She was crying. She kneeled over the clothes of a man she thought she knew. And in some way, probably did. They were familiars, friends divorced by time and space. There was a reason for that, she knew, but she could not put her finger on it.

So she used all ten. And they coaxed a robe as though someone were underneath, living and breathing and thinking of her. But there was nothing, only absence. The undertow took him away. Her only company was the gentle waves, weaving her sorrows into a blanket that was the night sky. Maybe it would also carry her litanies. She tried asking.

But as soon as the words formed on her lips, they vanished into thin air. Language had failed her. Her love—the very thing that rendered her mind and body and spirit into mush—would assume the reins. And that was okay.

Rangiku stood. No sense in groveling; she was a woman of stature. Style was her penchant, misery be damned. Her rivers flowed into the sea that nipped at her feet. Each teardrop made ripples that seemed to go on forever.

And that was when she saw him. Right on the water: matted hair, devious smile, and all of the resonances that made her his prey. The hunter's moon amplified his already ghastly features. When she looked up, nothing of the sort appeared. As her sight returned to the water, he vanished. Just like that. Even in death, he would continue to leave her.

How deep was the ocean? He answered by taking away the last of her sadness—her tears, too.