Time wrapped around her body like the long yukata that hung off her shoulders. Spindly seconds twirled like the butterfly designs that fluttered over her legs and stomach. Minutes curled like the smoke that churned in the air, hanging steadily before dissipating, the scent still lingering on the collar and right sleeve. Hours were the obi, clinging to her waist and done up precisely on the back. And the years, oh the years, they were the silken fabric that fell away from her body and caressed her skin, whispering ages.

She leaned off the couch dipping her head and breathed the stale air in. It held in her lungs and became tainted with the lingering of smoke that would never mar the frozen flesh. She closed her eyes and savored the stillness. Not a breath or beat to infect the perfection of nothingness. Reluctantly, the breath was released.

Hitsuzen, the inevitability of fate was cradled in her palm, the long sweeping arc of her pipe balanced atop her fingertips. Would it welcome her again and wrap around her in the long awaiting arms she had been stolen from so long ago?

Her eyes opened on the paper doors, the corners pulled taught between intricately carved wood. Tendrils of black lacquer wound around the yellowed paper delicately. They were akin to shadowy spirits neither benevolent nor inherently evil.

Her smile curled like the design.

The gate was bare and decrepit, so long had the last customer left. The shop was preparing itself and every universe held its breath and wishes for the crash. The next customer would be the one to help pull the string that would unravel her ties. She would finally plummet. The next four would give the final pull. Limbs disjointed in a sleek tumble to infinity, she would eventually fall from her suspension.

It would finally be over.

So many, so long.

For now she would greet Hitsuzen with the touch of her pale lips and hope someday the kiss she left on the edge of the worn pipe would be one of goodbye.