math textbook without him noticing. She prayed, sitting in that classroom, utterly distracted from whatever droning lecture was happening in front of her, that he had read it. And there he was, waiting patiently, anxiously, at the foot of that tree. Waiting for her.

She had friends. She had good grades. She had a peaceful home life. And now, she was about to fall in love.

It was like a dream. It was all so perfect.

Too perfect.

It must have been a dream, because the next thing she knew, she was sitting stunned and disorientated in the back of an ambulance, watching on as the paramedics fought desperately to revive the boy in front of her. A nightmare come to life before her eyes.

They later told her she’d been found near the front gates, screaming her head off, having somehow dragged the boy a solid fifty meters though the snow and out of the clearing with her tiny arms and willowy frame. She didn’t believe them, at first, but the multiple pulled muscles in her shoulders and forearms soon told the story.

She couldn’t remember one bit of it. She still can’t, to this day.

They thanked her for her bravery. They marvelled at how she managed to pull him so far and get help so quickly. None of their words registered with her. The only thing that she could really feel was the cold. For days afterwards, no matter the ambient temperature, she’d find herself shivering.

Iwanako was a zombie for the next few days. She supposed the school had given her a few days off to recover, as she vaguely remembers sitting in her room or lying on her bed, blankly staring at the walls or ceiling, totally unable to comprehend what had happened to her, or to the boy she confessed to.

The first time she went to see him, shortly after the incident, he was still unconscious, lying on the gurney with a mask strapped to his face and all manner of tubes coming out of his arms. She sat beside him and simply watched, silently, as his chest rose and fell with every breath and the EKG machine beeped a somewhat unsteady rhythm.

So distracted was she, and so deadened was her thinking, that she never considered what would happen when she inevitably returned to the classroom. How her peers must have perceived the entire debacle from the outside. How her classmates must have come to the dark, ridiculous conclusions they arrived at. She goes to meet with a boy in a private spot. She confesses. He ends up in hospital.

She was a fool. How else could they have interpreted it?

What the fuck did you do to him, Iwanako?!

Nothing! Nothing! I didn’t-

Iwanako is suddenly startled by the blast of a horn. Panicked, she belatedly realizes that she’s about to drift into a small white truck driving alongside her to the right, which she only narrowly avoids crashing into with a violent swerve.

She gasps for breath, trying to slow her racing heart. Driving distracted, tired and alone. Wherever she goes, the possibility of death always seems to follow close behind, and, this time, there won’t be some handsome high school kid to pull her to safety.

He was a cute kid. Soft-spoken, kind, thoroughly ordinary. He played soccer. Always got good math grades. Nothing particularly outstanding, but that was part of his charm. She really thought he was the one.

Maybe he was more popular than she thought. Maybe she was less popular than she thought. Maybe the class was just looking for someone to blame.

Fall from grace.

She’d heard the phrase before, in books and on the news, but she figured that term was reserved for scandal-ridden politicians and celebrities, hiding their faces behind jackets as the cameras flash around them.

Now she knows first-hand. Now she knows what it’s like to be turned on. To be betrayed by the people closest to you. To find that all you thought was true in the world was false.

To have one’s perfect life ripped away in an instant.

It wasn’t my fault. I swear.

She’d been part of girl groups her whole life, and so she’d seen her fair share of exclusions, character assassinations, bullying, fights, the sharing of receipts and the smearing of reputations. But it was always just something that happened to other, less fortunate people.

It could never happen to her.

Or so she thought.

The whispers surround her again. It’s as though she’s back at her desk, eyes focused on her math textbook, trying desperately to block out the words that swirl around her ears like water.

Don’t go near her, or she’ll break your heart.

What, physically or romantically?

Wouldn’t you like to know, ha ha!

She doesn’t hang out with Sakura’s crew anymore, does she?

Duh, I mean, would you want to associate with her now? I mean, they probably think her presence is killing their chances of getting boyfriends, too.

If she makes eye contact with you, she’ll kill you!

Oh, come on, Tetsu, don’t say such rubbish.

I’m serious! The girls say she’s like a witch…

She laughs, bitterly. If only she were a witch, dressed in all black; mysterious, alluring, with mystical powers and a black cat, residing in some gloomy, imposing castle.

But that’s all a fantasy. She’s not a witch. She’s just a scared young lady with a bachelor’s degree and a tentative accounting job in a foreign land on the opposite side of the planet.

They say people have two faces. Iwanako was always a little naïve, but, that day, she saw that even her closest friends have that second, much uglier, face. The knives come out at night, and they hurt more when you don’t expect them.

Yeah right, he just drops to the ground in front of you with a heart attack? Be serious, Iwanako. Tell us what really happened!

I… I…

Look at you, heartbreaker.

Heartbreaker.

Heartbreaker.

She exits the highway, carefully manoeuvring through the dim, narrow streets of the sleepy seaside village until she reaches her destination.

The little two-story houses soon give way to a long stretch of scrubland, and, beyond that, the pitch black of the open sea.

Kujukuri Beach.

There’s a small, empty carpark built into the scrub, just off the main toll road. She pulls in and engages the handbrake, turning the key and shutting off the engine.

For a minute, she simply sits in her seat, listening to the pleasant sound of the waves and the wind rustling the leaves on the bushes.

Then, she gets out and opens the rear door, lugging the turpentine out and setting it on the asphalt, then the box.

Turpentine in her left hand, and the box tucked under her right armpit, she locks her car and slowly begins to make her way to the beach, along the little sandy path that cuts its way through the scrub, connecting the carpark and the sea.

She crests the sand dunes and catches her first glimpse of the beach below.

It’s a full moon, its white glow making a shimmering staircase on the dark and foamy waters below. Separated from Chiba by the hills and forests, the light pollution is lessened here, and Iwanako can easily spot several constellations studding the clear night sky.

The sea breeze is light, gently waving her hair, carrying the distinct scent of salt with every inhale. The waves are small, too, rolling and tumbling onto the sand in foamy breakers.

The beach extends all the way to the horizon in both directions, forming a gentle convex curve that hugs the coastline. It’s is totally deserted, which isn’t unexpected for one in the morning.

Good. She’d rather not have random passersby, or worse, a roving policeman, interrupt what she’s about to do.

Finding a small alcove in the sand dunes not far from the waves, she sets down the heavy turpentine container and the box, stretching out her sore arms and fingers. With her shoes, she carves a small depression in the sand before kneeling down to crack open the turpentine. Twisting the cap off, she’s immediately hit with the strong stench of minerals.

Ensuring the giant four-litre bottle doesn’t tip on the uneven ground, she moves over to the box and opens the lid. Her winter uniform, folded perfectly inside, and below that, all manner of her high school memories, illuminated in the half-light glow of the full moon above her.

Iwanako lifts the black blazer out, takes one last good look at it, and throws it onto the sand.

Then, she hefts the container of turpentine and pours a good measure of the clear liquid on top, the spirits splashing and soaking into fabric.

The maroon skirt with white trim.

Onto the sand. More turpentine.

The thigh-high black socks and brown loafers. More turpentine.

The yearbook. She opens it out and chucks it onto the growing pile. More turpentine.

The liquid splashes onto her shoes and legs, coating her in that mineral stench, but she doesn’t care.

With every item, an anger, a release, is beginning to build.

The textbook. The ruler and protractor. The highlighters. She opens the Doraemon pencil case and dumps the contents out, before chucking that onto the pile, too. The bracelet. The malformed clay dolphin. Each time an item is thrown in, stacked on top of the other, a liberal quantity of turpentine is added.

All her memories. The last physical reminders of her pain. She throws and pours, throws and pours, with increasing abandon, violently shaking the turpentine container by the end until it’s empty, turning the maroon fabric of the uniform almost black, soaking the sand all around her.

Soon, there’s nothing left in the box. She throws that, too, on top, a cardboard crown for the heap of her hatred, the feeling that’s been bubbling within her ever since she rediscovered the cursed thing at the bottom of her closet.

The whispers begin to surround her again, but this time, she won’t listen.

She won’t try to hide it away.

She won’t explain herself.

She won’t try to calm down.

Iwanako pats her pockets for the final ingredient, and sighs with relief when her fingers find a small rectangular box in her sweatpants.

Matches.

She takes one out and inspects it, gazing at the little wooden stick bearing a head of angry crimson.

She’d taken all the blows without complaint. She sat at her desk, mute, as accusation after accusation was thrown at her. She didn’t shout when her class turned their backs on her. She didn’t weep when her friends betrayed her. She didn’t react when the rumours swirled through the classroom, drowning her in words that pierced her heart, again and again.

She’d been the scapegoat. She’d been a walking pariah, taking all the blame, all the pain. She’d been by his side the longest, even when every visit hurt more than the last.

She had carried that guilt, that weight, those memories, all through her last year of high school, all through university, every hour of every day. Even now, when she’s at the precipice of leaving her homeland altogether, it stays with her, hanging onto her soul like a parasite.

No more. No more.

It ends today.

She strikes the match, its little head of flame burning bright against the darkness of the deep night.

With a yell and a swift, violent motion, she tosses the match onto the pile of soaked clothing and stationery.

Instantly, the flame spreads. It’s not explosive, like gasoline, but there’s a woosh as the turpentine-soaked material alights, instantly setting the fabric, paper and plastic ablaze.

Iwanako watches, spellbound, as the last vestiges of her high school life burn before her eyes, the maroon fabric and textbooks curling and blackening as the fire takes hold throughout the pile. The sheets of angry orange flame reach almost to chest height, and she has to stagger several steps back when the wind blows the fumes and embers towards her, choking her, filling her lungs with that acrid stench.

She’s never been much of a firebug. Hell, she’s even a little scared of the gas stove in the house whenever it’s her turn to cook. But, gazing at the conflagration before her, she can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

Of release.

But she’s not yet done.

Turning away from the fire, she walks down to the edge of the beach, where the waves break against the sand, staring out into the horizon. She can see the lights of a few fishing vessels bobbing up and down in the distance, but other than that, she feels as though she’s the last human on earth.

She digs into the other pocket of her sweatpants and pulls out six animal keychains.

Her very last birthday gift.

The last reminder of the people she once called her friends.

She holds them in her palm, tracing the colours of the cute cartoon animals. A tiger. A lion. An elephant. A panda. An orangutan. A penguin.

She remembers that party. The lights, the sparklers, the uproarious laughter, blowing out the candles, oblivious to the hell that would fall upon her in weeks. Oblivious to the fact that the very people she was laughing with would be the first to knock her down.

Oblivious to the fact that she’d been living a lie.

“Why?”

Her voice spills out, low and cutting.

“Why did you abandon me? Why did you turn on me at the first opportunity? Was I that disposable?”

She grows louder, bolder. She’s speaking to the keychains in her palm, as though they alone could answer for her friends’ betrayal.

“I thought I knew who you all were.”

She hurls her words into the sea, her voice filled with five years of pent-up rage at the sheer injustice of it all.

It wasn’t my fault.

I did everything I could.

None of you believed me.

Even when I called you all my friends.

“I trusted you!”

She’s yelling. She doesn’t care.

“I trusted all of you!”

She picks out one keychain, the lion, and balls it in her right fist, squeezing the metal and plastic so tight that it hurts her palms.

“I never want to remember any of your faces ever again!”

Closing her eyes, she rears back and yells out the first name that comes to mind, screaming the syllables, as though expelling every last vestige of her friend from her memory.

“Sakura!”

Her voice ringing out into the cold, salty air, she throws the keychain with all her might into the ocean.

She watches as it flies in a perfect arc, set against the starry sky, descending until it hits the waves about twenty meters away, disappearing in a splash of dark water.

Breathing heavily, she picks out another keychain. The orangutan.

“Tomoko!”

She expels one more person from her memory.

The keychain vanishes with a splash.

Another one. The elephant.

“Minoru!”

Splash.

“Ayane!”

Splash.

“Hitomi!”

Splash.

“Kaede!”

Splash.

Then, there’s nothing left in her palm. No more names to yell. No more memories to hurl into the ocean.

Except for one.

Chest heaving, she grips at her heart, the anger from before still coursing through her veins.

She turns around. The fire is still burning behind her, though its intensity has significantly lessened. The pile from before has now become little more than a heap of charred ash, with individual items now only vaguely distinguishable.

She watches as a few embers float away, little flakes of flame sailing on the ocean breeze like fireflies.

The boy she wanted to confess to.

The boy she dutifully waited on by his bedside.

The boy she abandoned.

She wishes…

She wishes it never would have happened.

Not just that he never should’ve had that heart attack, but that they never should have met in the first place. That she never should have noticed him. That she never should have fallen in love.

“Why did I have to notice you?”

She asks that of the fire.

“Why did I have to confess to you?”

Her words are snatched by the wind.

“Why did you almost die on me?”

It’s not his fault, just as much as it’s not hers. She knows this better than anyone.

She’d just been at the wrong place, at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing. Bad, bad luck.

She left him because she was killing herself in that hospital room, too. She’d been carrying that guilt for so long, but it’s the truth.

She told him as much in that letter. She received no reply. Just as she expected.

That had been an important part in taking at least some of that load off her shoulders. Now, she’s here to finish the job.

She watches as the fire slowly dies, the flames sputtering as the last few remnants of the pile curl and turn to ash.

Soon, she’s left with nothing but a heap of charred remains, and a few glowing embers floating upon the wind.

A whisper leaves her lips.

“I’m sorry Hisao, but…”

It feels a little like she’s condemning him to death, but he’s long, long gone. The Hisao she knew died at the foot of the bare maple tree on that snowy day.

The Hisao that came after is not worth remembering.

“I don’t want to think about you anymore.”

She takes one final, deep breath and…

“Goodbye.”

… expels him from her mind.

The wind bites at her sweatpants, sending charred flakes flying from the former bonfire. It’s only now, with her anger cooled and the fire gone, that she realizes just how cold it is out here at this hour of the night.

She’ll have to make her way back in time to get ready for her flight in the morning. She’ll have to adjust to living in a foreign land, with a foreign language and foreign people. She’ll have to prepare to leave this shore, to leave everything she once knew and called home behind and strike out into the unknown.

She turns her back to the sea and begins to make her way to the path through the scrub.

At least, now…

Now…

She can forget.

Her memories are nothing but embers and ash.

(Back to Index)

The day I graduated high school, I collected up everything school related- my textbooks, my notes, my stationery, my schoolbag, all my mementos, everything- and proceeded to throw all of it into the trash in one big heap.

Sometimes, I do regret doing that. Sometimes, I wish I could see how I wrote back then, all the assignments I got, how well I did on this or that, all the little memories associated with that period of my life.

But I've come to the conclusion that I needed to throw it all away for my peace of mind. It's not like I had a bad high school experience or anything. It's just that I needed to move on to the next stage of my life. It was liberating to do, and, even if I had the chance to go back, I would do it again, no hesitation.

Kindly edited by Piroska.

Stay safe, everyone.

Damn, both of these stories hit incredibly close to home. I know how it feels to not be seen the way you wish you could be seen, to not be able to change a reputation that is now set in stone.

And I know very, very, very well how it feels to be hurt by people you thought were your friends. If only forgetting were so easy, but I doubt any of this will actually bring poor Iwanako peace.

Haneda

The streetlights are so beautiful.

They sparkle like jewels, studded against the streets and the night sky, a collage of warm colours; orange, yellow, white, cream. They’re flashing, blinking, twinkling like stars, mixing with the lit windows of clustered skyscrapers and the occasional neon sign hanging from shopfronts.

The monorail’s carriages clatter, jolting Hisao slightly in his seat. He gazes out the window, watching the streets fly past below him like rows of Christmas lights, their glow reflecting off the dark, calm waters of Tokyo Bay.

The monorail accelerates up a slope, the rails rising in an arch over a waterway, and Hisao catches his first glimpse of the airport, itself a lurid, glittering sea. Through the radiant morass, he spots the end of one of the runways, a single, straight row of white lights that flash in sequence, guiding any arrivals in to a safe landing.

Searching his pockets, he finds his mobile phone and flips it open, checking the time.

22:35.

He nods his head. Good. He’s still early.

Suddenly, there’s a deep, distant rumbling, growing louder than the jostling of the train. Hisao looks up just in time to see a low-flying passenger jet pass right overhead, anticollision beacons flashing, the shrill, metallic roar of its engines filling his ears. His eyes track it as the giant metal bird glides with a grace all out of proportion to its size, wingtips flexing as it rolls gently from side to side, following the red and white lights that guide it towards the runway.

Flaring its nose in the final moments, Hisao watches, spellbound, as the landing gear makes contact with the tarmac, the plane bouncing ever so slightly as it slows, trundling down the runway before its anticollision beacons merge with the illuminated sea of the airport around it and Hisao can’t make out the fuselage anymore.

The monorail, too, begins to slow, pitching downwards as it descends below ground level and into a tunnel, the lights which have accompanied him the whole way since Hamamatsuchō Station disappearing in an instant.

Hisao stands, clutching a nearby pole for support as he makes his way towards the door, the station platform slowly coming into view. Smoothing out his shirt with his free hand, he recalls a promise, an assurance, made long ago, to himself, when he didn’t know what his goals were, what his future held.

We’ll meet again.

Hisao still doesn’t really know his goals, his future. Not quite. But he’s getting there.

He still has that promise.

The monorail comes to a halt, the doors opening.

He steps onto the platform.

…

The terminal is packed.

Hisao is shocked by the size of the crowds, even at this hour of night. They flow this way and that, almost like water, and he has to weave between the masses of bodies and baggage, muttering apologies and enduring the occasional elbow in the sides. Haneda isn’t the fourth-busiest airport in the world for nothing, though it isn’t making his journey any easier. Still, he steadily makes his way towards the arrivals hall, continually checking his phone for the time. Even with the crowds, he’s still ahead of schedule.

Finally, he breaks through to the arrival doors, watching as a steady stream of bedraggled passengers clutching suitcases and carry bags emerge and mix into the general hubbub. There’s a line of metal railings in front of the doors, separating the crowd from the new arrivals. Pushing forward, Hisao finally makes it to the front, poking his head between family members calling out names and people in suits holding placards with company logos.

There’s a massive electronic signboard above the doors, row upon row of flight numbers and origins in bright orange LEDs. Hisao cranes his heck, his eyes searching feverishly for a certain Lufthansa flight from Munich.

It seems like every city in the world is listed here, flights from every corner of the Earth, aboard every airline in existence, mixing and melding in his mind as he scans every row, every number, every name.

Rome. London. San Francisco. Chongqing. Seoul. Sydney. Phnom Penh. Manila. Moscow.

Places he’s never been to, or never even heard of. Countries, cultures, people that he’s never met, and likely never will meet. Separated by mountains, oceans, and tens of thousands of miles.

It’s here, standing at the arrivals hall, gazing up at the oversized signboard, that he feels a little like a country bumpkin, untraveled, unknowledgeable. He’s only really known this city, this country, this little life that’s been his for but twenty-one years.

Well, he’s still young. Even with his heart, he still has some time.

What was he looking for again?

Right. Munich.

He finally finds it, nestled between flights inbound from Jakarta and Dubai, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees LANDED lit up in green LEDs next to its name.

His heart’s still racing, though. He’s not scared, or particularly anxious, yet he can feel his pulse in his ears. It’s the anticipation, the buildup of the weeks, months, years behind him, coming down to this moment.

We’ll meet again.

His mind can’t help but supply the next few lines.

Don’t know where, don’t know when,

But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…

He hums to himself, the tune of an old, old song on his lips. He wonders if the bright ceiling lights of the arrival hall make a good enough substitute for the sun.

He recalls the flurry of activity, of furious planning; the logistics, of course, strongarmed and dictated months in advance and to the letter by Shizune. It appears that three years in a German business institute has only increased her control tendencies, much to Hisao’s chagrin. On the bright side, at least he had to deal with none of the stress, being provided with merely a date, time and a very curt note commanding him to be punctual. He got a good laugh out of that one.

Surprisingly, it was Shizune’s idea for Misha to meet her in Munich so the two to fly into Tokyo together, despite the sheer distance and inefficiency of dragging the poor girl three quarters of the way around the world, from Boston to Germany and then to Japan. Misha had, of course, protested, but with Shizune having already bought the girl’s tickets out of her own (admittedly deep) pockets, she had no choice but to accept.

All three of them had to meet together, she insisted. Not one at a time, or at different locations. Together.

The doors open again, releasing yet another stream of arrivals into the hall. Hisao watches the motley procession of sleep-deprived businessmen, bewildered tourists, and returning locals, some of whom find familiar faces in the waiting crowd and break off to embrace each other, smiling, laughing.

His eyes dart across the throng, scanning faces, people, belongings, looking for a flash of pink hair, or the misshapen body of a certain purple stuffed cat. He gets two false alarms, one when he spots something pink, which turns out to be hair ribbons on a young girl, and another when a passing stuffed cat turns out to be much bigger and differently coloured, clutched in the hands of a toddler.

Hisao impulsively checks his phone for messages, though of course there’s nothing. The two girls are likely still collecting their luggage, or waiting in the endless queues for their passports to be stamped. His heart simply won’t calm down, filled as it is with impatience.

The minutes seem to tick by, glacially, as traveller after traveller exits and disappears into the crowd behind him. It’s probably because he’s so close, yet so far, the person he’s been waiting so long for lurking somewhere just beyond those opaque automatic doors.

But what’s three more minutes when he’s been waiting for three years?

He looks around. Checks his phone. Hums another tune.

What could be the holdup? Hisao can’t remember the last time he flew out of the country, so what exactly goes on behind those doors is a mystery. Maybe Shizune or Misha need some extra stamps. Or perhaps the line is moving slowly.

He chuckles, imagining the Madame President herself, a sour expression on her face, tapping her foot impatiently as some bored customs officer slowly flips through her passport.

Hisao looks up to the signboard again, gazing at the cities and airports which appear and vanish as it cycles through the newest arrivals.

Taipei. Honolulu. Toronto. Hanoi. Istanbul. Dallas. Milan. Guangzhou. Singa-

“Hicchan!”

It’s like an electric shock has been sent through his body.

Hisao’s eyes immediately lock onto the open arrival doors, frantically scanning the crowd.

And-

There they are.

The pink catches his eye first.

Misha, her hair still cut short and outrageously dyed, decked out in sweatpants and an oversized white shirt with the logo of some American baseball team, her smile as bright as the ceiling lights above her, dragging a bright coloured wheelie bag in each hand.

Then…

Shizune.

His heart seizes for a moment.

She’s here. Not in long text messages, not in the grainy footage of a video call, struggling to make out each other’s signs, but here, in flesh and blood.

She could not contrast more from Misha if she tried. She’s dressed in what looks like a suit: a white blouse, black jacket, long black pants and dress shoes, her trademark glasses perched on her nose. Compared to her high-school uniform, it’s like she’s transformed into the imperious, imposing businesswoman she’s always set out to be.

So, it makes for a rather comedic scene to watch this expertly dressed blue-haired lady struggle to pull her two black suitcases behind her while maintaining her serious poise and manner, huffing and puffing as she struggles to keep up with an overexcited Misha.

Hisao, for the first time in a long while, truly, truly, smiles.

“Misha! Shizune!”

Misha is the first to reach him, letting go of the luggage in her hands as she sprints, letting them roll alongside her as she closes the distance and springs an embrace on a stunned Hisao, wrapping her arms around him.

“Hicchan! Long time no see~!”

He returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her. She’s soft, and warm, and ear-splittingly loud, just as he remembered her to be. He’s vaguely aware of Misha’s bags rolling past them and into the crowd, causing a little commotion behind them, but he’s too wrapped up to see what’s happening.

Misha finally relinquishes the hug, stepping back and flashing her enormous, toothy grin. He’s grateful that her time in the New World hasn’t dimmed her natural bubbliness.

“How was the flight, Misha?”

The tips of her pink hair bounce as she giggles, reaching behind Hisao to retrieve her luggage which has been rolled back to them by some Good Samaritan in the crowd behind.

“Good, good~! It was sooooooo long though, Hicchan. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life! But, you know, Shicchan paid for everything, so I can’t complain…”

As if on cue, a hand appears directly in front of his face, fingers snapping impatiently.

He turns to Shizune, who’s adjusting her glasses, a slightly displeased expression on her face. She lets go of her suitcases and steps forward, closing the distance until they’re almost eye to eye.

The ten thousand kilometers that separated them, now reduced to ten centimeters. The general hubbub of the crowd around them falls away, so that it’s just the two of them.

He’s lost for words; the things he’s been waiting to sign for three long years suddenly vanish from his brain as he’s confronted with those piercing blue eyes.

She frowns, eyeing Hisao up and down, as though inspecting him. Compared to her sharp, formal attire, Hisao can’t help but feel distinctly underdressed in his usual routine of beige pants and checkered sweater.

After a long, long moment, she sighs, and raises her thin, dainty fingers.

[You haven’t changed much, have you?]

There’s a silence.

“WAHAHAHAHA~!”

Misha’s uproarious laughter pierces the moment, echoing out into the cavernous arrival hall as she doubles over, clutching her stomach.

Hisao’s laughing, too. The juxtaposition of Shizune’s dead serious expression and the hysterics of the pink-haired girl next to her is too much to bear. He’s dimly aware of the stares they’re getting from the crowd around them, but he doesn’t care.

He raises his head, wiping the tears from his eyes as the chuckles escape his mouth, his laughter set off again whenever he sees Shizune’s somewhat peeved expression. It’s been so, so long since he’s last laughed like that.

It suddenly occurs to Hisao that Misha hasn’t automatically translated for Shizune, as she would be wont to do a mere three years before. The time and distance has served them well.

Shizune is truly speaking for herself.

As Misha’s laughter dies away, he’s reminded of that time, under a bright blue sky, a camera before him and the contrail of a plane above, where he made that assurance, that promise.

We’ll meet again.

Perhaps, Hisao thinks, therein lies his goal, his purpose. Not to be the richest, or the smartest, or the best. But to chase. To meet. To follow his love, his friends, his fate, wherever they may lead him. An endless pursuit to the horizon, forever chasing the light that guides him.

He suddenly finds the words.

He looks at her in the eyes. The same eyes that enraptured him, in that time, long ago, when he was lost and lonely in that classroom. The same eyes, filled with steel and drive, that pulled him out of his shell, that showed him the courage within himself, a courage that he didn’t even know he possessed. The same eyes that never gave up, that kept him moving forward towards the next day, the next step, the next goal.

He looks at her hands, pale and small, yet the very conduit of her authority, her power. The hands that taught him to speak with silence, to break the boundaries, to be more than the sum of his broken parts and to be someone altogether stronger. To be Hisao.

Her eyes. Her hands. These are things that make up Shizune. Distance and time can never change that.

He looks her in the eyes. He smiles. He knows the words.

The words he’s been waiting three long years to sign.

He raises his fingers.

[Welcome home, Shizune.]

( Back to Index)

I wrote most of this on my phone while waiting to pick someone up from the airport.

Stay safe, everyone.

Extrication

(CW: car accident, depictions of grievous bodily injury)

“There, there!”

Ogata points a finger into the darkness past the windscreen, rain splattering onto the glass in jewel-like droplets before being unceremoniously brushed away by the wipers.

“Where? The rain’s too heavy, I can’t see where you’re pointing at all.”

“On your left, at the shoulder!”

Saito peers once again into the gloom. Yet, even with the headlights at full power, he can’t make out more than ten meters of the tarmac in front of him.

“Where?!”

Ogata lets out a huff of frustration.

“Goddammit Saito, slow down! You’re about to drive right past them!”

As if out of nowhere, a blue sedan appears in their headlights, parked at an awkward angle on the roadside. The driver’s door is open, its rain-soaked occupant jumping up and down and waving his arms in a frantic attempt to get their attention.

Saito slams on the brakes, the lumbering fire engine lurching as it fights to gain traction on the slippery surface. For a second, he panics as the vehicle seems to skid, the wheels locking up, before it finally comes to a shuddering halt mere meters away from the sedan, their emergency beacons bathing the scene in surreal hues of alternating white and red.

Ogata raps on the dashboard with his knuckles.

“Watch it, kid! You coulda gone right through him if you weren’t careful!”

The younger man winces at his commander’s reprimand, but his thumping heart knows how close he came to disaster.

“Sorry, sir.”

The commander shakes his head, gazing out into the night once again.

“Doesn’t matter, right now, we…”

Everyone’s eyes, both in the front and back seats, are immediately drawn to the rain-soaked man at the roadside, who’s stopped waving his arms and is instead pointing furiously at something out of sight, down the embankment.

That’s when Saito notices the wisps of white smoke rising through the downpour, illuminated by the headlights of the fire engine and sedan.

“Oh, shit.”

His commander and the men in the backseats are already moving, scrambling to get their respirators hooked up and onto their faces.

“Hoods on, gentlemen. Don’t want to be breathing that stuff in, especially if it’s a car battery.”

Saito yanks on the handbrake and immediately reaches for the fabric of his fume hood. Pulling it around his head, he grabs the straps of his respirator, slamming it onto his face and wrapping the bands around his helmet. With his ears covered, the sounds around him dull, as though he’s underwater.

Ogata is yelling again, his voice muffled by the hood and respirator.

“Ready? Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Urged on as though into battle, the firefighters shove open the doors and leap out of the vehicle. Saito’s heavy boots hit the tarmac, sending a splash of water in all directions. Immediately, he’s soaked, though with so many layers on, it’s difficult to tell.

He heads towards the blue sedan, finding Ogata trying to speak with the rain-soaked man, who’s shouting and gesticulating wildly. He’s balding, maybe around fifty or so, dressed in a salaryman’s clothes that have been waterlogged to the point of transparency.

As Saito approaches, he can just about make out their conversation through the roar of the rain and the shrill scream of the sirens, though with the man’s panicked state, it’s mostly just Ogata trying to decipher his incoherent babbling.

“I… I… there’s… I…”

“Calm down, sir. Breathe, breathe. What’s going on?”

The man bends over, trying to catch his breath as the rain hammers at his skin and his clothing. He swallows once, stands back up, and points down the embankment with a shaking finger.

“I… I saw a car swerve right off the road. I… I think it’s on fire…”

Following Ogata’s gaze, Saito can just about make out the silhouette of something angular and misshapen at the bottom of the ditch, smoke billowing upwards and wafting into the night air.

Saito grits his teeth.

His commander is already ahead, barking orders to his three comrades behind him.

“Yoshida! Yamada! Tsukamoto! We need all the hydraulics we can get our hands on: cutters, spreaders, and rams! I need them down in this ditch!”

As the trio turn back to the truck and immediately begin searching for the equipment, Ogata turns and points to Saito, his voice dampened by the respirator but no less authoritative.

“Saito, grab an extinguisher and follow me. Now.”

Saito nods, turning for the truck and reaching into the cab for the handheld extinguisher he knows is stored next to the passenger seats. His gloved fingers find the smooth metal cylinder, and he yanks it out of its brackets. There are probably some loose extinguishers he’s supposed to be using stored in the equipment racks, but the panic on the man’s face keeps flashing through his mind.

Saito turns back to find Ogata already making his way down the embankment and into the ditch, the salaryman following close behind. Running up to the roadside, Saito places a hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to lead him away from the scene.

“Sir, please, stay back. We’ll handle this.”

The man ignores him, brushing his hand away and continuing down the slope, his dress shoes occasionally stumbling on the wet grass.

Saito sighs. Morbid curiosity seems to override any common sense. He follows, taking great care not to slip, the sirens behind him blaring ominously into the inky darkness beyond.

Just in front of him, Ogata slows, stopping just in front of the misshapen silhouette, finding his footing on the incline.

Then, he snaps open his headlamp.

Saito’s blood freezes.

“Oh, shit.”

There is, indeed, a car at the bottom of the ditch.

More accurately, it’s a wreck.

It’s upright, painted white, and has four wheels, but that’s all that Saito can recognize at first glance. The passenger compartment is crushed like a tin can, the roof caved in, likely the result of at least one full rollover. The engine is totally destroyed, the hood folded at an unnatural angle, all manner of cylinders, piping and engine parts scattered around, thick white smoke pouring out of whatever’s left. The wheels are bent akimbo, the doors jammed and knocked out of alignment, the windows and windscreen smashed and cracked in horrifying mosaics.

All along the grass of the embankment, submerged in the stream of muddy rainwater running through the ditch, are pieces of misshapen metal; torn, shredded and scattered about, likely from the bumpers or fenders coming apart as the car tumbled down the slope.

It’s the kind of scene one sees in documentaries, or in horror films. For a second, he’s frozen. He can’t help but stand, wide-eyed, trying to process the scene of utter carnage before him.

“Saito!”

It’s at that moment that he spots some light brown hair hanging limply out of the smashed front left window.

“Saito!”

A part of his brain recognizes someone’s calling for him, but he’s spellbound, watching as the rain runs down the strands of hair clinging to the window, forming tiny droplets at the tips that grow and fall onto the grass beneath.

“Saito, dammit! Put out that bloody fire!”

Ogata’s barked commands suddenly cut through his fugue state. Instantly, his hands obey, falling back on the muscle memory from his training.

He threads his middle finger through the metal loop of the safety pin, yanking it out with all his might and casting it away. Aiming the nose of the flexible nozzle, Saito advances towards the smoldering vehicle. He flicks on his headlamp, illuminating the crushed remnants of the engine compartment, spotting several tendrils of flame curling around what must have once been the hood, sending plumes of steam and white smoke into the night sky.

It's raining, but the water is doing precious little to douse the fire. He squeezes the release lever, sending a burst of white foam showering over the wreckage, coating the twisted metal like snow as it mixes with the rain and seeps into the cracks.

Saito squeezes, again and again, sweeping at the base of the fire, the flames retreating under the deluge of rainwater and retardant, the smoke immediately thinning with every burst.

He turns his head to the right to shout.

And that’s when he sees them.

The windscreen is smashed to all hell, great gaping holes letting the water flow into the passenger compartment. Yet, even with all the destruction, he can still see inside.

The airbags have deployed, though the sheer force of the impact must have deflated them, as they’re flaccid and draped all over the windows and seats. On the right side, where the driver sits, he spots an arm emerging from the deflated airbags, dressed in a green sleeve, lying limply on the steering wheel, fingertips just barely touching the dashboard.

He turns to the left side passenger seat.

His heart seizes.

It’s a girl.

She, too, is covered by the waterlogged fabric of the airbags, though her face and her arms are free. Her seat has partially collapsed on top of her, the bent metal of the roof pressing down, encasing her in a cage of jagged metal and shattered glass, pressing her up against the dashboard. She’s young, no more than eleven or twelve, her matted brown hair done up in twintails that have splayed wildly with the force of the crash.

And her face. Remarkably, it’s come away with few injuries, a couple superficial bruises and scratches, drops of rain clinging to her skin that sparkle in the light of the headlamps. Her eyes are closed.

Neither occupant seems to be breathing.

For a second, both Saito and Ogata simply stare at the girl. The remainder of the crew rush up behind them, hauling all manner of hydraulic rescue equipment in their hands, wiring and tubing wrapped in loops around their shoulders.

They, too, stop and stare.

Then, she moves, turning her head and opening her mouth.

Saito’s yelling before he even realizes it.

“She’s still conscious!”

That breaks the spell. Instantly, there’s a flurry of activity, Ogata grabbing a glass breaker from Tsukamoto even as he barks new orders.

“Yoshida! Medkit!”

“On it!”

With practiced precision, the commander begins to knock the jagged shards of glass out of the frame and onto the ground, trying to clear the left side passenger window.

Something catches his eye, and he turns to Saito.

“That engine’s still smoking! Keep using the extinguisher!”

Nodding, Saito aims again, squeezing the lever and pouring retardant into the engine block, trying to stamp out that fire once and for all. Even as he watches the white powder shower and scatter, all he can think about is the girl with twintails, trapped in her seat a mere meter from him.

Then, the stream of retardant stops. He shakes the extinguisher and squeezes again, but the nozzle only spits out a small puff of powder.

He dumps the extinguisher on the ground. He gazes at the remnants of the engine, coated in a thick layer of fire retardant. The smoke, at least, has stopped.

“I’m out, sir!”

Ogata and Tsukamoto have finished clearing the glass, allowing them to take off their gloves, reach inside, and take the girl and the driver’s pulses with their fingers.

Without looking away, Ogata continues to shout instructions, muffled as it is by the respirator and the ever-present roar of the rain.

“That’s enough! Come over and give us a hand!”

Saito approaches the left-hand door. The girl seems to be fully aware of her surroundings, her poplar green eyes wide with panic and confusion. Despite Tsukamoto’s attempts to hold in her place, she desperately tries to wiggle her way out, twisting her body against the wreckage.

As he gets closer, he can hear her speak, her voice choked with tears, sputtering one word, over and over.

“Dad? Dad?”

Each question stabs Saito’s heart, which seems to be beating in his ears. Tsukamoto tries to comfort her, speaking in as soothing a voice as he can manage with the respirator on.

“It’s alright, girl, we’ve got you. Just keep still, please, we’re gonna get you out…”

The girl takes little heed, continuing to thrash wildly, her tears mixing with the rain coming through the broken windshield. It’s a sickening sight, Saito has to wrench his eyes off her and look away.

Ogata is pulling at the door handle, yanking at it with all his might in a futile attempt to open it. After a struggle, he gives up, releasing his grip and shaking his head.

“Damn! The door’s jammed. I figured the impact would’ve wrenched it off its hinges, but it’s well and truly stuck.”

“We gotta cut it open?”

“No other choice. She’s trapped between the seat and the dashboard, so we can’t use the window. Yamada! Bring up the cutters!”

The device is brought forward, a round, cylindrical body with an evil-looking two pronged claw at the end.

The girl is positively crying now, wailing into the rainy air, calling for her father.

“Dad? Dad? Dad?”

The appearance of the cutter does nothing to assuage her panic, but they have no choice. They need to hurry. Saito instead focuses on the tool, turning it on and wrangling it into position.

“Line it up, Saito. Right there… put it down. Alright, cut ‘er through…”

The sound of shearing metal, groaning hydraulics, the wails of the trapped girl and the ceaseless drumming of the rain all combine to make a truly hellish atmosphere, but Saito keeps his hands steady, watching as the claws rip apart the door hinges bit by bit.

Finally, there’s an audible crack in the metal, and the door comes ajar.

“It’s loose!”

“Stop cutting! Get that door off… slowly… easy now…”

With great care, the three of them slowly lift the door off its snapped hinges, carrying it off and gently placing it down on the grass. Sighing from the exertion, Saito turns around. With the door off, they can finally see the damage inside the passenger compartment.

The top of the seat has come down on the girl’s back, trapping her between the roof and what remains of the windscreen. Her torso and legs, however, are a different story. They’re thoroughly pinned, crushed between the glovebox and the seat.

Saito looks down.

There’s blood dripping from the glovebox, running in little crimson streams onto the lower frame of the car, dropping onto the grass beneath.

He fights to keep his dinner in his stomach.

Her legs.

The force of the impact must have sent her lower half between the glovebox and the floor, crushing it between the two. It’s a wonder how she’s not screaming her head off. Perhaps the shock is keeping the pain out of her system. For now.

Ogata kneels down, looking for any gap he can leverage between the glovebox and the seat, the girl whimpering and crying above him.

“She’s trapped against the dashboard. She’s bleeding heavily from her torso, or her legs, or both, I can’t tell from here.”

Tsukamoto pipes up.

“Where’s that ambulance?”

Ogata stands up, his fingers fumbling for his walkie-talkie, and he yells into the microphone, trying to raise the dispatcher. There’s a crackle, and a garbled response, heavy on the static. Between the rain and his fire hood, he can’t make out what the dispatcher is saying, but Ogata nods and yells something in the affirmative.

“The ambulance is three minutes out. We can’t staunch the bleeding while she’s trapped like that, so we need to get her out, now, before she bleeds to death.”

Tsukamoto nods, pulls a box cutter from his fire jacket’s pocket, and immediately sets to work sawing through the girl’s seatbelt, continuing to comfort her in that soothing, muffled voice of his.

Saito points to the other side of the wreck.

“What about the driver?”

Ogata shakes his head.

“He’s not breathing. She is. Pass me the spreader.”

A brutal calculation. His commander kneels beside Tsukamoto, positioning the jaws of life like giant reverse pliers between the twisted doorframe, fighting to get some leverage.

“Saito! Hold onto the metal! Make sure it doesn’t collapse inwards, or else it’ll make our job even harder!”

Grasping the doorframe, Saito watches as Ogata activates the spreader, the arms pressing against the exposed metal, slowly but surely crumpling it and pushing them apart.

The glovebox and windshield begin to move, ever so slightly.

Tsukamoto stands back up and puts his box cutter back in his pocket.

“Her seatbelt’s cut. I’m gonna see if I can push her seat back so she’s not against the dashboard.”

Ogata shakes his head furiously.

“Tsukamoto, don’t! You might crush her legs even further against the glovebox. Just keep her calm and still. We’re almost there.”

Despite her state, the girl keeps reaching for the limp hand of the driver, her voice continuing to sputter his name, as if she can’t understand what’s happened to him.

“Dad? Dad? Dad?”

“It’s okay, girl, we’re gonna get you out, and then we’ll get your dad out, okay? Just don’t move, we’re gonna get you out of here… breathe... breathe…”

It’s only sinking in now that the unmoving arm pinned between the steering wheel and the seat belongs to the girl’s father. A young girl, slowly bleeding to death, trapped in a car wreck, her own father likely dead a mere arm’s length away.

The wail of a new set of sirens starts to ring in Saito’s ears. He looks up at the embankment to see the white and red paint of an ambulance, its emergency beacons only adding to the surreal lightshow that bathes the scene.

“The ambulance is here, sir.”

Ogata glances up for a split second, before turning his attention back to the spreader, which is slowly but surely forcing the seat and glovebox apart, the gap between them growing ever wider.

“Finally. Get them down here.”

The flow of blood seems to grow even greater, though, and Saito’s headlamp catches a glimpse of something bloody and pinkish between the gaps.

Shit.

“She’s losing blood.”

“I know, I know, I’m trying to get more leverage, dammit!”

The metal pops and creaks, the girl’s cries growing even louder. Ogata holds down on the spreader, keeping it in position, the internal hydraulics whirring and grinding as it strains against the misshapen wreck.

As if from nowhere, a hand slams into Saito’s shoulder, momentarily throwing him off balance. He turns around to see a paramedic, dressed only in scrubs and a face mask, thoroughly soaked through from the pouring rain. Behind him, four more paramedics are bringing up a stretcher and black carry bags filled with medical supplies. They, too, are clad only in thin scrubs, dripping with water. The contrast between them and the heavily laden, respirator-wearing firefighters is dramatic.

Saito points to Ogata, who’s still wrangling the spreader. The paramedic kneels down and pats the commander on the shoulder.

“What’s the situation?”

Ogata finally relinquishes his focus on the girl and turns to the paramedic, lowering his respirator so he can speak more clearly.

“One adult male, one female child. The girl’s conscious, but she’s trapped and bleeding heavily from her legs. High likelihood those have been crushed in the impact. The driver has no pulse, no breathing. We’ve been focusing on getting the girl out.”

The paramedic nods, glancing at the girl, at the blood running down the doorframe, then back at his team.

“Sae! Honji! Go around to the right side and check the driver! Rest of you, bring that stretcher over here! This girl’s got heavy bleeding, we’ll need to move her quickly!”

Ogata finally switches off the hydraulic spreader, which has succeeded in opening a fifteen-centimeter gap between the glovebox and the girl’s legs. The light is bad, but Saito is having gruesome premonitions of what might be lurking there.

The commander turns around.

“Yoshida, you got hammers?”

“Mallets, yeah.”

“Pass ‘em up. We’re gonna smash through the dashboard and rip out the glovebox that way. We’re out of time.”

Saito is handed a mallet. He lines it up to the side of the glovebox. Ogata does the same.

“Alright, smash right through it until you find the hinges. Then, we pull it out. Ready?”

“Ready.”

They both raise their arms, and hammer down on the black plastic of the dashboard. The flimsy material immediately begins to give way, splitting at the seams and cracking with every impact, the duo ripping away the sharp plastic after every strike.

Within no time, they’ve exposed the glovebox compartment that’s been pinning the girl’s legs in place. Ogata smashes away the hinges on the left side, letting the compartment droop into the space created by the spreader.

He turns to the paramedics waiting behind him.

“We’re about to break her out. Her legs aren’t looking good. If you need to tourniquet her, do it.”

The paramedics answer affirmatively, so he places his hands on the glovebox compartment and looks towards Saito.

“Alright. Saito, with me. We’re gonna pull together and rip the glovebox right out of its socket. Got it?”

He nods.

“Alright. Ready… pull!”

They yank back on the compartment together. The glovebox wrenches free on his hinges and easily slides out.

The girl screams, her voice tearing into the stormy night, and Saito grits his teeth even harder. The dented surface of the glovebox is covered in blood.

“There’s enough space! Yamada! Tsukamoto! Get her out of the car!”

Saito is shoved aside as the two other men reach inside the passenger compartment, working with the utmost care to pull the screaming girl from her seat and thread her torso… and what’s left of her legs through the gap.

“I got her!”

“Pull her out! Carefully!”

The duo gingerly lifts the young girl out of the wreck, clearing her from the twisted metal before setting her down on the waiting stretcher just a meter from their feet. Saito catches a glimpse of her as she lies on the stretcher, just before she’s surrounded by the team of paramedics which wait around her, armed with plasma and bandages.

The sight horrifies him.

She’s so small, her hair done up like a little girl’s, yet her injuries are beyond belief. Her torso looks fine, and her shoes are intact, but the entire portion between her thighs and her ankles has been crushed by the force of the impact. All he can comprehend is that her legs have been turned into a mangled, bloody mess.

It’s absolutely sickening. Saito immediately turns away, raising his hands to wipe the stinging tears that well up in his eyes, but finds them blocked by the clear plastic visor of his respirator.

The girl is screaming, but not in pain.

She’s screaming for her father.

It breaks Saito’s heart.

“No! No! What about dad?! What about dad?!”

He can hear the dull thump of footsteps as the paramedics get to their feet and begin to carry the stretcher out of the ditch.

The girl seems to lose it completely, her shrieking and screaming reaching a fever pitch.

“NO! NO! DAD! DAD! DAD!”

It may be his job, but Saito refuses to watch anymore. He keeps his back turned, trying to blot out her despairing, desperate cries which grow ever fainter as she’s brought up to the roadside and to the waiting ambulance.

“You can’t leave him! You need to get my dad, please! Please, you need to…”

Her pleas are lost to the incessant drum of the rain. Saito turns around, expecting to be reprimanded for not helping.

Instead, he finds Ogata standing impassively by the wreckage, watching on silently as the paramedics crest the embankment, never taking his eyes off the young girl lying on the stretcher.

They disappear, and it’s as though the blaring of the sirens and the cries of the girl vanish from the world with them.

Only the rain remains.

…

Saito finds his commander by the roadside.

He’s sitting on the curb, legs folded up to his chest. His helmet, fire hood and respirator have been removed and left upon the tarmac, the helmet sitting upside down and slowly filling with water from the unending rain.

He gazes at the man’s face, soaked by the water which drips off his short, greying hair. Saito suddenly notices the wrinkles, the eyebags, the clear signs of stress and shock that have been chiseled into Ogata’s features. He stares out, across the road still lit by the red and white flashes of the emergency lights, as though looking for something far away in the gloom beyond. Compared to the authoritative leader of but a half-hour before, it’s a startling transformation.

Saito removes his respirator, the cool night air and falling rain a welcome relief from the stuffy humidity of his visor.

He swallows once, clearing his throat, before gingerly addressing the man before him.

“Uh, sir?”

Ogata doesn’t take his eyes off the darkness.

“Yes?”

“I’d… I’d like to apologize.”

The older man pauses, as though confused by Saito’s words. Still, he doesn’t shift his gaze.

“Apologize? For what?”

Saito takes a deep breath.

“For not braking in time when we arrived. And… for freezing up when the engine was on fire. Sorry, sir.”

“Oh.”

Ogata’s brusque response catches Saito off-guard. It’s like Ogata isn’t even here, like he’s far away.

Something must be weighing on his mind.

He shakes his head slightly.

“…It’s nothing. And cut the ‘sir’ crap. I don’t want to hear it.”

An awkward silence forms between them, save for the splashing of raindrops on the tarmac.

“Don’t just stand there like a stunned mullet, kid. Sit.”

Ogata pats the curb on his left. Slowly, Saito lowers himself to the ground, sighing with relief as the tension goes out of his legs.

Yet another silence descends. Saito looks to his left. The fire engine is still there. The first ambulance to arrive is long gone. The second sits waiting on the roadside, rear doors open and a stretcher set up for a patient that can no longer be saved.

The patient in question is zipped up in a black body bag coated in beads of water, resting on the tarmac next to a police car. Two policemen stand next to it, writing something down in a notebook and talking in hushed tones. At least, Saito thinks to himself, he doesn’t have to deal with that sort of thing. He’s not sure he’d last if he had to.

He turns away, looking out into the darkness.

“That girl looks just like my daughter.”

Ogata’s sudden words surprise Saito, who turns to look at him.

“Really?”

The man nods.

“Yes. She’s a spitting image of Mika. Everything. Even the hairdo.”

His voice is soft, tender. Saito’s almost never heard him speak like this.

Saito interjects with a question.

“How’d you think it happened? The crash, I mean.”

Ogata shrugs.

“Could be anything, really. Tired driver. Speeding. Distracted. Didn’t help that it’s at night and it’s pouring with rain, so traction would’ve been poor. He may have tried to turn or brake and ended up skidding into that ditch.”

The man slumps down, almost doubled over, running a finger through his graying hair, sending droplets of water in trails down his cheek and neck.

“It’s the same story as the thousand other crashes that’s happened or will happen this year. What’s different is the young goddamn girl he had in the front seat.”

“Do you think she’ll make it?”

“Unless something crazy happens, she’ll survive. Whether she’ll live is an entirely different question.”

Saito can’t help but notice the double meaning of live. And it’s not just thinking and breathing. Still, she’s alive. She survived something he thought at first glance was unsurvivable.

“…I think she’s pretty lucky, though.”

Ogata finally breaks his blank, faraway stare. He looks at Saito like he’s just said something ridiculous.

“In what way?”

“I mean, look at what happened to the car. That thing must have rolled at least once, if not several times. The father was dead on impact. The fact that she came away from it conscious means she’s insanely lucky.”

Ogata shakes his head, raising his voice as his usual fiery tone begins to creep back in.

“You think she’s lucky? Damn kid just lost her father and her legs all at the same time! She’s never gonna walk again, that’s for sure. At best, she’s stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her goddamn life. How is that lucky?”

Saito has no response. He simply looks on, frozen.

Ogata shakes his head again, looking at the ground.

“She’s so young. Eleven, twelve. To lose your legs at that age… that’s unimaginable. You can’t walk. You can’t run. You can’t climb stairs, or jump, or swim, or do anything else your friends can do. How’s she going to go to school? How about the kid’s mother? How’s she going to handle all this?”

The rain continues to pour.

“I try to imagine putting Mika through that and… Saito, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I don’t know if she’ll be able to handle it.”

Saito has never seen his commander look or sound so… defeated. It’s like the events of the past hour have hollowed Ogata out, replacing him with a shell of the usually stern and certain leader.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ve saved her, or if we just turned the rest of her life into a living hell. That’s what’s getting me.”

Ogata’s despairing tone strikes something within Saito. The words are on his lips without him really thinking about it.

“We’re firefighters. It’s our job to rescue people.”

His commander lets out a bark of bitter laughter, his voice turning sarcastic, cutting.

“Yeah, we rescued her, and in the process, we turned her into a cripple. She’s gonna be real grateful for that.”

Fire fills Saito’s veins. He shakes his head, unwilling to let the cynicism of his usually energetic commander pass without comment.

“That’s not fair. We couldn’t just leave her to die.”

Ogata suddenly explodes, kicking at the wet tarmac with his boot, shooting Saito a piercing, pained look.

“I don’t want to hear cliches, kid! Look at what happened to her! Her legs were turned into mincemeat! Her dad died right next to her! All she’s got to look forward to now is being trapped in a hospital bed for God knows how long. What a great fucking future we created for her when we pulled her out of the wreckage!”

The man’s anger cools as suddenly as it appeared, and he slumps back down, letting the rainwater roll off his back and his hair.

Saito grits his teeth. None of what Ogata is saying seems even remotely true. His voice takes on a tone of authority he didn’t even know he had.

He takes a deep breath.

“With all due respect, Ogata, you don’t get to decide the value of her life. She does.”

There’s no response. His commander simply looks down at the bitumen. Saito continues.

“You’ve been doing this work for much longer than I have. Maybe you’ve seen things I haven’t. Fine. But what I know is, our entire job is to give people the chance to live. That’s what we literally run through fire to do, Ogata. You, of all people, should know that.”

The sirens, the rain, the lights, they all seem to fall away. The words come naturally, like they’re welling up from within him.

“Maybe she’s weak. Maybe she’s strong. Maybe she’ll die tomorrow. Maybe she’ll live until she’s one hundred. I don’t know. But if we don’t do what we do, we’ll never find out. We can’t bring her legs back, but I refuse to believe that means her life is over. Maybe your years of rescuing have blinded you to the fact, but… people are a lot stronger than you give them credit for.”

His tone quietens.

“She’s only eleven, Ogata. People change. People heal. People adapt. That’s what humans do. It’s not our right to judge people based on how likely they are to survive, or how well they’re going to live if they do. We save people, Ogata. Not lives. Lives are something for that person to live on their own terms.”

He lowers his head.

“Just… give the girl a chance.”

Saito’s words dissipate into the downpour. Now that he’s finished, he’s a little embarrassed at the speech he’s given to his boss, but it was all from his heart.

After a long silence, Ogata loudly sighs and leans back, letting the rain fall on his face. His tone finally relaxes.

“Alright, alright. I hear you, Saito.”

He reaches over to his helmet, grabbing it and tipping it over to pour out the water.

“This… this never should have happened to her…”

Saito stands, brushing the droplets from his protective suit.

“We don’t get to decide that either. We can only do our jobs.”

Ogata pauses, and the tiniest of smiles creeps onto the man’s lips. He stands, puts on his helmet, and rests a gloved hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“You’re a lot smarter than you let on, kid.”

Then, he walks towards the fire engine, his heavy footfalls merging with the endless, endless rain.

( Back to Index)

A few nights ago, I drove past a pretty serious accident on the side of a highway. It had the whole works: fire engines, ambulances, car wrapped around a tree. I just couldn't get it out of my head, so I started to write.

Kindly edited by Piroska.

Drive safely, everyone. Your life, and the lives of the people you love, depend on it.

This is a wonderfully tragic prequel piece. Ogata and Saito play wonderfully against one another, with both foiling each other's world views in a believable and immersive way. I love the undulating line between innocence, optimism and naivety and experience, pessimism and realism that the two seem to flip back and forth on. Almost Blakean in its depiction of youth and experience. Well done mate this is a wonderfully woeful and somehow uplifting piece.