The question remained.
Ever it remained.
When all else became ash, still did it remain.
It was the only thing to mark the passage of time. Muted, blurred. Quiet tones, whispers, to fill the empty spaces and bid shadows to wait a little longer. Not just yet. Soon, but not now. The dying lights made no difference. The dark eyes made no difference. The pull and push made no difference. Flitting images, pale colors, all of it was meaningless. It was only the question that held any meaning, a ghost that clung to him in the still of evening light.
There was nothing else. There could be nothing else.
Everything else was gone.
That which was everything was everything that had been taken.
Nothing, to take the place of everything.
The question to become everything.
Breath slow, beat of heart the only sign of life, Tsukiyama brought the flesh to his lips. Lifeless eyes gazed out the frosted pane of window - seeing, as ever they did, that which was unseen. Past. Broken things that were not to be mended. He consumed but he did not eat. There was no joy in the action, no taste upon his tongue. It was a motion to serve a purpose, a purpose to serve the question. He lived to ask the question. He must live to ask the question. He must eat to live. He must move to eat. There was nothing less than, nothing more to. There was nothing that would touch his lips, if not to serve the purpose of the question.
That he might fade into the darkness, of this there was no concern. Darkness he was already. To fall apart, piece by piece, as glass shattered over asphalt, of this he already knew. All that held together tattered threads was the clandestine murmur of the question without answer. Perhaps, then, it was the answer that gave life - what little life was left - to those skeleton fingers, grasping still for the light that flickered far above.
Somewhere, the answer.
Somewhere, somewhere, it must be.
The light.
The light.
His light.
Where are you?