Rain was drumming softly against the tin windows. I was serving customers when I recognized the sound of rain, the melody of bittersweet memories. The customers, puzzled by my sudden lack of smile, inquired me. I hastily smiled back, and requested a moment of silence. Misuzu-san took my place as I trudged outside.
When it rains, the sky relinquishes time. The tone gray, surpassing all time, covers the horizon as rain showers down. Timeless coolness, timeless drips of memories covered my clothing.
It had been nearly 3 years since I walked in the rain.
My dress was soaked, and I wondered when I would fully forget the memories in the rain. Never, I believed.
"Hmm, I think we should have a celebration today," Fujioka Kotoko said brightly.
"Why?" I was wearing a suit then, both exhausted and amused. We were sitting in the living room around the kotatsu. The four year old Haruhi was sleeping inside the covers.
"You should know," she chuckled, her brown eyes staring into mine as always. I sincerely wished that Haruhi would inherit her habit of looking into others' eyes.
"What, did you win in an important case?" I muttered casually, stretching back. The rain releases one's fatigue, I realized.
"Well, that's something that always happens," Kotoko answered.
"It wouldn't hurt to be modest," I groaned.
"Well, guess again!"
She was watching me with the expression that she always makes when she is hiding a surprise for me. I gazed in silence, patting Haruhi's head.
"Hmm, I don't know…"
"That's a disappointment. Today," she leaned closer, "is our anniversary."
"Huh?" I jumped in surprise, nearly waking Haruhi. Both of us froze in silence, watching our child shuffle in her sleep, and then sighed in relief. "But our wedding anniversary was just 4 weeks ago!"
"No, not that," she sighed. "It is the first day we met. And," she pointed outside the window meaningfully.
"Ah," I realized. "It's raining."
"Exactly."
The fall rain was dripping outside, trickles of water trailing down the window.
"Like that day, too." She smiled, and held my hand gently. "The rain holds many memories for us, doesn't it?"
"Perhaps." I sighed. It was typical of Kotoko, celebrating the most mundane of the events. When I expressed that thought, I earned a smack.
"There's nothing mundane about today!"
"Your memory astounds me, Kotoko."
"Are you implying that you forgot about that day?" Her temper was gaining momentum.
"No." I hastily replied.
"How could I? Your first impression was—quite memorable, at the least."
"Oh, were you astounded by my beauty?"
"No, but you must admit. Having an empty soup can on your head on a raining day would leave a rather strong impression in your mind."
"It was raining, and I needed something to cover myself with, that's all." She blushed.
"Oh, and you chose an empty soup can. Of course, why not a newspaper? You always carry them around yourself."
"I had not!" She seemed to struggle with her words, and then replied hesitantly. "I started to carry newspapers around me after we met."
"Why?" The information was quite interesting. The meticulous way of Kotoko jotting the cases down on her newspaper was one of the most glaring images that I had of her.
"We-well, you said the exact same thing that day, and I took your advice, that's all."
"Hmm, is that all?"
"Yes, unfortunately, that's all."
We sat in silence for a moment, both of us watching Haruhi sleep. She was smiling gently, her cheeks moving slowly. She was chewing something in her sleep. What was she dreaming?"
"Ootoro…" she whispered, and then smiled. Her cheeks were blushed as she dreamed. Kotoko and I stifled our laughter.
"So, what were you planning for the anniversary?" I whispered. Kotoko smiled at me. She took three dishes out of the bag. It was sushi.
"I bought sushi with some ootoro, for Haruhi only. It did cost a fortune." She scowled good naturedly, and then opened them.
"No ootoro for me?" I pouted.
"Nope, none for you. But," she kissed my cheek. "you have me. Satisfied?"
"I would prefer ootoro, though."
Kotoko nearly woke our daughter again by demonstrating her incredibly powerful kick.
"We should wake her up, anyways." She hastily replied.
The three of us ate together, the room full of pleasant conversation. Never was the house silent, always buzzing with warm conversations and laughter.
The rain was silent.
I stood in silence in the hospital, my lips frozen in shock. It could not be-
The doctor shook his head, and then walked away. Several nurses were surrounding Kotoko, shrouding her features with a white cloth. It was an image seen in myriad movies, so cliche, yet haunting. Her fists were loosely sprawled at her side, strengthless and limp. A marionette with its strings cut-her fleeting, ghostly last smile was on her face.
Lightening struck outside, and I could not hear its rumble, deaf with blind realization. I was warned of this constantly, mostly from my wife, but had ignored them.
She was dead.
The word was rough, harsh in my lips. Lightening struck again, and rain was splattering outside. It was cruel beyond expression, how I found her and lost her in the rain.
Thunder rumbled through the icy panes of the hospital, and I remembered with a start-Haruhi.
She was staying with me few minutes ago, and she was now missing.
I rushed around the corridor. The empty wards shone with blue, eerie shine as white daggers of light struck from the sky. My breath grew rugged as I screamed, "Haruhi!"
No reply came.
It was a storm of unprecedented strength. Gales tore at the trees, and blows and blows of thunder shook the hospital. I rushed past the doctors, nurses, and patients, desperately searching for Haruhi. Suddenly, I realized.
Slowly, with painful knowledge, I walked back to Kotoko's ward. The room seemed empty-
Until I heard fading sobs. I opened the closet, and in there was Haruhi.
She was curled up into a ball, sobbing indiscriminate words. She flinched everytime lightening shone through the open door. I was standing in front of her.
She was torn by Kotoko's death. Did the four year old even understand the concept of death? What made her suddenly vulnerable to lightening?
I stretched my hands to her shoulders, and then embraced her in the blue light. Both of us sobbed that night, both of us children, mere children without her.
She was afraid of lightening since then.
I flinched, torn from my reminisce as thunder struck down. Rain was dripping from my dress, and I remembered Haruhi. School would have ended hours ago, and she would now be in our house. I raced to our home.
Why was she so independent? Couldn't she vent her stress, terror, and anxiety on me for once? I hurriedly unlocked the door, and silently entered the home, expecting to find Haruhi hiding beneath the kotatsu. She was not. She was not alone, either.
She was hugging that Tamaki boy, her shoulders shaking from unsuppressed tears. It had been years since I watched her cry. I stood silently in the doorway, watching Tamaki comforting my daughter. Lightening struck again, and the two embraced each other more tightly.
Should I stop the two?
I smiled, relieved that Haruhi found someone to rely on. It was not her own father, though.
The rain was bittersweet as always.
I closed the door silently, and then walked outside.
Timeless rain showered down on me.
I, as I always did, and always would, whispered upwards, thanking her.
Time was rain, and I stood there silently, hoping that they would stay there longer.
I would inquire them later.