Tsuzuki remembers her with such clarity that it's as if she could walk right out of the myriad of tableaus and scenes in his head—smiling and laughing.
Oh darling Ruka, dark eyes bright with some mischievous plan or another. Sometimes they play in the garden, darting to and fro and frightening the birds from their trees with laughter and raucous games.
Other days they bask in the sun in front of the living room window, passing a basket of plums back and forth between them. Mother would have been furious if she knew—and Ruka's fingers were already stained purple after just one.
He remembers her starched cotton dress (white with a navy blue collar and hem) the hems dirty with mud. Her sunhat, forever finding its way in and out of the trees in their yard. Sturdy oaks and supple willows—he'd climbed them all to rescue that hat.
He remembers her laugh and the messy braids she used to wear her hair in (she had never been quite capable of the sleek, neat braids that mother wore.)
He remembers, and aches for what has been lost. For a time when he had more to cling to than a sunhat and the lingering taste of plums.