The Clouds Cry Too



When it rains in Kyoto, it is impossible to see the lying eyes of businessmen that stalk past poor merchants. Mugen cannot see, either, the beautiful painted faces of the women who slide across the slick streets with their cigarette-box shoes.

When it rains in Kyoto, fake samurai host battles in alleyways and grin at the civilians who watch with contempt. They leer at the starving children who could feed themselves with money the imposters don't deserve.

When it rains in Kyoto, Mugen itches to kick ass.

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When it rains in Hiroshima, business in the teahouse is slow, and the tips her customers leave are sparse and small. The restaurant grows colder as the rain pelts down harder, and Fuu waits for a miracle to walk through the open doors.

When it rains in Hiroshima, the yakuza prey on innocents and collect on non-existent debts. They shield themselves with black umbrellas and the assurance that there is no one strong enough to stop them.

When it rains in Hiroshima, Fuu spits in the tea.

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When it rains in Nagasaki, the foamy waves of rivers peak and fall with weight that isn't there. The water rises over lower banks, and the rock-paved paths across them disappear. Jin compares these lost paths to his own, and wonders why his chest hurts.

When it rains in Nagasaki, storm clouds squeeze together over the crime-infested community, and Jin is reminded of the space between Mugen and Fuu and himself. Unlike the clouds, the three of them are far apart, and crime continues.

When it rains in Nagasaki, Jin is lonely.

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When it rains in Japan, all is unwell.


Fin.