The first day, there is a wedding.
A wedding and a white-clad bride, dark hair spilling over shoulders like water, her smile so blinding Mai finds herself parched just looking at it. She smiles as well when she sees and even Naru's scolding cannot chase the warmth from her chest.
The second day there is a funeral.
She glimpses it through the windows, somber, solemn, sad. Rivulets of rain blur faces and tears, and something heavy tugs at her heartstrings and doesn't let go. She cries into the tea and pretends not to notice the panicked look her boss exchanges with Lin.
The third day the cameras mysteriously disappear and her day is spent running about the house and pulling them out from cupboards and closets and mysterious shoe piles. She doesn't look out the window.
The third night she dreams of stained glass and bells. A hand caresses a wooden bench. Smooth. Gleaming. She is content.
The fourth day the floorboards warp beneath their feet and shove them unceremoniously out the door. She manages to land on Lin and knock Naru in the head with her knee and when she can finally lift her hands from her burning cheeks there are people spilling out of the church doors with smiles and warm chatter. Their serenity like the tides.
The fifth day she wakes with a start, hastily wiping her drool from the desk. Takigawa ruffles her hair and asks if she had sweet dreams. She doesn't tell him that she had chubby little hands and a lacy blanket and that her laughter interrupted a sermon. She doesn't tell him that the pastor laughed with her, or that no one else saw the lights on the ceiling. She doesn't tell him that something in her gut tells her this wasn't a dream.
The fifth afternoon there is a choir in her ears and even John looks at her strangely when she chases after the sound.
The sixth morning she is in the sunlight, lit with the fire of dawn, unsure how she came to be here in this empty, soot-stained lot. A dove alights upon her outstretched hand and when it cries she finds herself in bed.
The sixth morning the house does not shiver around them or whisper in their ears. She wraps cables and cords and nigh translucent pages flash before her eyes. She wonders why she is daydreaming about holding John's bible.
The sixth afternoon the trees shudder as she loads the van in silent tandem with a silent assistant. A flash of blue catches her eye, a box of miscellanea spilling over her feet. Lin watches a roll of tape race away down the driveway before turning his concerned gaze to his fellow assistant. He does not ask, she answers anyway.
"There's no church."
"No."
"There was a church."
"No? Taniyama-san, are you alright?"
She does not understand.
A memory of clasped hands and fervent pleas. She passes her hand over her eyes to erase the image, peace welling in her heart.
"I will be."