Blossom
She does not move, and listens to her blood.
It runs slow and smooth, a layer of thick silk — it soaks her hair and it drips without a sound, falling from the tense muscles that hold her wounds. The glass dug in her flesh like sharp nails, cruel enough to let her know; all she has left is a handful of minutes, a few memories, and the bottle which quivers in her grip.
Some kinds of wisdom come when it is too late, or just too early to see through. Sakura Oogami met both; and now, stuck in the middle of the wrong timing, she holds the threads of too much, of events that were not hers to play with from the start. The bitter choice — the only choice — is to let go.
If only she had seen it earlier, if only — the visions cling to her chest, her neck throbs and melts in headache — but she just couldn't. If evil beings regard strong people as the worst threat, only a weak person could fall for it so easily. It clings to her stomach, it burns in her open cuts, and it squeezes her throat with the might of five hands.
She never thought she could make such a mistake.
Then again, so close to their rest, human eyes become clearer and serene. She follows many underlying strings, ideas and feelings, and deeply understands — how weakness and strength are held in place by something distant and subtle, too fragile to even describe. It reminds her of the open shoji in her training room, of the breeze and the full spring.
The flowers filled her favourite scenery — it was a part of her, one that, on the verge of her end, she wishes she had held closer to her heart. It mirrored her soul and all she wanted to be; it was the cycle of wind, the wind she yearned to have the same powerful grace as.
She used to watch, fatigued and covered in sweat, whenever she needed a break. And she believed strength had to be like this — to speak soft words, addressed to the depths, to let the souls gently bend in your wake, until the same rhythm binds them all in peace.
From here, she cannot hear the song of the petals. She cannot stand up, refreshed and ready to train on. This room is dark; the air is still, already smelly. She will not wait any longer.
There is no excuse, no other dream to chase; not when she destroyed her dream, the purpose of her life, with her own hands.
And yet, she can't help believing it — that with a quiet heart, and no more breath, she could still hope to save the dreams of others.