Katawa Shoujo Forums

Welcome.

I'm the sort of writer who pumps out 3000 words in one evening and then crashes for the remainder of the week. Because of this, shorter stories and oneshots are a much more natural form for me.

I can only look upon those who put out longfics and entire routes over the span of years with awe and reverence.

So, here you'll find a compendium of all my little narratives, musings and other literary odds and ends.

I hope you enjoy.

Index:
Bleachers | Hisao catches a flight (this post)
Godot [Pilot] | All the world's a stage...
Kokura | A roll of the dice
Chūō | End of the line
Sarabande | Ad emendandum, manebo ad latus tuum
Jigsaw | Ini adalah banyak keping saya
Lanterns | Can you see the other shore?
Subduction [Pilot] | The earth moves
Cape | Miki goes home
Bonfire | Some things are best forgotten
Haneda | The lights will guide you back to me
Extrication | When it rains, it pours
Island | It tolls for thee

Bleachers

Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.

University students aren’t supposed to buy intercontinental plane tickets on a whim, even if they are on a postgraduate physics scholarship to the Tokyo Institute of Technology.

Reclining back in his seat, mentally tallying up the costs, Hisao sighs as he fully comprehends how much this heat-of-the-moment jaunt will cut into his already tight finances. Looks like it’s back to another month at least of instant ramen and overtime shifts at the lab.

The rays of the sunlight slowly rising above the stratospheric clouds stab at his eyes, forcing Hisao to close the window shades with a dull shunk.

In any case, it’s far too late to change course now. It’s not like he’s going to get his money back by hopping out of the airplane at 37,000 feet over Siberia.

At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.

He can face it when he returns to the surface.

Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.

It’s another eleven hours until he lands in London.

…

Everything goes by in a blur.

It’s as though Hisao has been teleported into an alien landscape. He can hardly recall getting off the plane, nor collecting his luggage, nor the frantic deciphering of byzantine signage, trying to figure out where on earth he needs to go.

He finds himself on the Tube, the carriage gently rocking from side to side as it speeds through the darkness. He clutches his backpack and wheeled travel case as the train lurches and the lights flicker.

A croaky voice laughs at some unheard joke, while a group of high schoolers behind him speak in rapid, hushed tones about something he can’t make out.

Hisao has never been to London before. Hell, he’s never been outside Japan. Surrounded by unfamiliar people speaking unfamiliar words, he’s never felt more alone in his life, like a castaway adrift in a metropolitan ocean.

“The next station is: King’s Cross St. Pancras…”

The train jolts as the brakes engage, their metallic screeching like the howls of banshees reverberating through the tunnel and into the carriage.

Clutching his few possessions even tighter, Hisao really begins to question why he decided to come here in the first place.

…

Somehow finding his hotel. Stumbling through the door and collapsing onto the small single bed.

The flight took more out of him than he thought.

It’s only when the morning sun warms the back of his neck that he’s fully aware of his surroundings. Of the tiny, one bed room with a bathroom the size of a locker. Of the bags laying sprawled, unpacked on carpet near the door.

Of the thing he came all this way to do.

Wash, shave, dry. Rubbing his face with the hand towel, Hisao becomes aware of the lost look in his eyes, as though he’s searching for something that can never be found.

He wonders how long he’s had it.

Outside the hotel, Hisao hails a cab. He’s not making the mistake of trying to navigate a Tube station twice.

The shiny black car with the oddest bonnet Hisao has ever seen pulls up, a wrinkly old man with greying hair but a kind face behind the wheel. In halting English, Hisao manages to convey his destination, to which the driver responds with something cheery but totally incomprehensible.

Winding through the narrow alleys and crammed arterial roads, Hisao can only look on, dully, at the streets lined with shops with unpronounceable names, the crowds surging like water down sidewalks and across streets. At once, familiar and totally alien, like his home of Tokyo viewed through stained glass.

The car accelerates onto an overpass, giving Hisao his first glimpse of his destination: the gleaming white trusses of a stadium, its wide, circular structure looming over a sea of tents, flags and parked cars. The white, triangular metal finishings hang like gigantic icicles from the roof’s sheer edge.

His kindly driver speaks again, the old man’s accent mangling any hope of understanding his words on the first pass. Hisao has to ask him to repeat himself three times before he has a chance of untangling his driver’s speech.

“Got a ticket to the Paralympics, my boy? Must be lookin’ forward to it, eh?”

Hisao can only nod noncommittally. The truth is far too complicated to tell.

…

The atmosphere is raucous, and Hisao can’t feel a bit of it.

The inside of the stadium is positively rumbling, the air filled with music, loudspeaker announcements and the general rolling hubbub of the crowd.

Yet, even as he is jostled to and fro by the many bodies moving up and down the stairs to the bleachers, the excitement never makes its way into Hisao’s heart. None of the fanfare, the pageantry, not even the other events, interest him. He is in the stadium for one of world’s most prestigious sporting competitions, and he may as well be in the waiting room for a doctor’s appointment.

Hisao is only here to see one thing. Nothing else matters.

Pushing his way through the mass, he finally finds his seat, one amongst thousands filled with spectators.

Hisao fiddles with the ticket in his hand, his fingers curling the paper, over and over in an endless loop. A blonde- and black-haired couple beside him talk animatedly, their excitement for what is to come clearly overflowing.

He is silent. His brown eyes scan over the empty track, irises flitting between the various cameramen and support staff standing about on the grass and by the sidelines.

It reminds him of his third year of high school. Sitting on the bleachers in the early morning air, watching the academy athletics track, far away from home and everything he knew. Waiting for a new life. Waiting for someone.

Waiting.

Waiting.

…

The loudspeaker announcements reverberate throughout the stadium, their echoes melding into one continuous wall of noise assaulting Hisao’s ears from all directions.

Cheers go up as the latest set of athletes return to the sidelines, heads and hands raised high in triumph, the end of yet another race.

Hisao watches, impassive, vigilant, waiting for them to finish and the next event to begin. The spotlights hitting the field from across the stadium hurt his eyes, forcing him to squint, yet he remains steadfast, his index finger tapping impatiently on the laminate paper programme he holds in his hand.

The loudspeakers start up again, roaring, deafening, but this time Hisao perks up. The athletes for this particular race are being called up.

It’s what he’s been waiting for.

They file out of entrances embedded into the stands and onto the track, dressed in running jerseys labeled with their nations and numbers. Their long hair is tied back into neat ponytails, eyes glimmering with excitement and determination.

They are all different heights, different ages. A bespectacled girl, who could not be older than 16, waves to the crowd with both hands, smiling all the while. An older lady with short, red hair, marches determinedly to her position on the start line.

But there’s one thing they all have in common.

One leg is missing, their lower appendage replaced by a smooth, curved running blade, shining in the spotlights like drawn swords.

Then, Hisao sees her.

His heart jolts.

She immediately stands out. Her short stature, her bright green eyes. Her trademark light brown hair, glowing almost pink in the stadium’s light, is no longer in the twintails he once knew, but in the same regulation ponytail, the tips swinging side to side as she walks, a bounce in her step.

It’s because she’s the only double amputee on the track. Whereas everyone else at least possesses one good leg, she springs into her position on double blades.

But the thing that gets Hisao the most is her expression.

She’s smiling, widely, wildly, grinning at the crowd as though she’s on top of the world, that there’s no place she’d rather be.

Even in his memories, Hisao cannot recall her face so luminescent, so clearly brimming with joy and trepidation. Like so many things, it’s a face she never let him see. Pure, unadulterated excitement, even for a girl as excitable as her.

It pains him. It really does. All the memories he’s kept securely locked in the deep recesses of his being bubble back to the surface, fighting for space in his consciousness.

She’s smiling so much, and she had left him behind.

The announcements are rolling again, announcing each of the competitors in turn, accompanied by the roars of supporters and well-wishers with each name called.

Her name is suddenly on the tannoy, echoing around the stadium like the voice of God. A great ruckus immediately erupts from all sides, deafening him, as people stand, clap, cheer for the little young lady on twin blades, who raises both arms to the crowd as though attempting to embrace them all. He can see, in one of the stands opposite, a giant Japanese flag being waved, the crowd matching her exuberance.

A part of Hisao feels that he should join in the revelry, to show his support, his enthusiasm.

But he can’t. He doesn’t feel anything, save for a sinking, longing sadness the longer the cheers go on. He feels like she’s a million miles away, that he’s watching her through a glass box, disconnected from everything around him.

He’d cheered for her, once upon a time. He’d rooted for her success, her happiness.

That time has long passed.

She’s never appeared happier in her life than now.

So, he sits, frozen, impassive, as though he’s back in his university apartment, watching on the TV like every other sensible person. He sits as the last few names are called, the ruckus dying away and the crowd resuming their seats as the air turns heavy, nervous.

He sits as the athletes are called to their positions, jumping, bouncing, the last few warmups before the final race.

He sits as the officials give the thumbs up and the cameramen train their equipment on the eight women lined up across the maroon running track.

Hisao has eyes for no one else but the girl with the glowing pink hair. It’s a scene he can recall countless times in his high school memory, now playing out for an audience the world over.

Her wide, open smile is now gone, replaced with a powerful grin, determined, unyielding. She bounces on her blades, then bends, her back arching as her hands find their positions on the white line, like a cheetah ready to pounce.

Hisao’s heartbeat steadily rises, even as his emotions remain as placid as a lake. It’s the memory of it all, the adrenaline he once experienced, sitting on the bleachers, watching as The Fastest Thing On No Legs made herself the darling of the academy.

Now he’s in the same position, again. She’s still there. Better than ever. She’s broken through the walls and is poised to claim the world for her own.

He had no part in it. He’s just the detritus of another person’s life, another person’s fame, another person’s glory.

A man on a podium raises his starting pistol. The stadium holds its collective breath.

The pink-haired girl jostles, adjusting, then raises her head to lock her eyes straight down the track. Nothing else.

The pistol fires.

At first, it’s disaster. The other runners shoot off ahead, barrelling down the track, while she fights to gain speed on her twin blades. As only single amputees, her competitors have a good start.

For a few heart-stopping seconds, she’s last. Hisao’s heart seems to be beating out of its chest.

Then, something miraculous happens.

She accelerates, at first slowly, then rapidly, gaining speed as though some mythical wind is pushing her from behind.

Eighth place. Seventh. Sixth. The frontrunners begin to lose their lead as she breaks through the formation, her blades swiping through their air like knives.

Faster, faster, faster. Hisao can only watch as she approaches, and he can get his first good look at her face.

His breath catches. It’s an expression he knows all too well.

That fierce joy that comes alive in her poplar green eyes. As though there’s nothing else in the world except for her and the track.

His shining star, his comet.

It’s no longer his. It probably never was. That girl belongs to the world now, to the thousands cheering her on and the cameras trained on her face.

Fifth, fourth. Faster still, shooting past where Hisao is sitting, gradually pulling ahead of everyone else, nearing the apex of the formation, her ponytail bouncing lightly with each measured pace, every swing of her arms.

She’s close to the end of the track now, the wind ripping through her hair, her eyes becoming ever steelier on the big screen, focused on the white line that is her prize.

One last effort, the last few meters. She seems to burst with energy as she careens forward, ever so slightly passing third place, her body tilted as though reaching for the goal with every fiber of her being.

Almost there. Almost there.

Then she’s across the finish line, arms wide like a bird as she slows, regaining her balance on her blades as she comes down from the sprint of a lifetime.

The other athletes scatter as they cross the threshold, relieved, exhausted, breathing heavily from the enormous effort of the past few seconds.

The loudspeakers crackle, declaring the gold medallist. It’s not her name on the announcer’s lips- that goes to her French colleague- but she’s second. Silver. A silver medallist in the Paralympics, with the eyes of the world upon her.

She jumps, quite literally several feet into the air, arms raised in victory, screaming, laughing, overflowing with exultation. Her mouth is stretched into a wide grin, hollering at the crowd, which is roaring at the excitement of it all.

She looks as though she won gold. She may as well have won thirty golds. She, with no legs, has made a name for herself. She’s beat the best of the best, those with all the advantages stacked against her, to claim her prize.

She’s shown the world her prowess, her skill. That’s what drives her smile.

Hisao can tell there’s no place she’d rather be.

Her overwhelming joy breaks his heart.

He’s failed. He’s failed. He never got to see what he came here to see.

That disgusting little part of him that drove his decision to buy a plane ticket, to come all this way, to watch this in person. The tiny, niggling, horrid hope that, even in her finest hour, she would still show a sign, however small, that she is as lost as he is, as empty as he feels.

That what they shared together still means something. That the pain of how they tore everything down still lingers.

There’s no evidence of that. None. She is as radiant as the sun.

The silver medallist sprints to the sidelines into the arms of her waiting staff, the crew that must have stuck by her side and travelled with her all this way to aid her in victory.

They are crying, hugging, a picture of a group of people at the peak of their careers, like climbers at the summit of a mountain.

Hisao can’t participate in her happiness. He doesn’t have a right to.

She hurt him, and he, in turn, hurt her. He was merely a speedbump, an unpleasant episode in an otherwise grand journey.

This girl, wrapped in the flag of her country, feted by the crowd here and almost certainly at home, is far beyond him now. He is an observer on the ground, watching a spaceship climb higher and higher into the sky.

“See you around.”

That’s the last thing she said to him. It’s her last lie, too.

She didn’t see him. Couldn’t have. He is but one face among a distant sea of thousands, sandwiched between the adrenaline of the race and the roar of the crowd.

She only ever looks ahead to the next curve of the track. Never to her side. Never to the back. Forward, forward, forward, until the only thing that’s left of her is her wake.

She’s mere meters from his fingertips, yet the gulf between them couldn’t possibly be wider.

She was always faster than him. That was the nature of their relationship. He could close the distance ever so slightly, but it would never be enough.

Even now, years on, it could never be enough. He’s still in her wake, left to flounder while she soars higher into the sky, untethered by their shared mistakes, their shared failures.

It’s as though Hisao has been left carrying the emotional baggage while she runs ahead, over the horizon, to her destiny.

Coming halfway around the world wasn’t enough. All the technology, all the science, even the airplane that carried him here on silver wings at a thousand kilometers an hour, it’s still not fast enough.

She will always be faster than his heart.

The athletes begin to exit the track, singly or in twos, coated with sweat and victory.

Hisao gets up from his seat. He can’t bear to watch the scene any longer. Staying for the medal ceremony would only hurt him more.

As he leaves the bleachers and turns for the stairs, he catches one last glimpse of the girl he once called his love.

She stares at the sky, smiling, her eyes glittering emeralds, as though she stands at the entrance to a whole new universe.

A universe he can never reach.

…

Hisao is beginning to regret his choices.

The flight is already a done deal. He may as well enjoy the return journey as best he can.

Reclining in his seat, Hisao gazes out the window, at the sun slowly setting beneath the stratospheric clouds, casting a purplish-orange hue over the clear sky.

At least, up here, high above the ground, his worries seem so distant, so very far away. As though, for a few hours, he can escape from his earthly reality.

The reality of the choices he can’t take back. Of the mistakes he can’t unmake. Of a past he cannot return to.

Here, cocooned in the quiet hum of the engines and the cool, rarefied air, he can forget, at least for a little while.

He can face reality when he returns to the surface.

Hisao squints at the dim, pixelated moving map on his tiny seatback IFE screen and closes his eyes.

It’s another eleven hours until he lands in Tokyo.

(Back to Index)

This was mostly written over the course of a single feverish evening. I just couldn't get the idea out of my head and had to write everything down.

The real-life silver medallist in the Women's T44 100m Final of the 2012 London Paralympics was Marlou van Rhijn of The Netherlands. She is also a double amputee, the only one in that particular race. I more or less inserted Emi into van Rhijn's performance verbatim.

The Japanese competitor in the T44 100m was Saki Takakuwa, a single amputee, who came seventh.

I'm looking forwards to the 2024 Paris Olympics, and I hope y'all are too.

We return to our regularly scheduled Intentions programming very shortly.

Stay safe, everyone.

As a fella who likes his sad stories, and who makes them his bread and butter, I have to say I loved this piece. It's a great combination of high and low drama, and though I typically enjoy a slightly more grounded version of Emi (where good just isn't good enough) I think that having her be so successful and Hisao recognising his own failing, and the brutal uncomfortable reality that they were running in different races their whole life, is just so heartbreakingly sad. I utterly adore the bitterness here, it's a resignation from Hisao. It's angry, and it's sad, and it's lonely, as heart breaks usually are. I think having Emi come second is a fantastic narrative choice as well, and it signifies that being among the best is her goal, not necessarily the best, it lends the story a sense of legitimacy. She'll always have another target.

Also, the attentiveness to research is really great! I like that I learned something here.

So yeah, very much adore this. Well done. A good heart-wrencher.

This is very beautiful sad story, and I think Feurox already described what I felt while reading it, the best. Thank you!

Some possible fixes:

seannie4 wrote: Sat Jun 15, 2024 12:49 pm

the carriage rocking gently rocking from

I think "rocking" before "gently" is redundant.

I really enjoyed this. Packing so many emotions and so much character development into a story this short is no mean feat.

Can't really add to what others have said, Seannie, but you did a great job!

Godot [Pilot]

[This pilot is now being expanded into a full multiparter! You can find the fic, "Innominate", here.]

Her back hurts.

That’s the first thing that crosses her mind.

The second thing is that her bed has become unusually hard and disjointed, as though she’s sleeping on piled wood.

She tries to open her eyes, and all she can see is darkness.

Are her eyes even working?

She blinks, several times- she can feel her eyelids opening and closing so… so why can’t she see anything?

Blearily, she flops her left hand over to where she thinks her nightstand is, fumbling for the switch to the ladybird-shaped nightlight that usually hangs on the wall by the side of her bed.

Yeah, a ladybird nightlight. Childish, she knows. It’s part of the reason she doesn’t allow friends into her bedroom. And not just because she lacks any real ones.

Instead of the flat surface of her nightstand however, her left hand contacts something and sends it tipping in her direction.

There’s a sudden sploosh and the shock of something wet and very cold spilling onto her torso, soaking her clothes and freezing her skin.

She yelps, her high-pitched voice screeching into the dark, as she tries to leap out of bed.

Tries.

There’s no carpet beneath her feet like she was expecting. Instead, her shoes contact something hard, metallic, and extremely unstable.

Shoes?

Everything happens at once.

There’s a great crash, wood on metal, tearing, rumbling. She’s knocked right off her feet, spinning, falling, totally disorientated.

Her body impacts something… a wall?... and breaks through it, pain lancing through her right shoulder, the sound of wood splintering filling her ears.

Light floods her vision in the millisecond before she hits the ground.

The impact knocks the wind right out of her, cutting her voice off mid-scream of surprise, sending her sprawling over the linoleum floor.

The thunder of falling metal and other debris continues like some heinous car crash, slowly petering out as objects stop falling and come to rest beside her.

Her hands and eyes are clenched shut, trying to regain control of her heart beating wildly out of her chest.

What in the living heck is going on?

Slowly, she creaks open her eyelids, taking in her surroundings.

Above her, a plain, white ceiling checkered with tiling, like the kind they use at school. A single rectangular fluorescent light. One of those fire sprinklers with a jagged metal head poking out towards her.

Is this some kind of dream?

She begins to turn her head.

“I-Is someone there?”

A voice. Loud, high-pitched, almost squeaky. Cutesy. She doesn’t recognize it at all.

Despite the pain in her right arm, she desperately scrambles to her feet, knocking something over with a metallic clang, trying to get a bead on her surroundings and the source of the voice.

Staggering a little, she looks around.

It’s… it’s…

A classroom?

Well, sort of. It looks much more like a classroom converted into a storage room, or less charitably, a dumping ground.

The tables and chairs are stacked in wild, haphazard piles all along the walls, along with a few old-style blackboards on wheels gathering dust.
At least two dozen mops in their buckets are propped up against the piles, surrounded by various cleaning items- sprays, wipes, paper towels- scattered randomly everywhere. A few brooms with caked-on dust lodged in their bristles stand to attention by the wooden sliding door like soldiers.

To her left, there’s no wall, but the slatted windows every high school in Japan must be furnished with. Outside, however, is a different story. The entire room seems to be shrouded in fog, a wall of white just beyond the panes, through which only some gloomy light filters inside.

Isn’t she supposed to be in bed?

This must be a dream.

She turns her head to the right.

And there stands a girl.

Pink hair. In drills. Both sides of her head. Chubby. A little short. Probably around the same age as her. Dressed in a school uniform of some description- white blouse, green skirt, black ribbon.

Golden eyes and mouth wide open in shock.

For a moment, there’s absolute silence as both simply stare at one another.

Utterly confused, and with nothing else to go on, she slowly raises her right hand in greeting.

“Uh… h-”

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

The pink-haired girl lets out a piercing, blood curdling scream, before diving back behind a pile of piled chairs and knocking over several mops, her face contorted in utter terror.

Jolted by the sound, she too takes a few steps back.

Nothing makes sense. Who is this girl? What is this place?

The clattering of cleaning items falling to the floor echoes through the room as the pink-haired girl crawls away to safety, her voice warbling and shaky, overwhelmed with fear.

“D-Don’t come any c-closer… p-please…”

What’s with this girl?

“Hey, hey, sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you but… who are you? What’s going on?”

She takes another look around the room. If this is a dream, it’s by far the weirdest and most realistic she’s ever had.

The pink-haired girl answers her question with another, totally insane question of her own.

“A-Are you… h-human?”

“W-W-What?!”

Is she human?!

What kind of question is that?!

Her heart rate increases dramatically.

“What… what do you mean ‘am I human?’”

The other girl’s voice loses its stutter and gains some force.

“Well… you don’t look human so… what are you?”

Every answer only generates more questions, like she’s been spoken to in riddles.

“I’m sorry, I… I really have absolutely no idea what on earth you’re talking about. I’m very certain I was human when I last checked…”

She looks down and is immediately taken aback.

She’s not in the light blue pyjamas she swore she wore into bed that night. Instead, she’s dressed in the dark blazer and maroon skirt of her school’s winter uniform, complete with brown loafers.

Regardless, she’s still got all her appendages. Nothing seems off.

“Uh…”

What an odd dream indeed.

“Apart from the fact that I’m somehow in school uniform, I’m as human as they come.”

She catches a flash of pink as the other girl spies her through the gaps in the chairs, like she’s a bomb about to go off.

“So… you don’t realize what’s wrong with you?”

The girl’s bubbly tone starts to come back slightly, juxtaposing strangely with the vaguely insulting phraseology of her question.

“No…? What is wrong with me? Look, can you tell me what’s going on, please?”

A note of desperation creeps into her voice, but she’s rapidly running out of mental tether.

Finally, the pink-haired girl relinquishes her temporary fortress of chairs and stands in front of her, golden eyes looking everywhere but her direction.

“Okay… how do I put this…?”

The other girl interlocks her fingers and gazes at her feet as she thinks it over.

“… your face.”

That was not the response she was expecting.

“Huh? My… face?”

God, this pink menace is horrific at answering questions.

“Yeah… your face… why… don’t you have one?”

What?!

Her right hand immediately goes to her head to dispel this ridiculous notion, covering her right eye and nose.

Except.

Nothing.

Her fingers touch smooth, flat skin.

Where there’s supposed to be the ridge of her nose, the sunken pits of her eyes, there’s nothing.

It’s all flat, like every detail of her face has been erased.

“Oh… my god.”

Both hands reach for her face, scrambling, feeling for what she knows should be there. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth. Her eyelashes, her brows, anything.

Smooth. Totally flat. Cool, unblemished skin, like that of her belly.

She screams in surprise.

This is not a dream.

This is some sort of fucked-up nightmare.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

She’s reeling, hyperventilating, utterly confounded. Nothing makes sense. Her head is spinning.

How in the living hell does she have no face?!

“Hey! Hey! Breathe… breathe… it’s ok. You’re human, I believe you. You don’t have to freak out…”

She becomes aware of two hands gripping her wrists, and two golden eyes framed by pink hair meeting hers… if she even has eyes, that is.

“You’re still breathing, and talking, and you can see and hear me, so… it might not be as bad as you think, okay?”

Her opposite is clearly also struggling to hold it together, but the thought is nice. Her heart rate begins to slow.

“Okay… okay… sorry, I’m… god, what a crazy nightmare…”

The hands release their hold on their wrists and, slightly calmer now, the pink-haired schoolgirl raises her hand in an awkward introduction.

“Well… I’m Misha. My full name is Shiina Mikado, but nobody really uses that…”

A cutesy name for a cutesy girl. At least she’s no longer screaming in terror.

“Uhh… well…”

Do you pay courtesies to dream apparitions? At this point, she wouldn’t even begin to know, but doing something normal for a change would be better than simply collapsing from the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m Iwanako…”

At the mention of the name, Misha’s eyes go even wider.

“Wait… you’re Iwanako?”

Recognition sparks in Misha’s irises. How does the pink-haired schoolgirl know who she is?

“Yeah, I’m Iwanako…”

Uh.

Something’s missing.

“I mean, I’m Iwanako…”

Her last name?

What… is it again?

“Agh! Why… why can’t I remember…?”

She knows logically that she should have a last name. Yet, her mind is drawing a total blank, as though she’d never been given one her whole life.

Is this dream messing with her memory too?

With rising fear, Iwanako desperately rifles through the mental filing cabinets in her brain, desperately searching for something so simple as her own goddamn name.

Nothing.

“I… I… can’t remember my last name…”

It’s something simultaneously embarrassing and ludicrous.

Despite this, Misha’s previous surprise is now totally gone, replaced by a sad resignation. Iwanako’s name must have triggered something in her.

“Iwanako… that’s because… hold on, could I call you… Icchan? Iwacchan? Uh… Nacchan! Yeah, that sounds better… can I call you Nacchan?”

Iwanako is slightly bemused. Considering the situation, it’s an odd request.

“Why?”

“It’s… a little thing I do with people. You can tell me not to if you don’t like it.”

It might just be best to humour Misha, or whatever Misha is. Iwanako’s got bigger things to worry about anyway.

“Uh… yeah sure, but… how do you know who I am?”

Misha twiddles her fingers, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

“I’ve heard about you, Nacchan.”

“From who? I’m pretty certain we’ve never met before, have we?”

Misha shakes her head.

“Nacchan… you do know about Hisao, right?”

Her breath catches.

That’s not a name she wants to hear. Her nerves around what happened to the boy are as raw as can be.

Sputtering, Iwanako struggles to form words.

“Wha… I… I… how do you know him?!”

She thought she’d never see him again. That she was done. She’d cried herself to sleep the night before, after she visited for the last time.

Maybe this nightmare is the universe rewarding her for her disloyalty.

But she can’t take it anymore. Her heart can’t take it anymore.

“Nacchan… what you know about Hisao, what you think happened to him… it’s not the real world. Or at least not what you think it is.”

“Yeah, of course. This… room, you, everything you’re telling me, it’s just a dream.”

Misha’s eyes turn downcast, sadness crossing her features.

“I thought the same thing at first, Nacchan. I thought it was just a dream.”

She takes a deep breath.

“The ‘real world,’ Nacchan, has a script. From what I can tell, everything about that script revolves around Hisao. When you go into the ‘real world,’ you stop being yourself, kind of. You lose control. You start saying things without meaning to, you start doing things like you’re a little puppet on strings. You don’t even notice.”

Iwanako is totally lost. She’s heard debates about simulation theory and the nature of free will, but this is patently ridiculous.

“That… doesn’t explain how you know Hisao.”

The pink-haired girl’s voice grows quiet.

“I’m Hisao’s friend. Or was. After what happened between you and him, he came to my school, Yamaku Academy. He’s in my class, and we have a mutual friend, so I know quite a bit about him.”

“You… know what happened to Hisao?”

“He told me bits and pieces, or I picked them up from people I talked to. That’s how I found out about you, Nacchan. You’re the girl that confessed to him, and he had a heart attack. Is that true?”

Every word Misha says hits Iwanako like a ton of bricks. It’s like her darkest secrets are being dug up and paraded in the light of day.

This pink haired girl is clearly not all frivolity. She knows far too much.

“How… do you know what school he goes to after his attack? I mean, wait, how do you even know about the confession?! How do you know about the heart attack at all?!”

Despite Iwanako’s rising panic, Misha remains calm in her gloominess.

“Like I said, there’s a script, Nacchan. I just happen to be further along in the script than you, so yeah, in a way, I do know about the future, and the past, and a lot of other things.”

This is totally insane.

“Even if what you’re saying makes sense, what is this place?”

“We’re in the dumping ground, Nacchan. Whatever it is out there- the world, the universe, the story- it’s done with us. We served our purpose. We made out exit from the script. Whoever- or whatever- made this world decided that we needed to be put out of sight. So, they’ve put us in the Yamaku cleaning room where no one can find us. We’re trapped.”

For the first time, Iwanako becomes aware of the smell of chemical disinfectant rising from her clothing, stinging her nostrils. That must’ve been what she spilt all over her uniform when she woke up.

“There doesn’t really exist a world beyond Hisao, Yamaku, you and me, and a few other people. It’s just when you’re out there, you don’t notice the gaps because you’re stuck playing out the script. When you’re out there, the script is all there is.”

What is this, some knockoff version of The Matrix? Even for a dream, this is stretching credibility.

“That makes less than no sense, Misha.”

“I-I know it’s hard to understand… I’m not the best at explaining things. You have to experience it for yourself, then you’ll know. You’ll know what I know.”

Everything in Iwanako’s logical side cries out to reject this, to simply accept that this is some depression-induced nightmare cooked up by an overactive imagination she didn’t realise she had.

Despite the lack of facial features, Misha seems to sense the doubt coursing through Iwanako’s veins.

“Think, Nacchan. What’s the name of your school? The name of your hometown? The name of your parents, your teachers, your friends?”

“What kind of question is…?”

Iwanako’s frustration with such a dumb question rapidly spirals into confusion as she actually tries to answer it.

It’s…

It’s the same as her last name.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Everything’s coming up blank. Blank, blank, blank. The files are there, it’s just that there’s nothing inside them.

The only thing she truly remembers of her own life is the ladybird nightlight hanging by the side of her bed.

So many things are missing. How did she not notice earlier?

“Oh… my god.”

Misha nods sadly.

“I know it feels like a dream, Nacchan, because it doesn’t make any sense otherwise. But you have to trust me. This ‘script,’ or whatever it is, it’s all centered on Hisao’s… story, in some way. I don’t know how, or why. If you don’t serve that story anymore, it dumps you. It looks like the script is done with you, so it dumped you here with me.”

Misha shifts her glance to behind Iwanako.

“Probably would’ve been better if it didn’t put you on top of the pile of tables and chairs in the closet over there.”

Iwanako turns around to see an avalanche of total chaos. The cupboard door she broke through lies splintered on the floor; behind it, a veritable slope of tangled chairs and tables lies disgorging from the adjoining compartment.

So that was what she woke up on. And what caused the gigantic ruckus when she tried to get down.

She turns back to Misha, still thoroughly confounded.

“How on earth did you figure all this out?”

Misha shakes her head.

“I haven’t. I don’t know a lot about what’s going on out there, Nacchan.”

Her eyes cloud over, like she’s remembering ancient history.

“I always ended up here after… well, it doesn’t matter. I would play my part, live out what I thought was the real world, and then end up here. I’d head out again and again, to escape what I thought was a bad dream and back into reality. And I’d go right back to where I started, saying the same words, doing the same things… well, some things were different here and there, but the end was always the same.”

A small smile creeps onto her face.

“One time, I managed to ‘wake up,’ if you get what I mean. I went off-script. I didn’t say the things I was meant to say or do the things I was meant to do. For a little while, I was free.”

The smile disappears.

“But no matter what I did, the world would always make me end up in the same place. I could never fully control my feelings, or my words, or my actions. Even if I knew what was about to happen, I would always end up returning to the script, saying my last few lines. It always finds a way to force the ending it’s written out for me. And then it sends me back here.”

She sighs.

“I’ve never been able to break the cycle. I’ve tried, Nacchan, I’ve tried so many times. No matter what I do, it always stays the same.”

Misha looks so defeated, so downtrodden, it hurts Iwanako’s heart.

Yet, there’s a loud part of her brain that still refuses to accept such a totally illogical explanation.

“This… this has got to be bullshit. This has got to be a dream.”

Misha suddenly raises her voice, forceful, desperate. Iwanako jolts at the sudden increase in volume as the pink-haired girl pummels her with questions.

“Then why do you not have a face?! Why can’t you remember your last name?! Why can’t you remember anything of your own life?!”

Her voice, on the verge of anger, is suddenly choked with sobs.

“Why… why, at the end, do I always have to-”

A cry escapes Misha’s lips, as tears overwhelm her eyes. Whatever she’s trying to say, it must be deeply painful for her.

Barely able to process the rapid changing of events, Iwanako can only stand mute, as Misha’s sobs slowly die away, wiping her tears and refocusing her gaze on Iwanako’s face, or lack thereof.

“It’s because the world, or whatever it is, never filled in the details. It needed you to just be Iwanako, to just be the schoolgirl that confesses to Hisao. He has to have the heart attack. All the other things in your life don’t help with that, so they were never made. The story never views you from the front, so it has no reason to give you a face.”

Frustration- or is it anger?- re-enters Misha’s expression, as she stamps her feet to emphasise her point.

“It’s the same reason I can’t leave anymore. There’s no place for me in that world now! They’ve replaced me, Nacchan!”

Replaced?

All this new information keeps making Iwanako’s head spin. It’s as though she can never find her grounding in this dizzying, confusing classroom hellscape.

“What do you mean, replaced?”

“Out there, they’ve made a new Misha, exactly like me, just with a different script. I can’t go out there as myself anymore, I can only watch from afar. There’s no place for me in that world anymore, Nacchan, so it rejects me. I’m stuck here forever.”

The tears begin to return, this time slipping down Misha’s face like crystal beads.

“They’ve written me, my words, my ending, out of the world. I don’t exist anymore, Nacchan.”

This is too much, all too much. Everything in this… nightmare has been total insanity, like the seams of Iwanako’s world are being pulled apart by this schoolgirl sitting in a classroom at the edge of the universe.

She’s done. She can’t stay here anymore.

“I… I want to leave. I want to wake up.”

Iwanako turns to the only obvious exit in the room.

The unassuming wooden sliding doors.

Brushing past Misha, driven by desperation, her fingers find the latch and throw open the door with a slam.

And she stops.

Where there should be a hallway, there’s only a black void in every direction, like the classroom is suspended in deep space.

Reaching her hand forward into the inky darkness, there’s a cool sensation, like autumn air, but nothing else.

“What the…”

Misha sighs, like she was expecting Iwanako to do this from the beginning.

“You see, Nacchan? Nothing makes sense in this world. You can see, speak and breathe, but you have no face. You’re missing so many memories, even your last name. The door outside leads to that black pit. Is what I’m saying so hard to believe?”

This is not real. This is not real.

“Are you saying… I’m stuck here, Misha? That I can’t wake up?”

Again, Misha shakes her head.

“You aren't trapped. I am. That door… is to the ‘real world.’ If you go out there, you’ll go right back to where you enter the script.”

“Huh?”

Again, the riddles. Misha is unperturbed.

“What is your first big memory of Hisao? Not when you first met him or anything, but when you think about him, what’s the first memory that pops into your head?”

Iwanako doesn’t even need to think. It’s the one event she’s been trying to escape from for weeks.

Her biggest regret.

“… the confession.”

Misha nods like she’s known the answer the entire time.

“Right. So, if you go through that door, you’ll end up right back where you started, and you’ll be forced to act out everything as it occurred. You won’t have control anymore. You’ll be stuck in the script, and then you’ll come back here.”

“I…”

Iwanako shakes her head.

“I don’t care what you say anymore, Misha. This… this is all too much for me to handle. I’m getting out of here. I’m going home.”

She stands on the edge of the threshold, the tips of her loafers peeking into the darkness. Her hands grip each side of the open door like an astronaut about to embark on a spacewalk.

Iwanako’s heart is beating in her ears. She’s never been great with heights, even if there’s absolutely no indication of where she even is in this black void.

Misha stands behind her but doesn’t interfere.

“You can go back to the world you know, Nacchan, but you’ll remember what happened here, too.”

Every single thing Iwanako has experienced, from Misha’s nonsensical explanations to her terrifying lack of a face or memories, is utterly incompatible with reality.

There’s no way this is real.

It has to be a dream.

Right?

“I don’t believe you.”

Misha only gives her a sad smile.

“I know, Nacchan. When you go out there… don’t hurt yourself too much, okay?”

Taking one last look at her pink-haired companion, Iwanako nods…

…and leaps into the long dark.

(Back to Index)

Will I suffer from burnout? Probably. I should drink some water.

This is a developmental pilot chapter for a multi-part fic I intend to work on. I want to test out the idea and see if it holds up. Sorry if it doesn't make the most sense as it stands.

Iwanako as a character has always fascinated me, because she's simultaneously extremely important and almost totally irrelevant to the narrative. Her actions at the beginning of the VN serve as the inciting incident for Hisao's entire journey, yet her only other contribution from there is her letter, which mostly serves as a litmus test for Hisao's current state of mind in any given route.

In other words, her own story, her own character, is virtually erased by the VN's limited perspective. We don't even see her face- only from the back, and then she disappears.

I want to explore what existing as that character might be like, to be used and abused by the narrative for emotional effect and then discarded in favour of the grander story. What happens to discarded characters? What happens to their stories?

Watching the leaked beta version of KS was also a big inspiration. The early version of Shizune's route was totally insane compared to the final version. That, I want to explore too.

It's a little bit of DDLC, a little bit of The Truman Show and a little bit of Project Blue Curtain. I'd like to pursue it once I'm done with my other projects.

We'll see.

The title is taken from the eponymous "character" in Samuel Beckett's 1953 absurdist play Waiting for Godot. Godot's existence is absolutely central to the narrative as it forms the entire basis for why the events in the play occur, yet he never once appears onstage, nor do we ever get any idea of who he is, what sort of person is he, what his story might be.

A bit like Iwanako, I think.

Stay safe, everyone.

Godot looks to be very interesting. I love stories that explore character psychology, and I wouldn't mind if Godot ended up becoming a full series.

Kokura

“You’re very lucky, my boy.”

The white-clad doctor before him utters this absurdity of absurdities with a straight face and a smile.

Hisao can only stare, bewildered.

Lucky.

Lucky.

He doesn’t feel lucky.

“You’ve had your condition for a long time. Considering your age and your lifestyle, it’s a miracle that it remained undetected for so long.”

Another smile. As though the doctor expects Hisao to leap out of the bed and jump for joy at this revelation. Like a death row inmate celebrating a delay to their execution.

Should he be thankful? Relieved? That he hasn’t yet been buried six feet deep and is still breathing, seeing, hearing?

He already feels like a corpse, as is. Maybe they should just bury him.

The hours begin to blend. Bright lights. The stench of cleaning fluid.

Only the incessant beeping of the EKG machine keeps him company.

Another doctor, fresh, younger, bespectacled. A cardiologist, he says with the pep of a high school sports teacher.

“You’re lucky that we got to you so quickly. The EMTs did a damn fine job, all things considered.”

Hisao runs his index finger over the scar on his chest, tracing the ridges and bumps of the tissue.

Arrhythmia.

He’s been told the probabilities, the prognosis. A mere 1.5% of the population. Medically speaking, he’s won the lottery.

A lottery with the Grim Reaper, it seems.

Hours turn into days.

“You’re lucky that we didn’t have to implant a permanent pacemaker in your heart. Further surgeries will be required, but they should be smaller in scale. For now, the current regime of medications and monitoring will suffice.”

In and out of the operating theatre. The clacking wheels of the gurney, the unnatural smoothness of the sterilized sheets, the never-ending white lights that cast the entire hospital in an unearthly glow.

Purgatory.

He gets visitors. His parents. Nurses. Sometimes doctors. They all smile, their lips conveying sweet nothings, as though encouraging him to keep breathing, to wake up the next day, to continue to live in the ethereal liminality of his room, his condition.

“You’re so lucky you’ve got such good classmates, Hisao.”

We miss you.

We hope you’re doing okay.

Get well soon.

Platitudes from the faceless, the voiceless. Generic. He hardly knows them, and they hardly know him. Conveyed not by compassion but by duty, which is somehow even worse.

They don’t stick around for long.

Soon, all that’s left of them are the flowers, the cards, the balloons, filling his room with garish, mismatched colour.

They do precious little to cover the sterile whiteness that surrounds him. A vase of roses doesn’t break the proverbial prison bars around his hospital room, nor the vice-like grip of his errant genetics around his ailing heart.

The gifts disappear.

His friends, too, retreat. Maybe the atmosphere is too oppressive. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t say anything anymore.

He’s too far gone to care.

They disappear.

Except for one.

“Ah, Hisao, what good luck that you’ve got a girl like Iwanako to take care of you!”

Yet another careless platitude, another shallow compliment. The girl in question can only muster a wan smile in response. The boy lying before her doesn’t react at all.

They don’t talk, or touch, or even look at each other.

Some care. Some luck.

It’s a curse, plain and simple. A curse for her, sitting beside a sickly, unresponsive boy, day in, day out.

A curse for him, because of the awkwardness, the guilt, the unspoken words he will never be able to say.

After a while, he begins to faintly resent her presence.

She, too, disappears.

Alone.

Weeks turn into months.

He finds a single dice, lacquered in ivory, patterned black dots adorning its surface. Maybe his parents brought it for him, amongst the other little creature comforts delivered and abandoned.

He rolls it onto the plastic tabletop that swings out over his lap from the side of his bed.

Five.

He rolls it again.

Three.

Again.

One.

Again.

Three.

Over and over and over.

At some point, Hisao decides that if he can roll a six, three times in a row, he’ll be able to go home.

It’s foolish, ridiculous. He’s been good at math all his life, so he should know better.

But he’s so starved for entertainment, so starved for hope.

He’s already burnt through so much of his supposed luck already.

So, he rolls, again, again, again. Like a gambler at the casino of life.

One six. A three. A two. A four. Another six. Another one. Then a five.

Four.

Two.

Three.

Six.

One.

Idly letting the dice go, hearing it clatter upon the plastic tabletop.

He rolls hundreds, possibly thousands of times, every possible combination of probabilities appearing and vanishing like the wind.

The seasons change. Where there was snow, there is rain. Where there was rain, there is sunlight. He can only catch idle glimpses of the world between the beige curtains of his room.

He feels like a castaway.

One afternoon, he throws the dice too hard, the cuboid bouncing high off the tabletop, over his legs, onto the linoleum floor with a sharp crack, skittering under some tables and into a dark corner.

It’s gone. He can’t get up or bend down enough to search for it, and he can’t bring himself to ask the nurses.

He never rolls three sixes.

Some luck.

Luck.

Luck.

He can’t understand any of it.

Voices swirl around him, echoing, melding together, pelting his mind like raindrops on glass.

“You’re very lucky…”

                                                  “As luck would have it…”

               “I have high hopes that…”

                                                              “Things are not as bad as…”

“Maybe this time, it will…”

                                     “I’m sure you’ll be…”

                “We must be thankful for…”

                                                       “An improvement is certain to…”

“I have some good news…”

                                             “We remain confident in…”

             “I’m glad that…”

I’m glad.

I’m glad.

He doesn’t know what he should be glad about.

Hisao wonders.

Wonders how the dominoes must have fallen, for him to end up this way, in here.

The million coincidences, probabilities, happenstances.

Being born. His parents being born. His genetics mixing in just the right way to be a ticking time bomb, a Sword of Damocles that will hang over his head for the rest of his life.

He can recall the droning lectures, the dry textbooks, on DNA and lineage and hereditary traits.

Adenine.

Guanine.

Cytosine.

Thymine.

The building blocks of the code that makes him human. The code with the perfect storm of errors, a bug, a misplaced chemical somewhere, deep inside him.

The part of him that is fundamentally, chemically, molecularly broken.

What are the chances?

He can feel the anger boiling in his veins, the frustration, the sorrow.

He’s never been particularly religious, but he’s always believed in a kind of cosmic justice. Call it fate, call it inevitability, call it getting one’s dues.

If he studied hard, he’d get a job. If he worked hard, he’d make enough money.

Be kind to people, people will be kind to you in return. Eat right, keep healthy, and you’ll live a long life.

One plus one equals two.

All simple, logical statements.

So why?

What did he do?

What did he do to deserve this condition, this punishment, this life?

He did nothing wrong. He did everything correctly.

He’s just a normal student, one of a million, one with a home and parents and school and friends and dreams and homework and romance.

So why?

Why?

It was rigged from the start.

The die was cast before he even took his first breath.

His fate was sealed before he opened his eyes for the first time.

From the very moment of his conception, he was a marked man.

He hadn’t done anything wrong, or immoral, or reckless.

It wasn’t fate. There was no grand, overarching narrative to his pain, his suffering. No God from on high had smote his heart with a bolt of mythical lightning.

Some chemicals in his DNA had merely mismatched. The mismatched code made bad cells. The bad cells made a bad heart.

That was all.

He had rolled badly.

He had been dealt a bad hand.

He simply had bad luck.

Luck.

Luck.

Another doctor is before him, standing at the foot of his bed, clutching a clipboard.

The man’s cheery voice, clinical, detached, brings Hisao back to the present.

He’s explaining something.

“Luckily for you, Mr Nakai, medical science has advanced such that you’ll only have to take these medications. Barring a few restrictions, you’ll be able to lead more or less a normal life.”

He reads the list, the medical terms, chemical formulas, side effects washing over his brain like a tsunami, overwhelming his mind.

Only these?

Really?

The anger, again.

Indignation, but he doesn’t know who to direct it to. The doctor, but he’s only doing his job. His parents, but it’s not their fault.

At the universe? Entropy? The concept of life and science itself? The unknowable forces that drive the movements of molecules, atoms, subatomic particles?

His father’s voice speaks.

“Compared to other heart problems, people with your condition tend to live long lives.”

Tend to.

A possibility.

More luck. More hope. Luck and hope that he doesn’t have anymore.

Every heartbeat, a throw of the dice. Every breath, another gamble. Every dawn, the drawing of a card.

That will be his life.

“We believe that it would be best if you don’t return to your old school.”

Another death knell.

Hisao wants to fight back, to claw with every fiber of his being, for the normality of his former life, for the fortune he must have once possessed and now wasted, to throw himself at the altar of Tyche and beg for a different hand, a different roll, a different start.

But he can’t. It’s futile.

It’s his destiny.

A foreign school, in a foreign place, with foreign people.

A new life, if he puts a positive spin on it.

He might as well.

After all…

What’s one more roll of the dice?

(Back to Index)

On 9 August 1945, the city of Kokura (now a part of Kitakyushu) was selected as the target for the second atomic bomb ever to be used in wartime, nicknamed Fat Man.

When the B-29 Superfortress carrying the bomb arrived over the city, it found it obscured by unexpected clouds and smoke.

Unable to see their target and running low on fuel, the bomber crew were forced to make their way to their secondary target:

Nagasaki.

After the war, the term "Kokura Luck" was coined to describe the lucky avoidance of great misfortune, usually by the intercession of something divine, beyond human control.

However, Kokura, like the rest of Japan, would emerge from the air-raid shelters to find a nation devastated by years of continuous warfare, cities levelled by firebombing, millions killed, and an economy in ruins.

So, how lucky were they, really?

Stay safe, everyone.

Chūō

“Your attention, please. The local train to… Mitaka… will soon arrive on… track number One…”

The pleasant, robotic sound of the automated female announcer fills the frigid winter air.

Hisao clutches his jacket together tightly as the wind rips at his body, shivering to stay warm on the rather exposed platform. Opposite him, beyond the station fence, the bare trees of the Shinjuku Gyoen Park stand in like shadowy sentinels in the evening darkness.

Rubbing his hands together, he silently curses his friends for bringing him all the way to Sedagaya, and who are likely still stalking the brightly lit streets of the Shinjuku environs in search of more arcades and cafes without him.

It’s going to be one long ride back to Chiba.

The platform is surprisingly empty, even for a Saturday night, populated only by clumps of intoxicated evening revelers and the occasional salaryman heading home after being condemned to weekend duty.

“… for your safety… please stand behind the yellow line…”

Hisao can sense someone slowly approaching his position from the escalators behind him, the rhythmic clop clop clop of what could only be loafers growing increasingly louder before brushing past his right shoulder with nary an inch to separate them.

He turns his head to the right, and…

Whoa.

His first thought is… a ghost.

A girl.

Long hair the colour of shining silver, tied in a single braid that hangs down past her shoulders.

Unnaturally pale skin, the colour of the moon, glowing almost white in the bright lights of the platform.

She’s dressed totally incongruously for the season; bare, pallid legs emerging from a rather long green skirt, topped with a white short-sleeved blouse and sporting a neat black ribbon tied around her collar. It’s a school uniform of some description, though from where he is totally unable to tell.

Her only accessory is a tiny black backpack strapped high to her shoulders.

Hisao can’t help but stare. He’s never seen… anyone so pale, or with hair that silvery, so much so that he rubs his eyes in case he’s started hallucinating.

Opening them again, he sees that the ghostly girl has walked past him to the yellow line running along about half a meter from the edge of the platform, her brown loafers coming to a stop against the tiles with a double clop clop.

Her breaths form white clouds against the backdrop of the night sky, yet she doesn’t shiver, even dressed as she is. She turns her head left, towards where Hisao’s train will come from, glancing into the middle distance, as though she’s on the lookout for something.

Then, she glances again.

And again.

Her features are sharp, almost angular, but with a certain cold beauty to it. Her expression is totally impenetrable, placid as a lake, yet her body language seems anxious, foreboding.

Hisao’s still not entirely sure if she’s real.

They’re maybe five meters apart. The Ghost Girl of Sendagaya Station stands stolidly at the platform’s edge.

Waiting for the train.

But then…

Why stand so close?

The sudden blast of a horn shocks Hisao from his thoughts. Lifting his head, he sees that the sound has jolted the girl, too, who suddenly braces herself and fixes her gaze to the left.

There’s the unmistakable clacking of bogies against rails, the harsh metallic roaring of brakes engaging. Following her gaze, he sees the headlights of the oncoming train rounding the bend to his left and bearing down on the tracks in front of him.

It’s not his train; his train isn’t due for another few minutes. That it’s not slowing down means it must be a rapid service, one that will bypass the station -and the platform- at high speed before plowing on into the night. He’s ridden this line enough times to know how it works.

Which means…

His heart suddenly seizes.

He frantically shifts his gaze to the ghostly girl in front of him, whose eyes are locked onto the lights of the oncoming train.

Her pale, delicate fingers wrap around the straps of her backpack and squeeze tight.

She’s steeling herself.

The train bears down on them, appearing to accelerate as it reaches the platform and grows ever larger in his vision. He can hear the shrill wine of the electric motors, the friction of metal upon metal as the carriages rock and jostle.

Hisao’s mouth has totally dried up. His bones and muscles are as frozen as the winter air around him.

She takes one step, her right loafer peeking out over the edge.

Move!

Everything happens in a flash.

His hands are suddenly around her left arm, his fingers clawing at the fabric of her blouse, yanking her into his body with all the might he can muster.

Bam.

She impacts his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs, sending him staggering backwards. Instinctively, he embraces the girl, trapping her in his arms and holding her tight.

Woosh.

The train rushes past, a wave of air washing over them, ripping at the folds of their clothes and sending her silver braid fluttering in the wind.

Through his jacket, he can sense a faint heat emanating from the girl’s body, even though her extremities feel as cold as ice.

She’s not a ghost.

She’s a flesh and blood girl.

The blur of the carriages abruptly ends, the wind rapidly dying down to a gentle breeze, relinquishing its hold on their hair and clothing.

Hisao takes deep breaths, trying to slow his heart rate.

Then he looks down at the girl in his arms.

She’s looking up at him.

Their eyes meet.

Her eyes are as red as rubies, seeming to pierce right through Hisao with a gaze of pure crimson.

She doesn’t look scared, or angry, or sad. She looks vaguely flummoxed, as though she’s still processing what just happened to her.

They stand, frozen, staring at one another in a stunned stupor, Hisao’s arms still clutching tightly against her fragile frame, as though she’ll crumble into a million pieces if he lets go.

“Your attention, please. The local train to… Chiba… will soon arrive on… track number Two…”

That snaps Hisao out of it.

He suddenly releases the embrace, taking one step backwards. He’s still too shocked to form words.

She… she just…

The girl rubs her shoulders where Hisao had just been holding her, expression reverting to the emotionless mask she wore when she first arrived.

Her crimson eyes track his, as though she’s searching for something in his very soul.

A familiar cacophony approaches, the sound of brakes squealing once against filling the air. It’s his train home, but he doesn’t know if he can muster the will to move.

The light from the train floods the platform, surrounding the pale girl in an ethereal glow as it slows gradually, coming to a shuddering, hissing halt before them.

The automatic doors open with a heaving sigh, a tinny two-tone warning chime issuing from the train’s speakers.

Finally breaking eye contact, she looks to the side.

And grabs his wrist.

“Eh?!”

With a surprisingly powerful yank from such thin arms, she pulls Hisao with her, into the warm, brightly lit cocoon of the train before him.

Stumbling after her, he manages to regain his balance on the carriage’s central pole as the doors close behind him with a clack.

The mystery girl has yet to relinquish her death-like grip on his wrist, squeezing his bones as though she thinks he’ll run away at the earliest opportunity.

The train lurches, the familiar whine of electric motors whirring to life filling the quiet, half occupied carriage as they slowly pull away from the platform. The place where Hisao saved this girl from certain death disappears slowly behind them through the semi-reflective windows.

He takes a deep breath. Then another one. Then one more.

The train sways slightly as it thunders over a railway switching, the girl’s boney shoulder rubbing against his.

“The next station is… Shinanomachi. The doors on the right side will open…”

Finally, he works up the courage to open his mouth, to ask the one question that’s on his mind.

“I…”

“What scares you the most?”

The ghostly girl speaks instead. Hisao stumbles at this sudden change in the line of questioning.

“W-What?”

She frowns, looking slightly bemused, and repeats her question.

“What scares you the most?”

Her voice is devoid of warmth, yet imbued with the sharpness and clarity of glass.

This isn’t what Hisao wants to talk about. He wants to ask about her uniform and the platform and the loafers peeking over the edge and the train that came within inches of ending her life.

“W-Well… I-”

She closes her ruby red eyes, huffing in frustration.

“I don’t mean things like spiders, or heights, or the dark. Those are small fears, discrete fears. You move away from the source of the fear, and it disappears.”

Her eyes open and yet again lock onto Hisao’s own, subjecting him to that same piercing, terrifying gaze.

“What’s something that absolutely chills you to the bone? Something so scary that it sets your heart pumping and your mind racing. Something so scary that you can hardly stand to think about it.”

There’s an arresting magnetism to the girl, as though the words have grasped Hisao’s throat and won’t let go until he answers.

He racks his frozen mind.

Something so scary you can hardly stand to think about it?

Hisao has always lived a thoroughly ordinary life, and prides himself on the knowledge that the future too will be equally ordinary.

He’s always been comfortable, cared for. He’s never had to hide, or run away, or fear anything so much that it would consume him.

What an odd question.

The obvious answer tumbles from his lips.

“… dying, I guess?”

Compared to the intensity of the girl’s questioning, his answer seems woefully inadequate.

“Hmm.”

She turns her head to gaze out the windows, her expression turning dissatisfied.

“How ordinary.”

Her words are dismissive, almost disdainful, as though Hisao had made a bad movie recommendation.

The sheer juxtaposition of her tone and the matter at hand allows some of the snark to seep back into his voice.

“… I’d wager that’s the answer most people would give.”

She shrugs.

“There are things far worse than dying, you know.”

Hisao doesn’t know how to respond. It’s a line so cynical that in any other circumstance he’d be liable to laugh it off as cliché.

But she’s deadly serious.

“That’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”

Another shrug.

“If it weren’t true, I wouldn’t have done what I did, would I?”

Hisao immediately grits his teeth, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. He’d been so lost in the conversation that he’d almost forgotten about what led him here.

But now, after hearing her speak, he’s totally unsure how to approach her.

Her way of speaking, of thinking, is totally alien to him.

They stand in silence, side by side, swaying and lurching with the movement of the train as it pulls into and out of each station, Hisao making nervous glances at this mystery girl who merely stares into the brightly lit city with total disinterest.

At some point past Suidobashi, the silence becomes too uncomfortable to bear.

“Well… er… my name is Hisao. Hisao Nakai. It’s… a pleasure to meet you.”

This girl he saved, at whom he threw his body to protect on pure instinct, he doesn’t even know her name.

It’s like she’s barely even human.

Her mouth stretches into a thin line at the offer of pleasantries, as though debating with herself.

“… my name’s Rika.”

A dead silence.

“Rika…?”

“Why do you need my last name? You’ll never see me again, anyway.”

Hisao opens his mouth to make some snappy response, but then closes it instead.

He’s seen the type before, in school and on the street. The young, angsty and alienated who put on a big show of misanthropy and apathy towards everyone and everything, declaring their hatred into the void in dress and demeanour.

He’s never taken them particularly seriously.

Of course, the difference is that they only went as far as changing their outfits and listening to certain music.

This girl had tried to jump in front of a train before his very eyes.

With that image endlessly turning in his mind’s eye, everything Rika says seems to carry a heavy, unspoken weight.

“The next station is… Akihabara. Please change here for…”

This particular announcement breaks Rika’s reverie. She once again grabs the black straps of her backpack and turns to face the doors.

“Thank you, Hisao.”

She’s leaving?

After all that just happened?

“Are you-”

“Don’t follow me. Goodbye.”

Suddenly releasing her grip on his wrist, Rika quite literally leaps onto the platform outside, taking off at a speed all out of proportion to her thin and sallow constitution.

“Wait!”

It’s not his stop. He barely knows who she is. But he finds himself stumbling after her, out of the train, onto the platform swarming with youngsters and tourists.

He weaves and dodges between the fluid morass of humanity, bumping into arms and backs, muttering apologies, desperately trying to keep his eyes on the long silver hair which disappears and reappears in the crowd like a beacon.

They’re running, running, running. Thundering down the steps, forcing their way through the underground passageways.

Where on earth is she going?

They’re climbing again, up the stairs to another platform. Hisao’s heaving at this point, gasping for breath- he’s not unfit, but hardly an athlete- and he wonders how the ghostly girl he’s pursuing could possibly be faring.

Rika gives no indication of slowing as she reaches the top of the stairs and veers right, momentarily disappearing from view.

“Your attention, please. The train bound for… Tokyo… and… Shinagawa… will soon arrive on track number Three…”

Reaching the platform, he’s just in time to see the green-striped carriages of the southbound Yamanote train grind to a halt and open its doors, passengers flowing in and out like a river.

“Akihabara… Akihabara…”

Hisao’s eyes frantically sweep the platform, fighting off the lurid, disorienting neon lights from the Electric Town just beyond the station, searching for that silver mystery.

He spots her, less than five meters ahead, about to dart into the train, and gives chase, lunging into the carriage’s gaping, crowded maw.

Again, he’s submerged in warm air, breathing great lungfuls of it as he steadies himself, only just managing not to crash into the girl right in front of him, or the passengers beyond.

The doors close behind them.

For a second, Rika stands, her entire body rising and falling from the exertion.

Then, she staggers.

“Rika?!”

It’s like they’re back at Sendagaya Station, his hands reaching out to grab her. He manages to get his arms under her armpits, stopping her from collapsing in a heap upon the carriage floor.

A choked gasp issues from her red lips, her every breath laboured. Her right hand claws at her chest, where her heart is, her crimson eyes squeezed tight to the point that dewdrop tears are dripping from the corners.

Hisao can sense the stares coming from the surrounding passengers, but at this moment he couldn’t care less.

He bends his head to her ear.

“Hey! Hey… do you need to go to the hospital?”

A gasp. A cough. Rika’s right hand shakily rises and limply waves him off. Her other hand is still clutching her chest for dear life, her face contorted in an expression of pain.

By some miracle, there’s an empty seat right by the door. Almost dragging her past the other passengers, he manages to sit her down, her head resting against the windowpane.

Hisao kneels down in front of her.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s doing this. Why he’s going out of his way for this girl.

“The next station is… Kanda. The doors on the left side will open…”

Rika’s choked gasps quickly quieten to mere heavy breathing, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling.

Her lips move, and Hisao can only just manage to catch her voice, low and hissing.

“Dammit.”

He leans in to hear her better, but she only shakes her head and clicks her tongue.

“I thought that run would’ve done it.”

What?

Done it?

Nothing she’s saying makes sense.

Except…

Her bony limbs.

Her unnaturally white skin.

The way she staggered onto the train.

The way she gasped for breath.

The way she almost collapsed, as though she were about to die.

The way her pale white hand clutches at her heart.

The dots begin to connect in Hisao’s mind.

“Trains are a bit like people, if you think about it.”

Rika’s non sequitur pulls him out of his ruminations. She’s recovered somewhat, managing to prop herself up in her seat.

Some of the passengers continue to stare, others averting their eyes, but she doesn’t register any of them, looking only at Hisao.

Again, he’s bewildered. Her voice is unsteady, still interspersed between heavy breaths, yet with a wistful tone that’s very different from the cold reproach she was giving him earlier.

“You move through life like a train moves along its route. You stop at places; sometimes, you go faster, other times, slower.”

Her hand is still over her chest, not quite clutching it as before, but over it, guarding it, almost hiding it from view.

“You meet people. They come aboard. Some of them will stay with you till the end of the line. Others, only for a stop or two. Sometimes, they’ll be so many people, you’ll want to get away; other times, your carriages will be empty, and you’ll be lonely, wishing for those rush hour crowds.”

Her limbs are still trembling, her skin still pale as the moon. Her crimson irises pierce his own, leaving him spellbound.

“Some lines are shorter than others. The Yokohama Line is shorter than the Tokaido Line. The Marunouchi Line is shorter than the Yokohama Line. That’s just how it is.”

Riddles and metaphors. Hisao’s not certain what Rika’s point is.

“But all trains end somewhere.”

Every word, hanging in the air as though weighed down by lead.

This ghostly girl is haunted by ghosts of her own.

Hisao’s torn. He’s never encountered someone like this. He’s seen too much to simply leave her be, but at the same time he’s wholly unsuited for approaching a subject as thorny as this.

He says the first thing on his mind.

“Not this train. The Yamanote goes in a loop.”

Rika shakes her head.

“Only if you’re a passenger. The trains must eventually stop at some siding or a depot. Nothing travels forever.”

Conversationally outmaneuvered at every turn, Hisao tries to get at the root of what she’s saying. How she’s feeling.

Maybe, if he gives her a little understanding, she’ll stop what she’s trying to do.

“So… you’re talking about something like… predestination?”

“If what you mean by that is that you’ll kick the bucket one day, then yes. One day, sometime in the future, you’ll stop breathing. You’ll reach the end of the line. That’s a form of predestination.”

She sighs.

“If you’re unfortunate enough to be cursed with a rare congenital heart defect, like a certain girl sitting before you, then your line will only run a few stations.”

His deductions were indeed correct.

“… oh…”

What does he even say to that?

This girl may as well be on another planet to him. Their lives are irreconcilably different.

His life isn’t on a timer. He doesn’t have to watch his every move, lest it kill him. His heart isn’t broken.

He’ll never truly know how she feels. He’ll never be able to cross that divide.

So, he can’t truly help her.

Words again fail him.

“I’m sorry…”

She doesn’t respond. It’d be a waste of words if she did.

“The next station is… Shimbashi…”

Rika’s crimson eyes catch something behind Hisao. Turning around, he spots the blue stripe of a Keihin-Tōhoku train running in parallel next to them.

The brakes engage, both trains slowing down as they approach the station.

There’s movement to his front. Snapping his eyes back, Hisao finds Rika staggering to her feet, clutching her backpack, a determined expression overtaking her formerly placid features.

The platform slides across the train doors as they slow to a crawl, the parallel train doing the same.

“It’s alright. Knowing your train has only a short distance to go…”

She makes her way to the door on shaky legs, Hisao following close behind.

“… gives you the power to derail it yourself.”

They stop.

The doors on both trains open simultaneously.

She takes a breath.

And she runs.

“Rika!”

She bursts out of the carriage, onto the platform, making a beeline for the open doors of the Keihin train on the opposite side.

Hisao gives chase.

She really means it, doesn’t she?

The cold wind whips at his face and hair. Rika is but a few meters in front of him, stumbling slightly on unsteady legs as she barrels her way into the train.

A red light flashes above the carriage doors as they begin to close.

Shit!

With the best of his strength, Hisao sprints the last few meters, squeezing his way through the rapidly closing doors just in time.

He wraps his arms around the girl, who’s once again barely managing to stand, any recovery she had mustered now wasted on another headlong charge into oblivion.

“Stop doing this to yourself, Rika!”

He’s desperate. He genuinely doesn’t know what he’ll do if she succeeds in her reckless efforts. Whether he’ll be able to live with himself.

He’s chained to the girl by his own conscience.

Leave her here.

I can’t.

“The next station is… Hamamatsuchō…”

Rika doesn’t resist. Instead, she hangs limply in Hisao’s arms.

They don’t sit or talk. They stand in silence, Hisao propping her up, both physically and mentally.

Finally, Rika whispers. The cold boldness with which she first approached him is now totally gone.

“I fucked up.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her expression turns downcast.

“Back at Sendagaya.”

Her eyes gaze out of the window, at the lights from windows and shops along the track flying past like fireflies.

“I told myself that this was the day. That nothing would stop me.”

All is quiet, save for the ambient sounds of the train and the leaden words sputtering from Rika’s lips.

“Everything was perfect. I got to the station. I got to the platform. I got to the edge. The train was about to arrive.”

The carriage crosses over a switching. Click-clack.

“All I needed was to lean forward.”

Her hands grip Hisao’s arms tightly.

“And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

His mouth is dry. He’s never heard such a confession from someone before.

“I was scared.”

Rika looks frustrated, almost ashamed.

“I was so scared of dying. Even when I spent days mentally preparing myself. Even though I came all the way down here. Even though I know, logically speaking, that I’m likely going to die soon, anyway.”

Hisao is straining under the weight of both the girl and her words.

“It’s the one thing I can control. The one choice I can make in my life. The one thing I can do where I have all the power.”

Rika shakes her head.

“Yet, I’m still scared. I can’t do it. Something in me still wants to live.”

She snorts derisively to herself.

“I’m a hypocrite. I talk about there being things worse than dying, yet I can’t even follow through myself.”

She talks about it so casually, it scares him.

He wants to comfort her, to tell her, in some way, that life is worth living.

But how?

All the possible platitudes he could give sound so empty to himself, let alone to this girl whose entire exterior seems to be one hardened shell.

Everything in his life is set out before him. He’s going to head on into his third year, accompanied by his friends. He’s going to graduate. He’s going to attend university. He’s going to receive a degree. He’s going to find an apartment, get a job at some giant corporation, and make money. He’s going to settle down with some girl, maybe have some children, and live a long and boring life.

It’s as ordinary a life plan as possible, and he’s never had cause to rethink it. It’s all pre-made for him, as though he’s filled out a form.

No fears. No uncertainty. Only the comforting knowledge that he’s walking a path well-travelled. How could anything he says carry any weight?

How could he possibly relate to this ghostly girl?

A ticking time bomb in her chest. No plans. No control. Helpless against her own biology.

Except, of course, the fact that she’s killing herself with every step she takes. With every breath and every movement, she’s coming ever closer to derailing the train of her life.

What is it like to live with that sort of goal?

“The next station is… Shinagawa…”

They’re worlds apart. Aliens to one another.

What comfort could an alien give?

“I’m sorry, I…”

He wants to give something, anything, but his mind only returns blanks.

There’s no place in her existence for such an ordinary person.

“I just don’t understand.”

It’s the honest truth. He can pull her back from the platform’s edge, hold her up against collapse, but he can never bridge the gap. He can’t fix her heart. He can’t help her face her fears.

“I’m not like you, Rika. I don’t have a heart condition. I don’t know what you know. I haven’t gone through what you’ve gone through.”

The girl’s silvery head nods.

“I know.”

The next station appears, the train slowing. Out of the windows, Hisao can spot another Keihin train approaching the same platform in the opposite direction, going back the way they came, already alighting passengers.

Rika lifts her head and looks into his eyes.

Then, for the first time, a tiny, sardonic smile plays upon her lips.

“We couldn’t be more different, could we, Hisao Nakai?”

The doors open.

Bam.

Hisao is stunned. The girl’s palm smacks into his chest, sending him stumbling back, letting her go momentarily.

She makes her escape, shooting out of the carriage and across the platform towards the northbound Keihin train.

On reflex, Hisao runs too, but he knows it’s futile. He’s barely stepped onto the platform when the other train’s warning chime sounds.

She’s too far away this time.

As though unshackled from her condition for a brief, fantastic moment, Rika leaps through the rapidly narrowing gap between the closing doors, her silvery hair a flowing tail that cleanly clears the metal lips just as they slam together.

Hisao slows, stopping at the yellow line, his outstretched fingertips mere inches from the shut doors.

An impossible distance.

He lowers his arm.

The train’s motors whine, the suspension heaving a short sigh as it slowly begins to pull out of the station, bogies clacking against the metal of the rails, getting ever quieter as it disappears down the tracks and into the dark winter night.

Trains are a bit like people, if you think about it.

You meet people. They come aboard. Some of them will stay with you till the end of the line. Others, only for a stop or two.

He’d hopped aboard Rika’s train for but a few stops. He could never stay.

He’ll never truly understand her. Her fears, her struggles, her darkness, he’ll never understand it.

Will he?

( Back to Index)

Debated posting this one for a good while.

Characterisations of Rika run the gamut of fun and sprightly (yes, I do enjoy Flutter ) to dark and nihilistic. It's the latter that interests me the most. In this capacity, Rika acts as a sort of dark reflection to Hisao, someone who's gone through a similar experience and struggled with the same mental and emotional strain. Rather than moving past it as with Hisao, however, she embraces it, lives it, makes it part of her identity. It makes the similarities in conditions yet difference in mindset all the more striking.

The Chūō Rapid Line is infamous for the high number of suicides and attempted suicides along its track, largely to do with the sharing of the fast Rapid services with local trains on the same track, coupled with the lack of platform barriers, meaning that Chūō trains pass at very high speeds. In 1999, suicides reached a staggering 212, and remains a serious issue to this day.

Stay safe, everyone. I really mean it.

Sarabande

Sheets.

“…an emergency, we weren’t able to…”

Lilly’s slender fingers pinch and pull at the fabric, tracing the folds and its delicate softness.

She’s fiddling, again.

“… yes, we’re back at the Hakamichi’s with the luggage. They’ve arranged for us to stay another…”

It’s both a blessing and a curse, her razor-sharp sense of hearing. Even at this distance and through the closed door, she can catch snippets of Akira’s faraway conversation as the latter wanders up and down the hallway outside.

“… no, of course we couldn’t fly after that. The tickets have been more or less burned, but…”

A single tear falls from her right eye, impacting her skirt with a soft pat.

“… in hospital. He’s in surgery, last I’ve heard, but we haven’t gotten any updates since…”

She can still smell the antiseptic of the ward, hear the endless, wailing sirens, feel the swaying of the ambulance as it sped towards the hospital with its patient right on death’s door.

“… you kidding me? Father, we can’t just leave right now. We don’t even know if he’s alive or dead…”

Another tear. A sniffle. Lilly balls the bedsheets in her right fist, trying to cram all her sorrow, all her loathing, all her regret into the fabric.

Akira suddenly raises her voice, her tone filling with rage. The plaster walls do little to mask the building tirade.

“… for what reason?! He’s Lilly’s boyfriend for crying out loud! No, I won’t watch my language, because…”

Is he still her boyfriend? Every interaction in the immediate leadup to her departure screamed of goodbyes, that it was already over, and everyone was merely waiting for the credits to stop rolling.

The moment they exchanged farewells at the Yamaku gate was the moment they’d officially broken up, Lilly realises, if they hadn’t already done so before. At that moment, she had resolved to push Hisao out of her mind, lock away the feelings that were still squirming within her heart, and steel herself for the journey to come.

When they raised their hands for the last time, they had already betrayed each other.

“… news to you? Of course it’s bloody news to you! You couldn’t care less about whatever the hell happens in our lives! You’ve never once asked if…”

Akira’s shouting now, almost certainly loud enough for the entire Hakamichi household to hear.

Lilly can hardly believe her ears. She’s never heard anyone talk like that to her father, let alone her older sister. It’s as though Akira is trying to push ten years of built-up bitterness and recriminations through the tiny microphone of her mobile phone.

“… -ever. I’ve just about had it. We’re resolving the situation here first, then we’ll talk flights. Right now, Lilly’s my priority. That’s final.”

Lilly shuffles forward and gets to her feet, the bed creaking beneath her. Carefully, hands outstretched, she feels her way to where she knows her luggage is, feeling for its hard surface as she kneels in front of it.

Fumbling for the zippers, she thankfully finds the bag unlocked, and slowly opens it out, her fingers skimming the neatly packed clothing and other assorted items filling the bag’s cavernous frame, searching for one thing.

Then her fingertips trace wood.

A tiny bit of relief fills her heart.

Gently, gingerly, as though it were made of glass, Lilly lifts the music box out of the bag and cradles it in her hands.

Her most prized possession, her talisman. A gift from her best friend and her true love.

She turned her back on both.

She doesn’t deserve this.

Her fingers follow the intricate engravings, the cool metal finishings, the bends in the winding mechanism.

More tears fall.

“… only when things have calmed down over here. Lilly’s got enough on her plate as it is. Yes, I’ll give you updates when I have them. Goodbye.”

A muffled stomping immediately fills the room, growing ever louder until her door bursts open with a bang.

Startled to her feet, Lilly, almost drops the music box, her pulse skyrocketing as she briefly loses her grip before her fingers catch the edges.

She can’t lose this. It’s the only anchor she has left.

Heavy footsteps march across her front, moving to the other side of the room. There’s the creak of a chair being dragged, and then the slump of a body falling into it.

A pregnant silence, punctuated only by deep breaths emanating from the chair.

Finally, Akira speaks.

“Sorry, Lilly. I lost it at the old man, there.”

She sighs.

“We’re staying here at least until everything with Hisao is cleared up. Father’s not happy with it at all, but there’s nothing he can do. The one benefit of distance, I guess.”

Lilly wonders if she should feel happy. She’s been given a reprieve, a stay of execution.

But what if there’s nothing left? What if she goes back and finds only the ashes of the relationships she once treasured?

The mere thought causes more tears to spill onto her cheeks.

After a moment, Akira evidently comes to her feet, her footsteps falling dully on the carpet as she stops right in front of the stricken girl and gently embraces her with both arms.

“Lilly, look, I… I know things are really messy at the moment, okay? I don’t know how things are going to go from here. At the very least, we can stay here and figure everything out. We take one thing at a time, alright?”

Lilly feels the music box she’s holding being pressed between them, cradled next to her heart.

…

Ue o muite arukō

Namida ga koborenai youni,

Omoidasu, haruno hi

Hitoribocchi no yoru…

An old tune drifts gently from the car’s speakers.

The wheels pass over some bumps, rocking the vehicle slightly. The white noise of rubber against tarmac hums in the background, giving Lilly some sense of the speed at which they’re travelling.

She grasps the backpack sitting in her lap tightly.

There are no tears. Not yet, anyway.

“You feeling alright, Lilly?”

Akira’s abrupt question shakes her from her thoughts.

“I… I’m fine.”

A lie. A lie of omission. Akira would never buy it.

But she can hardly do otherwise. She’s been telling lies of omission to everyone around her.

Even to the boy she claimed was her love.

This time, her sister lets it go, remaining silent.

Ue o muite arukō

Nijinda hoshi o kazoete,

Omoidasu, natsuno hi

Hitoribocchi no yoru…

Lilly really is all alone, now.

Akira will always be around, of course, but for one, they’re sisters, and two, Akira already has her own life, submerged in the business of corporate affairs.

The connections she forged herself, the few others whom she let into her heart, have already been burned.

Her fingers grip the bag even tighter.

“Akira…”

Her voice spills out. Not the confident, regal tone which is her trademark, but something small, and timid.

“Akira, am I… a bad person?”

A heavy silence. She can hear Akira’s lips separate, then close, then separate again as she tries to find her words.

“… what do you mean, Lilly?”

The tears are burning at the back of her eyes, but she fights to keep them down.

“I abandoned Hisao. I abandoned Hanako. I told them never to leave me, and then I just upped and left them instead.”

Her voice begins to warble.

“I lied, Akira. Not that I told falsehoods, but I didn’t want them to know how I truly felt. I told myself it was so I wouldn’t hurt them by leaving, but it was really so I wouldn’t have to hurt myself. Isn’t that selfish?”

The dam breaks, and the tears well up in her eyes, making trails down her cheeks as she speaks. It’s all tumbling out now, all her guilt, all her pain, all her regrets.

“I don’t know whether Hisao should have said something, or whether I should have said something to him instead. I don’t know if it was still the right decision to leave… but… he’s in hospital now, Akira. I caused his second heart attack, no matter which way you put it. He nearly killed himself chasing after me…”

Lilly hangs her head. The tears drip down onto her bag.

“Does that not make me a bad person?”

Her question hangs in the stale air of the car.

Akira sits silently, as though considering what to say next.

Then, carefully, she asks a question of her own.

“Lilly… can I just be frank?”

Her heart is beating in her ears. She has no idea what Akira’s about to say; whether she’s going to comfort her or lambast her or say something else entirely.

“Of course.”

Akira takes a deep breath.

“As far as I’m concerned, both you and Hisao screwed up. Big time. This entire mess was extremely avoidable if either of you had actually just been honest and open with one another from the beginning. The fact that neither of you ever confronted the central issue that would make or break your relationship, even when it was staring at you right in the face, is, to put it bluntly, cowardice.”

Akira’s voice rings through her mind.

Coward.

It’s a strong word. Lilly’s bruised ego rises to challenge the label, but the more she thinks about it, the more her sister’s words ring true.

They’ve been hiding the entire time. Whenever a problem arose, both of them would simply turn away, ignore it, talk around it until it
disappeared, or they didn’t have to deal with it anymore.

They’d been walking on clouds the entire time, and Lilly had been too scared to break the spell, lest they fall to earth.

It had all been to stop them from hurting each other. So that they could wave goodbye with no sadness, with no regrets.

But is that not exactly what ended up happening?

She’d only suppressed her feelings, not confronted them. In the end, it came down to Hisao to leap across the gap and reach out to her- a task that should never have been his in the first place.

“Lilly, you know I’ve made an effort not to meddle in your love life and let you do things how you wanted to do them. But, I’m telling you right now, that you need to communicate with Hisao. You need to let him know how you feel, where you stand, about everything. About our parents. Your relationship. Inverness. Your fears. Your feelings. Everything.”

Everything.

Can she really? Can she be that vulnerable?

“Everything?”

Akira hits the rim of the steering wheel with her palm for emphasis.

“Everything, Lilly. I mean it. That’s what it means to be in a relationship. You need to lay your heart bare. I know it’s difficult for you… it’s difficult for me too. Some people are naturally good at it; we’re not. But that’s not an excuse to not try. Hisao has made so many sacrifices- heck, he’s continuing to make a sacrifice as we speak- to communicate to you his true feelings. If you really, and I mean, really, love him, the absolute minimum you can do is give him the same.”

Lay your heart bare.

She’s always kept a certain distance from Hisao, especially around her family and her future.

But Akira’s right. If she wants that future for Hisao, and for herself, she must bridge the divide. There’s no other choice. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t try.

Her sister starts speaking again, her tone more gentle.

“In saying all this: you’re not a bad person, Lilly. You could never be. If I asked Hisao or Hanako the same question right this second, they’d agree.”

Well, Hisao couldn’t agree because he’s in hospital. Because of her.

Lilly raises a protest.

“But…”

“Lilly, everyone can see from a mile away that you care so much for those close to you. You made mistakes, sure, but so did Hisao and Hanako. It’s a collective failure, but that doesn’t mean any of you are bad people. You’re all still teenagers. It’s unfortunate that said failure put Hisao in hospital, but he’s recovering. If you keep beating yourself up over Hisao, you’re gonna get nowhere. You need to think about the future.”

A vehicle- some kind of truck, she supposes- overtakes them on the left, the roaring of its engine and the woosh of wind in its wake washing over the car.

“So, talk to him, Lilly. When he wakes up. It’s going to be awkward. It’s going to be uncomfortable, especially after everything, but you need to do it. You understand?”

Some of the darkness taking hold of Lilly’s mind lessens. She doesn’t know what the outcome will be, but she has a duty. She owes it. To Hisao. To Hanako. To herself.

She wipes her tears.

“I understand, Akira. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to him. Properly, this time.”

Akira hums affirmatively.

Then, she rests her hand on Lilly’s right shoulder.

“And Lilly, one final thing. About our parents.”

“Yes?”

Akira sighs.

“I know we’ve had this discussion before, and we’re probably not going to see eye to eye on this anytime soon, but I need you to understand. Our parents are important. We both want their love. It may not seem like it, but I’ve always wanted it too. But the reality, Lilly, is that they haven’t given it to us. Not for many, many years. That’s why you want to go to Inverness, isn’t it? Because then you’ll be with them. You’ll have their approval. You’ll finally have their love. Am I wrong?”

Lilly feels as though the recesses of her heart have been ripped out and laid bare for all to see. How did Akira figure it all out, and put it together so succinctly?

“Well, no… but… how…”

A short chuckle.

“I’m your sister, Lilly. And because I’m your sister, I can tell you this: you need to live for yourself.”

Live for myself?

Akira continues.

“Your strength, Lilly, is that you always put people above yourself. You’re always addressing someone else’s needs, someone else’s feelings. You did that for Hanako, and then Hisao, and you made their lives better. That much I can tell you. But you’re trampling over your own needs and feelings in pursuit of others, Lilly. It’s hurting you, real bad. It’s not good. Sometimes, you need to step back and figure out what’s best for you. It’s good to be selfish sometimes, Lilly.”

Everything Akira’s saying goes against her entire life up to this point. She’s always tried to behave, to be the ideal daughter, all in pursuit of that perfect family she envisions in her mind. It’d bring the most happiness to everyone if that came true.

But she has a family here, too. A small, misshapen family, but a family all the same.

Can she really abandon them?

The answer, which would have been obvious two days ago, now swirls in her mind. She’s been so laser focused on Inverness that she hasn’t stopped to consider anything else.

“Lilly, you’ve been looking for love and acceptance for so long that you’re not seeing it when it’s literally right in front of you. Your life is here, Lilly. In Japan. In Yamaku. With the people you love not out of blood, but because of a genuine connection. You get me?”

Her blood family.

Her found family.

The implication of Akira’s words is clear.

Stay.

Stay with those you choose to love yourself. Not out of obligation.

“I do.”

The air relaxes somewhat. Akira steps on the gas, both leaning back in their seats as the car accelerates.

“Anyway, I’m not one to talk. The breakup with Ryu was messy as all hell, and I’m not sure where to start with him, to be honest. Part of me says to just cut my losses, but it wouldn’t be fair to say all that to you and then take the easy way out myself, you know?”

Despite herself, Lilly smiles slightly. Akira drums her fingers on the steering wheel, as though thinking deeply for a moment, before exhaling loudly.

“I’ll figure it out.”

Lilly recalls a certain line, said by a certain boy, in a certain place with golden fields and beautiful sunsets.

“We're a couple of right old fools, aren't we?”

A laugh from Akira, a real, genuine laugh. One she hasn’t heard for a while, now.

“That we are, Lilly, that we are.”

Ue o muite arukō

Namida ga koborenai youni

Nakinagara aruku

Hitoribocchi no yoru…

Lilly can feel the car beginning to turn left, the clicking of the blinkers indicating that they’re leaving the expressway.

It’s time to bare her heart.

Hitoribocchi no yoru…

…

The door.

The music box in her hands.

Lilly breathes in.

And out.

She’s always carried herself with confidence and grace. Her blindness could never take that away.

But now, standing in front of what Akira says is Hisao’s hospital room, she’s nervous.

“Let’s go, Lilly.”

A hand brushes past her arm before turning the door handle with a soft schick.

Pushing it aside, Lilly immediately notices the sharp smell of antiseptic.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The steady rhythm of the EKG machine. It’s a comforting sound for Lilly, confirming to her that Hisao’s heart is still beating. There’s still life in him yet.

“It’s as the doctor said. He’s still sleeping quite a bit ‘cause of the anaesthetic, so we’re still gonna have to wait a while before he wakes up.”

Akira lets go of Lilly’s left arm, leaving her free to move about the room.

With no hands to hold a cane, she very, very carefully walks through the room, brushing up alongside Hisao’s bed, listening to Akira’s directions until she’s in front of the nightstand.

With extreme care, Lilly lowers the music box until it rests on the nightstand with a barely audible sound.

It’s the symbol of their connection. Once locked away as just some other object in her luggage; now, it’s her bridge to Hisao, her commitment to rebuilding what was lost.

“I’ll move a chair over to you, Lilly, so you can sit down.”

There’s a grating sound as a chair is shuffled behind her. She sits and faces the vague heat source which she knows is her love.

The love she came within a hair’s breadth of losing.

Gingerly, she moves her right hand, tracing the side of the bed, then the fabric of the blankets, finding Hisao’s smooth fingers.

It’s just like when they were getting to know each other, when she asked to feel his features. Her fingers find the place where the cannula is inserted into his right arm, the long, winding tubes that carry cool liquids which she cannot identify, the thin gowns which cover Hisao’s body and shoulders.

And finally, his face. She’d tried so hard to forget the sensations, to excise the memory from her mind, just to make the trip easier. Now, she traces his chin, his mouth, the tubes running under his nose and around his head, his closed eyelids and soft, short hair forming a curtain around his forehead.

Lilly can feel his breath, slow but definite, on her fingers.

He’s still here.

The flame is not yet out.

“… if you want, Lilly, I can leave.”

She merely nods her head, the sound of footsteps and the door being opened and then shut following quickly afterwards.

Alone, with only the slumbering boy and the EKG machine for company, like some strange reversal of Sleeping Beauty.

You need to communicate with Hisao.

Everything?

Everything.

Talk to him, Lilly.

Akira’s words echo in her mind.

She intertwines Hisao’s limp fingers with hers.

“Hisao, I…”

He can’t hear her.

He’s still asleep.

Maybe she should wait until he wakes?

Maybe.

The words…

“I’m sorry.”

Suddenly start tumbling out anyway.

“I’m sorry for betraying your trust. I’m sorry that I did the one thing I told you not to do.”

Her voice, at first a whisper, grows in volume as the dam breaks, and she grasps his hand ever tighter, seeking that penance, that absolution.

“I’m sorry that I lied, that I hid things. I’m sorry that I hid my heart from you, even when I encouraged you to show your heart to me.”

For a third time, the tears begin to leak out. She doesn’t try to stop them.

It’s time to truly let Hisao know how she feels, even if, at this moment, he can’t hear her.

“Everything I said when we gave our farewells… I take it back. I…”

Her voice turns forceful, determined.

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I want to stay with you, Hisao. Because I love you. I love you, and nothing can change that.”

Her true feelings. What she really wants. Not for others. For herself.

“When you wake up, please forgive me. I… I want to try again.”

She leans forward, almost resting her head on Hisao’s belly.

“I don’t want what we shared that day in Hokkaido to die. I…”

You need to step back and figure out what’s best for you.

It’s good to be selfish sometimes, Lilly.

You need to live for yourself.

“I want us to listen to this Sarabande, together. As one. Please.”

With a sudden resolve, she sits up, deft fingers finding the music box and opening it.

Winding up the mechanism, as though the music alone will wake Hisao, and bring him back to her.

There’s a tiny whirring as the music begins to play, the soft, tinkling notes of Bach making its way through the air.

Lilly sits for a while, listening patiently to the music as it concludes and restarts in an endless loop.

He still slumbers. She’ll have to do this all over again.

She sighs.

“Water…”

Standing up, she finds her way to the door and then the hallway outside, where Akira is waiting.

“Has Hisao woken up?”

“Not yet. I need some water.”

Arm in arm, the elder sister guides her to a nearby water fountain, where she drinks her fill.

Returning to the door, Akira springs a question.

“I’m heading down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. You wanna come?”

Lilly shakes her head.

“No thank you. I want to stay with Hisao.”

A hand rustles Lilly’s hair and ribbon, a gesture she remembers from her very early childhood.

“Thought you would. See ya. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Akira’s footsteps echo down the empty hallway, gradually fading into the ambient noise.

Her fingers find the handle, and she slowly opens the door, the hinges creaking softly.

The music is still playing.

Walking in, her left hand trailing the wall for direction, she makes for the chair set up next to the nightstand.

“L…Lilly…?”

She’s startled.

A voice.

His voice.

A voice she thought she’d never hear from again. A voice she thought would become a distant, heart-rending memory.

A voice she fell in love with, because of its earnestness, its gentleness. The beautiful person behind the voice, and the beautiful soul within.

A beauty she came so close to throwing away. A beauty that was almost lost forever to shared mistakes.

It’s time to start again.

She opens her mouth.

“Hisao? Was that you?”

( Back to Index)

I'm starting to become obsessed with prequels, pre-canon and "gaps"- stories that happen before the main events of KS, or during the VN but out of sight or knowledge of Hisao.

Lilly's POV is really growing on me. I love her route, and writing her is becoming quite fun.

Stay safe, everyone.

That was beautiful.

I don't like Lilly route much because of the exactly the reason that is fulfilled by that story — it doesn't show Lilly's regret over her actions properly. This is my headcanon now.

Just one thing

seannie4 wrote: Sun Jul 28, 2024 1:57 pm

A vehicle- some kind of truck, she supposes- overtakes them on the left, the roaring of its engine and the woosh of wind in its wake washing over the car.

They drive on the left side of the road in Japan, so unless the truck is illegally undertaking or is exiting on a slip road, it should be passing on the right.

seannie4 wrote: Fri Jul 26, 2024 1:33 pm

Chūō

Characterisations of Rika run the gamut of fun and sprightly (yes, I do enjoy Flutter ) to dark and nihilistic. It's the latter that interests me the most. In this capacity, Rika acts as a sort of dark reflection to Hisao, someone who's gone through a similar experience and struggled with the same mental and emotional strain. Rather than moving past it as with Hisao, however, she embraces it, lives it, makes it part of her identity. It makes the similarities in conditions yet difference in mindset all the more striking.

Really liked your take on Rika, I'm reminded of the darker takes such as Rikabro's fic. Rika in your fic asked a lot of questions which I honestly don't have good answers for, and honestly gave me some existential dread

As for Sarabande it a nice gap-filler with Akira talking some sense into Lilly during the good end thought Hisao was gonna die since you wrote it

A love letter to my home country.

Jigsaw

The first thing that registers with Hisao is the heat.

He’s suffered through long, humid summers before, but absolutely nothing like this.

The air itself seems to wrap around him like water, pricking at his exposed skin. Raising a hand to swipe the sweat sticking like glue to his forehead brings precious little relief.

“Enjoying the climate, Hisao?”

A sprightly voice cuts through the clamour of honking horns and revving engines that surrounds him. He turns his head to see a dark-skinned girl with twin braids skipping to and fro before him, clearly in her element in the din and heat of the airport pickup.

Hisao can only reply to her boundless energy with an exhausted sigh.

“… I think I might die, Molly. My kneecaps seem to be sweating…”

At this, the girl giggles, her white teeth showing through her wide, teasing smile.

“Sucks to be you! I’ve got no such problems.”

Molly makes a big, overdramatic show of sticking out her grey, full-length prosthetics, laughing all the while.

Rolling his eyes at her antics, Hisao spots Molly’s mother peevishly standing by a taxi a good fifty meters away, waving at them to stop messing around and hurry up.

The luggage is loaded into the vehicle as quickly as possible before Hisao more or less dives into the rear seats, the taxi’s air conditioning providing a blessed respite from the relentless humidity.

With the doors slammed shut, and after a lot of honking and jostling, the taxi manages to escape the virtual gridlock of the airport pickup, weaving its way through the chaotic jumble of cars and onto the open road.

A finger pokes Hisao’s left shoulder.

“So, how does it feel? First time outside Japan, and you choose Malaysia. This is vacationing on hard mode. All the chaos. All the heat. You must be a secret masochist, Hisao.”

He shrugs.

“Well, it’s your home country. Kind of signed up for it.”

Molly lets out an evil-sounding laugh and a smug grin, her voice turning posh and haughty.

“But you see, my dear Hisao, I have the genetic advantage here. I fear your weak Tokyoite constitution is wholly inadequate for the tropical challenge this place has to offer.”

The last part is indisputable. Years of clean, cushy living is clearly no preparation for the third-world chaos Molly has been gleefully promising the entire flight here.

“My parents took me to Okinawa once, when I was eight or nine. Don’t remember very much from the trip, but I do remember sweating my ass off the whole time.”

At this, Molly shakes her head and wags a finger.

“Hah! Okinawa is nothing. Better get used to it fast then!”

Turning his head to the window, Hisao is struck by how… green everything is. Not the light hues of the manicured parks that dot Tokyo, but the deep tropical green of the ordered rows of oil palms and the intervening jungle that flies past the taxi.

He’s seen plenty of tropical rainforest in TV documentaries, but seeing the hills and distant mountains covered in dense walls of emerald foliage is something else entirely.

Another poke. In contrast to her playful expression a mere minute before, Molly’s face has turned deadly serious, her voice a low, urgent tone.

“I must warn you. You’d better hide your face, Hisao. Your people occupied this country during the war, and we’re still out for revenge.”

Hisao blinks, his heart rate immediately skyrocketing and mouth instantly drying at the implications.

What?!

“A-are you serious?!”

There’s a poignant silence.

Then, Molly doubles over in fits of raucous laughter, straining at her seatbelt as she slaps her knees and wipes tears from her eyes.

“Of course not, silly! You should’ve seen your face, hahahaha…!”

He can’t quite suppress a small smile even as he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

…

Whirlwind.

That’s the best way to describe the trip, Hisao decides.

Everywhere is chaos. There are no orderly queues, no clean, open streets. Cars and motorbikes mingle freely on the scarcely marked roads, surging this way and that like water down a river. More than once, the taxi driver has to slam on the brakes and blast the horn, swearing in some foreign language at an unseen interloper.

The dense rainforest rapidly gives way to sprawling suburbs, tin-roofed tenements and slums crammed and stacked on atop the other in a fashion simultaneously alien and fascinating to Hisao’s eyes.

Much of the signage is in English lettering, but in combinations and phrases utterly alien to Hisao’s already flagging English ability, his meagre attempts at pronunciation met with uproarious laughter from Molly and her mother.

They’re driven into the city, the glass-covered buildings a slightly more familiar sight. He spots a set of twin skyscrapers with their spires piercing the overcast sky, a small pedestrian bridge connecting the two.

Then, they’re out of the taxi, plunging yet again into the muggy heat. Between regular exhortations from Molly to stay close and to hold onto his wallet, he’s led into a sprawling open-air market, stalls and hawkers under tarpaulins selling all manner of trinkets, clothing, foods on grills or in great metal pots. It’s raucous, the smells and sounds intermingling, intoxicating to the senses.

Grabbing onto Molly’s hand, they weave their way through the crowds that pack the narrow alleyways of the market. He’s jostled, bumped, elbowed and kneed by seemingly every passerby. He can only whisper apologies to so many people before Molly motions at him to cut it out and just plow through the morass like she is.

Eventually, they stop in front of an open-walled café, buzzing with customers sitting at stainless steel chairs and tables. Large vats of brightly-coloured curries sit behind glass partitions, doled out on order by the casually dressed staff at a furious pace. The open grills and mounds of fried foods remind him a little of the school festivals he used to attend.

Misting fans and hanging TVs are bolted to the ceiling, doing little to counter the extraordinary heat or the chaotic atmosphere inside.

Molly slowly leads Hisao past the stalls, a finger pointed at the glass.

“Welcome to a mamak, Southeast Asia’s answer to the café. No barista-made coffees or fancy cakes here. Just rough service and the best damn food on the planet.”

Hisao is liable to point out that the general cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the place might well get in the way of the latter, but he gets the impression he, a delicate foreigner, would be told to temper his expectations should he open his mouth.

Both Molly and her mother begin a lively conversation with the man behind one of the counters, clearly ordering food, though what they’re saying is beyond him.

The mother whirls around.

“I’ll get you lot drinks. Is there anything you specifically want, Hisao?”

It’s a little jarring hearing her switch seamlessly from what he thinks is Malay to perfect, British-accented English. Hisao has no hope of deciphering the rows of menu items on the board, so merely shrugs his shoulders.

“Just get him the usual, Amma.”

Nodding at Molly’s request, she turns back and once again slips into Malay without a second to spare.

Hisao is led to a table, taking his seat on the bare steel chair. Molly follows, leaning in with a grin on her face.

“Yeah, my mum’s pretty cool like that. Malay, Tamil, Hindi and English. The only language she can’t speak a word of, as you’ve probably noticed, is Japanese. How ironic.”

Frankly, he’s impressed at Molly’s ability to flip between English and Japanese at will. Fluent multilingualism would be so nice to have, if only he was remotely good at languages.

The mother has barely taken her seat when the food comes around, metal trays deposited in front of them with little fanfare. On its heels are two drinks served in what resembles an elongated pint glass, one the colour of milk tea with a thick head of foam at the top, and a clear beverage with ice and tiny limes floating within.

Looking down at his metal platter, Hisao finds a large, rectangular piece of flatbread, still steaming hot. Three different… curries, he supposes, fill squarish inserts in the platter, a thin sheen of fiery red oil floating on top.

Seeing Hisao’s bemusement, Molly smiles, picking up the flatbread and ripping it in two, the outer layers flaking off in golden brown fragments.

“This, Hisao, is roti canai, the national bread. It’s stretched and tossed, a little like a pizza, and it’s bloody good.”

She rips a smaller piece of her roti and dips it into one of the sauces, coating it in the orangey-red substance.

“And this, Hisao, is real curry. The stuff they serve back in Japan is nothing more than a glorified beef stew.”

She stuffs it into her mouth, leaning back and closing her eyes as she chews. It’s clear she’s missed this food.

With trepidation, Hisao grabs a spoon and skims the crimson oil floating atop one of the curries.

“… are you sure it’s safe to eat?”

Molly perks back up, shooting Hisao another devilish smile.

“Only one way to find out.”

Indeed there is, though Hisao is sure Molly’s about to extract great pleasure from watching an uninitiated bite off more than he can chew. Literally.

Steeling himself, Hisao gamely dips a spoon into a curry and lifts it to his mouth, taking the entire spoonful in one bite.

It’s hot.

He hates to play the stereotype, but it is damn spicy, positively burning his mouth and his tongue in both temperature and taste.

He manages to swallow, shutting his eyes tight as tiny tears leak out the side, the curry leaving a trail of heat down his throat and a warmth in his stomach.

Blindly groping, he reaches for one of his drinks, the iced one, taking a big, cooling gulp of the sweet, citrusy liquid. The cold is a welcome relief from the heat of both the food and the temperature outside.

Finally opening his eyes, he finds Molly wearing the biggest, shit-eating grin he’s seen in a long while.

“Too spicy?”

“Shut up.”

Seeking to hide his embarrassment, Hisao imitates Molly, breaking off a piece of flatbread and dipping it into the curry.

It’s milder now, and the roti is delicious. He can taste the spices, and after a few more bites, it’s starting to grow on him.

“… it is really tasty, though.”

“What did I tell ya? It’s addictive.”

He reaches for his second beverage, Molly doing the same.

“That, Hisao, is teh tarik, our version of milk tea, and the national drink. When you make it, you pour the tea back and forth repeatedly from one cup to another, giving it that frothy layer at the top. The whole maneuver is a bit of showmanship, but in places like these, it’s all about efficiency.”

He takes a sip, the foam coating his lips. It’s very sweet, much sweeter than the milk teas he buys from the vending machines back home.

It’s good though. Everything’s good, actually, once he gets used to it. Stepping outside his comfort zone isn’t as bad as he feared. Well, except for giving Molly endless ribbing material.

Hisao does note the curious stares and glances from the other patrons, piqued by their conversation in Japanese, Molly’s legs, or a combination of the two. He tries to ignore it.

Molly, on the other hand, seems totally unperturbed, taking a swig of her drink and tearing off another chunk of roti.

She speaks between bites, her voice muffled by the bread in her mouth.

“So, Hisao. Welcome to the outside world. What an introduction, right?”

He gazes around at the packed tables, the fans spraying mist into the humid air, and the busy streets absolutely packed with cars, motorcycles and pedestrians.

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

…

Nightfall.

They’re once again in the suburbs, the streets only occasionally illuminated by the odd streetlamp casting a weak orange glow over the uneven bitumen. In the dark, the areas of thick jungle surrounding the clusters of houses form an ocean of impenetrable, unnerving blackness.

The only sounds are the buzzing of mosquitoes and the never-ending chirping of cicadas. Even at this time of night, the heat is barely diminished.

He’s in front of a medium sized one-story bungalow, the driveway barricaded with a thick wrought-iron gate and the front yard protected by head-high white walls.

As though expecting Hisao’s question, Molly speaks up from behind him.

“They’re needed to stop break-ins. The police here are close to useless, so every community has to take care of itself, more or less.”

Damn. Hisao wonders if it’s even possible to feel this out of his element.

Molly’s mother, meanwhile, is yelling something in… Tamil, he supposes, and waving her hand above the gate.

The front door opens, revealing a man and a woman, both elderly, with graying hair and wrinkled skin, the latter dressed in a woven robe decorated in bright colours and intricate patterns.

The couple approach the gate, hailing Molly’s mother in return, pressing a button that slowly slides the gate open on noisy electric motors.

They enter the driveway, the man speaking animatedly to Molly’s mother, while Molly herself runs into the embrace of the old lady. It’s a sweet scene of a family reunion, though Hisao feels quite out of place, standing awkwardly off to the side.

Finally, Molly breaks the embrace and grabs Hisao’s wrist, leading him in front of the old couple as though on parade.

“Hisao, these are my grandparents on my dad’s side.”

Their dark eyes meet his, look at him up and down, as though inspecting him. Hisao begins to break out in a cold sweat, despite the heat. Molly’s mother has proven surprisingly laid back, but these elders seem to mean business, as grandparents are wont to do.

Nervously, Hisao scrambles for something to say. It seems improper to have to introduce himself via translation by Molly, so he concocts the best introduction he can out of his terrible English skills, and stammers out a greeting, praying that they’ll be mutually intelligible.

“My name is Hisao. It’s… uh… a pleasure to meet you.”

They look at each other for a moment. Then, the old man speaks in equally accented English.

“The same to you, Hisao. Welcome to our home.”

They enter the rather well-furnished house. Hisao spies a small shrine in the living room, an altar with a tiny marble statue surrounded by colourful garlands and offerings of fruit, a half-filled incense container sitting at the forefront. It’s fascinating, yet strangely familiar, a comforting reminder of home.

The trio sit down to dinner with the grandparents. Communication is a little awkward, with Molly having to act as translator, but her family is warm and welcoming, asking him many questions about his home and his studies.

It’s quite late before they manage to leave. Hisao goes first, exiting out the driveway and climbing into the passenger seats of the car.

Sitting inside, looking out the window, he notices that neither Molly nor her mother are with him, despite previously following him out the door.

Maybe they went back inside for something.

So, he waits.

And waits.

Even through the closed doors, Hisao can still hear the crickets and cicadas chirping away. He wonders how he’s going to sleep at night.

Finally, after twenty minutes or so, Molly and her mother emerge from the house, waving goodbye to the grandparents.

Molly is all smiles as she gets in, but Hisao notices something.

Trails on her cheeks, glinting in the orange light of the streetlamps.

She turns her face, and they’re gone.

Her mother starts the car.

He doesn’t push the issue.

…

New sights, new sounds, new places.

They visit a cave network, a great limestone hill dressed in moss and deep green jungle, karst formations reaching down like stalactites, creating the impression that he’s about to enter the sharpened maw of some great beast.

At the base of the hill stands an awe-inspiring sight: a giant, ornate golden statue, at least forty meters tall, standing imposingly over the visitor’s entrance, a great spear clutched in its right hand.

“Wow.”

Molly is beside him.

“That’s Murugan, the Hindu god of war. It’s the tallest statue in the country.”

Beyond the statue is a great staircase with several hundred steps, painted red and white with yellow handrails, leading all the way to the cave mouth a solid one hundred meters up. It’s a daunting trek at a sheer angle, and suddenly Hisao discovers his newfound eagerness to try new things withering away at the mere sight.

“I… have to climb all of that?”

His girlfriend’s already run ahead, one prosthetic already on the first step.

“Oh, come on, Hisao! This girl with no legs has done this climb dozens of times before. What, you’re too chicken to reach the top?”

Her voice is bright, in her trademark teasing fashion. But as she turns around, she notices Hisao’s anxious expression, and her carefree tone dies immediately.

A little ashamed, she walks back, taking Hisao’s left hand in hers.

“… I mean, if you think it’ll be too taxing on your heart, I can stay down here with you.”

He sighs. It’s nothing to be uncomfortable over, and the overcast expression doesn’t fit Molly’s face.

“It’s fine. I want to try and climb the staircase.”

If he paces himself, it shouldn’t cause any problems. He’s on a vacation with Molly, anyway. Where she goes, he goes.

Hand in hand, they take the first step, steadily climbing higher and higher. Molly’s mother is well ahead of them already, positively leaping up the steps, but the couple take it slow, stopping to rest every now and then, for Hisao to catch his breath or for Molly to adjust her prosthetics.

It’s one heck of a climb. As he gasps for breath, the Yamaku nurse’s voice starts ringing in his mind, chastising him for not taking exercise seriously with the other double amputee he knows. He’s definitely paying for his negligence now.

In stark contrast to her usual carefree swagger, Molly is careful, vigilant, glancing at Hisao often with a concerned expression on her face. She must be regretting that comment she made earlier, so he waves her off, telling her that he doesn’t mind, that he knows she doesn’t mean any harm.

Still, higher and higher. The cave mouth up ahead is actually the entrance to a Hindu temple, with gilded columns and an ornate roof over the landing at the top of the staircase.

Breath in, and out. Hisao’s heart is thumping, the slightly irregular beat filling his ears. He’s on the lookout for any sign of pain, for any disruption to his pulse, head down, watching the stairs, his hand grasping Molly’s.

It seems endless.

Suddenly, there’s no more steps. Hisao lifts his feet to find empty air. They’ve made it to the landing.

“You’ve made it, Hisao!”

Molly’s slapping him on the back as he bends over and regains his breath. He can’t help but feel a sense of achievement, even just for climbing some stairs.

He turns around and gazes at the view before him. It’s perhaps less of a vista than might be possible from this height, with the smog and the overcast sky, but it’s still fascinating to see the giant staircase stretching out below him like a colourful concrete carpet, the hundreds of people milling about at the base of the distant golden statue, the cars driving along the congested roads and the trains pulling in and out of the nearby station.

The inside is a wonder in itself. Sheer cliffs of pure limestone hang precariously over his head, the shards like stone icicles that could fall and impale him at any moment. The darkness of the caverns is broken up by shafts of light coming down through great holes in the ceilings where the rock has eroded away. He feels as though he’s been transported onto the set of Jurassic Park.

The temple is crowded, raucous, filled with visitors and worshippers bearing offerings, dressed in colourful traditional clothing and wreathed in garlands. Molly’s mother is long gone, lost somewhere in the sea of people.

Hisao turns around, expecting to see Molly prancing off in a random direction, beckoning him to see some other curiosity.

Instead, he finds her still at the landing at the top of the stairs, separated from the crowds, staring out over the landscape.

Molly’s expression is one that Hisao has never seen on her before. It’s wistful, longing, as though she’s trying to search for something in the grand view of the suburbs and jungle that stretches out before her.

Is something wrong?

He approaches.

“Molly?”

She whips around, her face lighting up with her trademark smile that erases her previously gloomy expression in an instant.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

She looks chipper on the surface, but Hisao’s known her long enough to detect the strain beneath the smile, the remnants of that wistful longing that she was showing mere seconds ago.

He wonders if he should bring it up.

Would that be an invasion of her privacy?

Molly makes the decision for him. Grabbing him by the wrist, she begins to lead him into the crowd.

“Let’s go, Hisao. You want to see the temple?”

He follows, but he’s lost in thought.

It’s at that moment he realises that Molly’s been smiling less and less as the trip goes on.

…

It’s evening.

There are no brilliant orange sunsets here, Hisao observes. It’s almost always far too cloudy and smoggy for that. The light simply fades from the landscape, the foliage turning ever darker shades of bluish-green before night envelops the city.

It’s much more overcast than usual. The rumble of distant thunder echoes through the sky, the harbinger of the monsoonal downpours Molly often describes.

He’s sitting on a stool, underneath some tarpaulin next to a roadside stall. Cars and motorcycles fly past, kicking up dust and filling the air with the thick stench of petrol fumes.

Molly is at the counter, ordering in laid-back Malay to the bearded man behind the till. Next to him are rows of hollow bamboo, cut into thirty-centimeter sections, propped up over a fire. Hisao watches with interest as a section, the exterior charred all over, is removed from the flames and sliced open from top to bottom, revealing something cylindrical and wrapped in banana leaf within.

He’s so engrossed, watching the men work, that he doesn’t notice Molly returning until she’s next to him, plonking a warm styrofoam container in his lap.

“Here you go. Look inside.”

He opens it to find small, neat, circular rice cakes, a few centimeters thick, wrapped in banana leaf. Picking one up, he finds that it’s made from whole rice, pressed together and bound with what smells like coconut.

“This is lemang. You line hollow bamboo stalks with banana leaf, fill it with rice, coconut milk and salt, and let it cook over a fire. It’s delicious.”

Hisao watches as Molly opens a box of her own, taking a piece of the lemang, carefully peeling the banana leaf, and biting into it.

He does the same, peeling the leaf, bringing the rice cake to his lips.

It’s warm, starchy and salty, with a distinct taste of coconut. Nothing like the mochi he has at home; the individual rice grains separating and breaking up in his mouth.

“Wow, it’s good.”

For a while, there’s no discussion as they eat.

Unable to bear the quiet, Hisao begins to speak.

“Man, those caves were amazing. I can’t imagine trying to build an entire temple inside there, let alone those stairs. My one trip up and down those steps probably fills my exercise quota for the rest of the month, I think.”

He chuckles, expecting Molly to rib him on his lack of athletic prowess, or his somewhat infamous tendency to blow off the poor nurse’s care.

Instead, he finds the girl merely nodding as she finishes a piece of lemang, her head bowed.

She looks… deflated.

Hm.

“Hey, Molly?”

He calls to her, gently. She raises her head, her face rapidly assuming her usual trademark smile.

“Yeah?”

“You alright?”

She clearly isn’t. Something’s troubling her, likely the same something that’s been following her around like a ghost as the trips wears on.

She doesn’t drop the façade.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Molly’s never been great at hiding her emotions. When she’s happy, her exuberance is on full display. When she’s excited, everyone in a five-mile radius will know about it. She’s done a good job of concealing whatever’s troubling her so far, but it’s starting to show.

The same taut, strained smile gives the game away.

Hisao wonders whether he should push. He didn’t in the car, or at the temple in the caves.

It wouldn’t hurt to let it go again, would it?

It’s a trip she wanted, in her home country. Shouldn’t she be over the moon?

He makes his choice. He knows from tough experience that letting this fester isn’t going to help matters.

“Molly… you and I both know that’s not true.”

Her eyes move from side to side, as though searching for a way to escape the situation. He hates how he’s making her uncomfortable, but it’s bitter medicine for a reason.

They have to talk about this.

“… you don’t have to worry about it.”

She limply tries to dismiss him. Where’s the chipper, almost hyperactive girl that arrived with him on the flight here?

His concern grows.

“Molly, we’ve had this song and dance before. I’m your boyfriend. If you’re not doing well, that’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to hide everything.”

Molly clicks her tongue in frustration.

“This is supposed to be a vacation for you, Hisao. It’s your first time out of the country. I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

He shoots back, raising his voice slightly.

“Knowing that something’s bothering you is already spoiling the trip enough for me! You’ve been smiling less, laughing less. I can tell it’s really affecting you.”

He didn’t mean for his anger to show. They shouldn’t be tiptoeing around each other like this. She shouldn’t have to lock away her own feelings just for his sake.

Hisao takes a deep breath, calming himself. He lowers his voice, trying to be as conciliatory as possible.

“Please, Molly. I want to help.”

A pregnant silence.

His plea hangs in the humid air.

Then, finally, she sighs, reaching for another piece of lemang.

“How much do you know about my background?”

Molly speaks, staring at the rice cake in her hand.

“… well, obviously I know you’re Malaysian-Indian. You’ve told me you’re a quarter British too.”

She nods.

“What about my family? How much do you know about them?”

That’s… a much more sensitive topic. Ever since he’s known her, Molly has kept her family situation at arm’s length from him. Hisao has never pried, out of respect for her privacy. It’s not like he’s particularly proud of his rather distant relationship from his own parents either, and he gets the impression Molly’s a similar position.

“Bits and pieces. I could make guesses from what you’ve told me and from what I’ve seen this trip, but I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Molly nods again, taking a bite out of the lemang.

“… you ready to get confused?”

Hisao puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, Molly.”

A silence.

“… my mother is British Indian. Her father comes from the Punjab, and her mother is from the South of England. She was born and raised in Birmingham, but you can probably tell that from her accent.”

A memory sparks in Hisao’s mind. The mother, asking what drink he wanted on the first day of the trip.

“I was wondering why her English sounded a little funny, to be honest.”

A barked chuckle emerges from Molly’s lips.

“Yeah, I think British accents are a little funny too.”

She gazes at the road, watching as the cars and pedestrians pass them by.

“My father’s a little different. He was born here, in Malaysia, to Tamil parents- the grandparents you met on your first night here. His side of the family isn’t that rich, but they were able to send my father to the UK for university, which is where he met my mother.”

She’s starting to lose him a little, try as he might. It’s a little embarrassing how unworldly he is, at least in relation to the very specific niche of South Asian ethnicities.

“What… is the difference between Tamil and Indian?”

At this, Molly sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I told you it’d get confusing quick. Short version, they’re an ethnic group within India, from the south, with their own language and culture. They’re a big minority in Malaysia, but if I went into specifics, we’d be here all night.”

Another bite. Only a small piece of the rice cake remains in her hands.

“Anyway, my father brings Mum back here, intent on marrying her. It caused a bit of a family feud because she’s half white and born in the UK, but my father insisted. So, they settled down here. Dad got a middle management position at this giant multinational, while Mum set up a small imports business here all by herself. They’re both utter workaholics, so they did pretty well for themselves.”

She picks the few remaining rice grains off the banana leaf wrapping and tosses the scrap into the foliage.

“Then a couple of years down the line, bam, I come into the world.”

Hisao can’t help but chuckle at how bam is the most appropriate sound effect for Molly’s grand entrance.

Molly’s lips form a thin smile at Hisao’s amusement, before her face turns serious again. Hisao’s laughter stops in his tracks when he realizes the obvious.

How could he forget?

“Ah… I-”

“Let’s just say, being born without two of your limbs generates a little heat in the family. And by ‘a little,’ I mean my father’s parents harangued him for marrying without their approval and accused my mother of bringing ‘bad genes’ into the family, if you can believe that.”

Wow. That’s… pretty shocking to him. He can’t say he hasn’t heard the same kind of sentiments voiced in his own family circle, however. Marriage always seems to be such a touchy subject no matter the place.

“Your mum seemed quite civil with your dad’s parents when we visited, though.”

“… that’s because it’s been years since then, and they’ve managed to smooth over the cracks somewhat. And it helped that you were there, of course. Can’t lose face in front of strangers and all that.”

He suddenly recalls the glistening trails down Molly’s cheeks in the car.

“I… see.”

Another piece of lemang. Another bite.

“Things weren’t too hot for my parents afterwards, to put it mildly, especially being two working parents having to take care of a legless baby. Most of the time, I’d be looked after by my grandparents, neighbors or by carers they’d hire on and off. My parents weren’t neglectful, really. They were always very involved with my legs and the medical side of things, and checked on me regularly, but they were just never there. It was always someone else doing the dirty work of caring for a disabled kid, you know?”

Hisao interjects. Her story seems eerily familiar.

“No offence but… your parents seem almost exactly like mine. As in, career over kid.”

She snorts derisively.

“Hah. That’s one way to put it. I hardly saw Dad growing up, because he’d leave at the crack of dawn and wouldn’t return until long past nightfall. Mum was a little better, but she had a business to run and was perpetually on-call, so she was also in and out of the house a lot. I genuinely can’t remember a single meal where we actually sat down as a family. It was always just the two of us at maximum, or, when I got older, usually just me at the table.”

It’s so strange to see this bitterness, this resentment. Molly and her mother seemed to get on just fine during the trip.

Maybe it’s like with her grandparents. Like with his own parents. You put on a smile and bear it, because they’re family. You paper over the cracks, present a happy front, because you only see them once in a while and it’s easier to just keep the peace.

She’s been hiding so much from him.

“My legs were definitely an issue growing up, both medically and socially. You can probably tell that the healthcare here isn’t winning any prizes, and it was a real struggle to get good prosthetics, or even just find a specialist who’d do a good job at a reasonable price. Primary school sucked for all the obvious reasons, but I didn’t really mind, to be honest, because kids will find reasons to be dicks to each other no matter the circumstances. You learn to get a thick skin.”

Her chipper attitude, her teasing disposition, it’s not just an expression of her personality, but a well-crafted armour built up over years of harsh experience. It puts his one, maybe two years of living with his condition into perspective.

“Just as I was about to graduate primary school, Dad scored a massive promotion to a high-level executive position at his company. The issue was, he’d be posted to Japan, indefinitely, and my mum didn’t want to leave the business she ran behind. So, they decided to split the difference. Dad would take me to Japan, where the schooling and healthcare is a lot better, and Mum would stay behind and fly out every now and then to see us. It’s a pretty crazy arrangement, now that I think about it. They may as well have separated at that point. Work trumped literally everything- marriage, kid, didn’t matter. No wonder my dad fit like a pea in a pod when he arrived in Japan.”

Hisao is floored. His parents are workaholics, too, but not to this extent.

“Your parents are just… okay, living like this?”

“Funnily enough, yes. They don’t seem to mind the distance at all. They still love each other, and each does as they damn well please, so for them it’s the perfect arrangement. Never asked for my input on it, and I doubt that I’d convince them if I said otherwise.”

She sighs.

“So that’s how I ended up in Japan. Dad was just as busy as before, and middle school wasn’t the best with my legs and all that, so I was pretty okay with it when they shipped me off to Yamaku at the earliest opportunity. Wasn’t terribly different to home, and at least there I have company.”

Hisao realizes something and raises his eyebrows.

“If you came to Japan in middle school, you picked up the language real fast.”

The corner of Molly’s mouth rises, and she leans back to look up at the tarpaulin roof, as though remembering better days.

“Got my mum’s genes, I guess. Wasn’t just Japanese I picked up, either. Really got into the food, the culture, the etiquette. I thought I was Malaysian, born and raised, but I slotted right in just like my dad did. I began to feel like I was a local. Like I was starting to belong.”

She’s not lying. It’s why Hisao is so impressed. When he first met her in that Yamaku classroom, she seemed as though she had lived in Japan her whole life.

Assimilated.

“But, despite all that…”

She lowers her head, her expression hardening.

“I’ve never really fit in.”

That surprises Hisao.

Molly’s been so self-assured the whole time he’s known her. Easily able to navigate any social situation. At home in the halls on Yamaku or walking the streets of Sendai.

“But you-”

“I mean, Hisao, don’t tell me you didn’t pay special attention to the one girl with brown skin in the room when you first came to Yamaku, right?”

“Well… I…”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. He did notice. He did his level best to not let it colour his first impressions, but he can’t deny it ever happened.

Molly spots Hisao’s anxious expression and smiles slightly.

“It’s fine. I mean, I get it, the eye is drawn to what stands out. I have the double whammy- prosthetics and a foreigner. You get used to the stares when walking down the street, but you can’t ever sit easy, if you get what I mean. People just look at you differently, even if they don’t mean anything by it. Even in Yamaku, the bastion of the outcasts, the stares took a good while to go away. It’s subtle, and a bit insidious. If you’re not being subjected to it, you don’t even notice it’s happening.”

It’s a stinging criticism of his home country, though he can tell she’s still holding back, probably for his sake.

He does understand her frustration though. He’s not blind. He sees how his society operates.

“… I will say Japan isn’t the most welcoming nation to foreign immigrants…”

Molly snorts, her eyes turning fiery.

“You want me to drop the sugarcoating, Hisao? Yeah, Japan sucks in many ways if you’re a foreigner, especially if you look as foreign as I do. It’s so damn homogenous that you can’t help but stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone’s always so shocked when I open my mouth and speak fluent Japanese at them. It’s a constant reminder that I’m not truly Japanese, no matter how well I integrate. The same way that my legs are a constant reminder that I’m not as able bodied as everyone else. A reminder that I’m different.”

Her sudden anger cools, her face turning to a downcast expression as she breaks eye contact and stares at the styrofoam box in her hands.

“That’s why I was looking forward to this trip so much. I’d be coming back to a place where I was comfortable, where I fit in. I thought I was coming home.”

She quietens, her voice small and timid.

“But…”

Molly makes an admission.

“… it doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

Hisao is taken aback. Considering how attached Molly is to this place, it seems ludicrous.

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t know… everything’s just… slightly unfamiliar. I know I’ve been away for a while, but something’s changed. My family is just a little different, a little more distant. I don’t speak Malay or Tamil nearly as fluently anymore. The places we go to, there’s new people at the counter, new cooks, new waiters. It feels like I’m eating the food for the first time, like I have to remember the taste for it to register in my brain that ‘oh yeah, I’ve eaten this before.’”

Another rumble, distant, but definitely closer. Hisao idly wonders if it means that the rains are approaching.

“And I forgot, Hisao. I forgot about the other thing that separates me. You know, Yamaku is great and all, but… it’s a bubble. You’re so surrounded by people who have gone through similar or even worse things than you that you start to forget what it was like on the outside. How hard it was to fit in. How to deal with the stares, the whispers. In Japan, I always never knew whether they were staring at my face or at my legs, but here, where there’s so many of us, I know they’re looking at my prosthetics. It hurts even more because, at least in Japan, I know I’m an outsider. But here? Malaysia is my home. I was born here, raised here. It’s in my blood. So, when people here look at me the same way… it hurts. It really hurts, Hisao.”

Hisao can’t do anything but sit, open mouthed, in shock. He’s never heard Molly open up like this.

A quantity of anger fills her expression. Her fingers ball into fists on her lap.

“And you know what? I’m finding myself missing Japan. I just spent five minutes talking shit about the place, but I miss it. I miss the clean streets. I miss the cool air, the snow, the nice orange sunsets. I miss the food. I miss the coffees, the curries, all the stuff I said wasn’t even real food at the start of the trip, I miss it. Hell, I’ve never had a problem with the humidity all my life, and now I catch myself wiping my forehead and thinking, ‘wow, it’s so hot today, isn’t it?’ I’m now a tourist in my own bloody country.”

She releases her fists and holds her head in her hands.

“I… I don’t know where my home is anymore, Hisao. I don’t fit in Japan, but now I find out I don’t fit in here either. I’m so lost.”

Her rant ends. Hisao is speechless. He doesn’t even know where to start. The words of comfort already at his lips feel so hollow, so useless in the face of Molly’s struggle.

But there’s one thing more he wants to know.

“Molly. That day, when we left your grandparent’s place… were you crying?”

A great pause. Another rumble of thunder, again even closer.

Finally, she answers.

“… yeah. I tried to hide it, but yeah.”

“Why?”

Molly hesitates, her eyes roving back and forth, once again searching for some escape from this line of questioning.

He really wants to know, but he recalls the words of concern, the concession she made at the bottom of the steps to the temple in the caves, and decides to repay the favour.

“If it’s private, you don’t have to tell me.”

Another silence.

Then, quietly:

“My grandparents aren’t happy that you’re dating me.”

“What?!”

Hisao’s heart rate quickens. He hadn’t considered that what happened between Molly and her family would be about him.

This could be bad.

Molly sighs. She looks defeated.

“I guess my extended family had it in mind that once I was finished with Japan, I’d come back to Malaysia and pick up a boy here, preferably of their own choosing. They saw what my father did and probably swore there’d be no repeats. So, after you left, they pulled me aside and started questioning why I started going out with you. They said that there’d be no guarantee you’d stick around, that I’d introduce dangerous unknowns into the family. They even implied that they wouldn’t accept you as a son-in-law if I went ahead and married you. I tried my best not to lose it, but it was so hard. My mum, who’s literally been on the receiving end of this shit, didn’t say a word.”

The rage has come back to Molly, burning brighter than ever. Her brilliant white teeth are gritted as she looks at the ground, kicking a small pebble on the grass onto the road in sheer frustration.

“I mean, fuck, they even complained that if we had kids, they wouldn’t even be Indian anymore. I’m already a mixed kid, so they said our children wouldn’t be accepted anywhere. Can you believe they said that? Man, if only I’d spoken to that Satou girl from the next class over. At least she’s got some idea of all this mixed heritage bullshit.”

Molly spreads her arms, exposing the skin on her arms, on her neck, as though putting herself on display. She looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Look at me, Hisao. I’m a quarter British, a quarter Punjabi, half Tamil, born in Malaysia, speaking English, now living in Japan. A patchwork of cultures and ethnicities, stitched together into this Frankenstein’s mess. None of those labels sit right with me anymore. I mean, if you’re not even engaged with the language and culture, can you even call yourself from that place? Am I still Indian if I think Japanese curry tastes better? Am I still Malaysian if I prefer listening to J-Pop? Does this mean I’m actually Japanese? Then why don’t I feel like I’m at home there, either?”

The questions are pouring out, showering Hisao in endless hypotheticals that he cannot even begin to answer.

“Which part of me do you love, Hisao? Molly, the foreigner? Molly, the British-Indian? Molly, the Tamil girl? The Malaysian immigrant? The Japanese masquerader? The classmate? The English whizz? The girl born with no legs? The chipper, cheery ball of energy, or this sad, angry complainer? So many bloody parts, so many segments. I mean, hell, even my own fucking body comes in pieces.”

She grabs her right prosthetic with both hands, violently twisting it off the stump and throwing it to the grass with total disdain, the plastic making a dull thunk on the ground.

Stunned, Hisao instinctively rises to pick it up, but Molly extends her arm in front of him, blocking his path, and looks into his eyes with a bitter, anguished expression.

“I’m a fucking jigsaw puzzle of a person. Tell me, which piece is really me, Hisao?”

Her question hangs in the thick, humid air.

Which piece is really me?

Hisao doesn’t know how to respond.

He’s overwhelmed by Molly’s story. By her struggle. He’s never known that Molly’s seen herself as a walking collage.

To choose a just a single piece as the real Molly?

That’s impossible.

That’s because…

She’s more than that.

She’s…

“… all of it.”

The words spill from his lips, softly, unbidden.

“What?”

He clears his throat, speaks a little louder.

“All of it.”

She seems hesitant, like she’s not really getting what he’s trying to say.

“All… of it?”

Hisao sighs.

A new tactic. It’s a little awkward, but maybe it’ll get his point across.

“Molly… do you know about quantum superposition?”

She seems totally bemused

“Uhhh… I’ve heard of it, but… you should know math is not my forte, let alone physics.”

“Well, it basically says that quantum particles exist in many different states, simultaneously. It’s a bit like how light is both a wave and a particle. We can’t truly capture and measure a particle in just one state, so we have to assume it’s within all those states at the same time. Put simply, a particle can be in two or more places at once.”

Molly’s wary expression doesn’t let up, her left eye squinting and her brows frowning.

“That’s cool and all but… what does this have to do with me?”

Hisao’s tone remains calm, patient, like that of a teacher instructing his students.

“Just because a particle can be here, there, and in so many other places and different states at once doesn’t mean any single location is the true particle. The particle is just the particle, no matter where, or in how many places, it is.”

He stands, carefully placing his styrofoam box on his stool before kneeling in front of his girlfriend, taking her hands into his.

“The same principle applies to you, Molly. You’re British, and Indian, and Tamil, and all the rest of that, but none of these labels alone are truly you. You aren’t defined by just one of your many ethnicities just like how you aren’t defined only by your prosthetics. You’re so much more than that. No matter how many pieces you subdivide yourself into, no matter how many labels you want to slap on, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still Molly, just like how that particle is still that particle, no matter how many places it is in space.”

He’s definitely stretched this clunky metaphor as far as it will go, but he prays it’s got the message across.

For her part, Molly briefly looks at Hisao like he’s an idiot, before breaking out into laughter, shaking her head in disbelief, a small smile climbing up her cheeks.

“… God, you sound so much like Mutou-sensei.”

He laughs, too. He doesn’t know why he chose some obscure physics-based metaphor to convey his point.

Yet another crack of thunder interrupts them, this time almost directly over their heads. The couple are jolted for a second as the lightning flashes and the rumble echoes through the sky.

The sound fades into the passing traffic, and Hisao reacquires Molly’s gaze, putting as much tenderness into his smile as he can.

“Molly, I’ve never seen you as just the immigrant, as just the foreigner, as just the girl with no legs, or the ball of energy, or the million other parts that make up who you are. I don’t want to say your ethnicity or disability doesn’t matter, because it does to you, and that’s fine, but… it doesn’t change your core. Being Malaysian can’t change your smile. Being Indian doesn’t change how you laugh. Being British doesn’t change how you care about me, or those around you. At the end of the day, you’re still Molly. Molly is Molly. Nothing in your background could ever change that.”

He grasps her hands tightly. He wants her pain to stop, to know that she’s got at least one person in her camp. That she doesn’t have to drift all alone.

“I won’t say I love every part of you, because there’s still so much I don’t know. There’s still so many pieces of you I’ve yet to see. But I accept them. Malaysian, British, Indian, Tamil, Japanese, immigrant, foreigner, girl, classmate, disabled- all of these I accept. I accept them because I love the core of who you are. That girl who reached out to me when I was just lost and drifting in Yamaku. The girl that showed me kindness; who showed me that, with enough laughter, life can be good again. I love all of that. I love you.”

A few tears begin to run down Molly’s cheeks. A sniffle. Her voice, tiny, barely audible through the general hubbub, emerges.

“… what about my grandparents? I don’t know how they’re gonna react if I push the issue, or whether it’ll end up like what happened to my parents. Is it really okay to just disregard what they say and go on with you?”

Hisao shakes his head.

“I don’t know, Molly. It’s a decision for you, and only you. I really, really want to stay with you, but, at the end of the day, I can’t force you. I can only promise this: I will support whatever decision you make. I won’t cave to the pressure. If you want me by your side, I’ll happily suffer whatever your family throws at me. Your grandparents are nice folks but… I couldn’t care less whether or not they think of me as their son-in-law, so long as you’re willing to make that leap.”

The words come out with great difficulty. No matter how he puts it, he’s given her his blessing to leave him if that’s what she thinks will be best for them. Every fibre of Hisao wants to hold on to her, to beg her to never let him go under any circumstances.

But he can’t do that. He can’t make her choices for her. She’s her own person.

Molly looks deep into his eyes, her hands gripping his as though for dear life.

“You swear?”

“Swear on my heart. I’m in love with you. Molly, the human being. No qualifications.”

He reaches forward, encircling her small frame with both arms.

A few strands of loose hair tickle his nose. There aren’t any labels needed for the girl he’s embracing.

She wraps her arms around him too.

For a second, even amongst the general ruckus, there’s a moment of quiet.

Moving his head slightly, he whispers in her ear.

“You know, I’m sort of lost, too. I’m not sure where my home is either.”

Molly jolts her head back, looking at him with surprise.

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I went home just before we flew out here, I went back to my bedroom and… it just didn’t feel like my room anymore. The games, the books, the posters, none of it felt relevant to what I had gone through. The time before my heart attack felt like a totally different lifetime, and I’d entered the room a radically changed person. I’m a stranger in my own house, and it scared me a little, too.”

She smiles a little, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Your room in Yamaku doesn’t look particularly homely, either.”

“Yeah. So, I don’t feel at home anywhere either, and I’m in my own country.”

Molly sighs, releasing the embrace and gazing out at the passing traffic again.

“Look at us. The nomads, the vagabonds.”

Nomad.

Vagabond.

He likes the idea of it. His heart cast him to the winds, his old life but a distant memory.

Now, though, he’s found a new starting point. It’s a new chapter. He’s in a foreign land for the first time in his life- and, maybe if things turn out already, there’ll be many more times to come.

“You know, Molly, I think it’s okay that we don’t really have a place to call home right now. If everyone only stayed where they were most comfortable, no one would go anywhere. We have to find our own home, somewhere. I don’t where it’ll be but… we’ll know. We’ll know it when we find it. And, until we do, at least we have each other.”

The girl beside him laughs, leaning forward to pick up her right prosthetic off the ground, holding it gently in her hands.

“You can be one sappy bastard sometimes, you know that, Hisao?”

He shrugs.

“Sappy or not, you’ll always have me. We’ll find ourselves a new place, together, okay?”

With care, she puts it back on her stump, twisting it and fixing it in place. To stand on her own two feet once more.

She lifts her head, and nods.

“Okay.”

There’s a sudden commotion off to the side. Turning around, Hisao sees some of the staff frantically moving stools and extinguishing the fires on a few of the open-air grills.

“What’s going on?”

Another crash of thunder. Molly’s eyes go wide, and she slaps her forehead, as though both of them have just done something ridiculously stupid.

“Oh, shit. The rain’s coming. We’d better head back to the car before it starts bucketing down, ‘cause we don’t have an umbrella.”

Ah. Well, on reflection, forgetting an umbrella when there’s thunder on the horizon does probably qualify as ridiculously stupid.

“Let’s go, Hisao.”

Abandoning their almost empty containers of food, they exit the stall at a jog and make a beeline for the car a good hundred meters down the road.

Hisao looks up to see an unbroken ceiling of angry dark clouds, growing ever darker in the rapidly encroaching night.

“Come on! If we run, maybe we’ll-”

Fwoosh.

There’s no gradual crescendo of raindrops like he’s used to. Instead, it’s as though he’s hit a wall of water.

Instantly, he’s soaked. Gigantic droplets the size of his thumb rain down, impacting his skin with such force that it hurts.

The downpour is so intense that he can scarcely see more than twenty meters in front of him. The dense jungle that surrounded them is now lost in a murky, twilight void. Great sheets of rain lash every surface, washing away the smog, the dust, smothering the passing cars and poor motorcyclists.

This is the rain that makes a rainforest. Hisao has never seen the likes of it before.

For a moment, he’s totally disoriented, his surroundings subsumed in the downpour and the twilight.

Then, above the overwhelming roar of the rain.

Laughter.

He turns around.

And sees Molly, soaked to the bone, her clothes waterlogged to the point of transparency…

Dancing.

Prancing about.

She twirls, her arms wide, her twin braids flicking water, every inch of her skin catching the falling droplets which seem to explode on impact, showering her again in even smaller droplets that scatter like glitter.

A passing car flicks on its headlights to illuminate the gloom, then another, and another, casting Molly in a strange kaleidoscope halo as the rain continues to pour.

Hisao can only watch, spellbound, as she yells, over the thunder, over the ceaseless cacophony of the deluge, her smile stretched wide over her face.

“This is the monsoon, Hisao!”

No pieces, nor fragments.

Just a girl.

And her laughter.

And the rain.

( Back to Index)

To all fellow immigrants, this one's for you.

Congratulations to 4LS and all associated teams for the upcoming Steam release of KS.

Stay safe, everyone.

Rhodri wrote: Mon Jul 29, 2024 8:14 am

Just one thing

seannie4 wrote: Sun Jul 28, 2024 1:57 pm

A vehicle- some kind of truck, she supposes- overtakes them on the left, the roaring of its engine and the woosh of wind in its wake washing over the car.

They drive on the left side of the road in Japan, so unless the truck is illegally undertaking or is exiting on a slip road, it should be passing on the right.

seannie4 wrote: Sun Jul 28, 2024 1:57 pm

Lilly can feel the car beginning to turn left, the clicking of the blinkers indicating that they’re leaving the expressway.

I imagined they were travelling in the middle lane on one of those multi-lane expressways, so vehicles could overtake them from either side.

Frankyo wrote: Mon Jul 29, 2024 8:58 pm

thought Hisao was gonna die since you wrote it

Not all my characters die! Some of them merely have... uh... mental breakdowns, or... uh... identity crises...