On the outskirts of a village on the northern border of a certain continent in a land far, far away, a young woman travels amidst the falling cherry blossoms until her knees finally buckle, and she crumples onto the sweet-smelling grass.
"Hah… hah…" I can't go on. A breeze drags across the ground, yanking the world from under her feet. The woman staggers a few more steps before succumbing to exhaustion.
The sunlight is harsh. Pink petals sweep aside strands of gold from eyes as warm as the earth. I'm so thirsty. Ah… I'm so hungry…
Then the skies turn blue. Clouds? Sounds. Soft sounds registering in her brain. A cold touch against her forehead. Air under her back, her legs dangling in the springtime wind as she floats away from the scrutiny of the sun.
Then her head presses against a pillow. A blissfully cool pillow. A damp cloth on her burning forehead.
"Water," she croaks. Someone helps her sit up, and a glass of water is placed into her hands. Her stomach makes an impatient growl.
"Are you well enough to walk?" That voice doesn't register in her memories. It belongs to a man with somber blue eyes with matching hair and a skeleton for a face. She has the distinctive feeling that he's staring straight into her soul.
"No… thank you." She gives him a small smile, and the man's brows furrow. He brings a chair over and sits by the bedside.
"Nyeee?" Something is calling from below the edge of the bed.
"That's enough for today, Weavile. Go back to the Barn." The man turns. "You're not from this town." Wow, rude. "Who are you?"
The woman slams the cup down. "I don't know!" she snaps. "You expect me to know?"
The man frowns. Then some flash of recognition crosses his eyes, and he drops his voice. "I'm sorry? What do you mean by that?"
"I said I don't know." She grabs at her head in frustration. "I don't remember where I was before coming here… except that I've been traveling… searching for something…" An indivisible pain throbs in her skull. "I don't even know who I am…"
Silence. A clock ticks in the main room. The man traces the notches in the wooden floorboards with his eyes. "I apologize." He slowly lifts his head. "Do you… Do you have amnesia?"
She suddenly can't look at him. "Maybe…"
"Do you remember your name?"
Do I? An attempt to delve into the murkier depths of memory results in failure. She opens her mouth. Wait. That'll just bring up more awkwardness into an already awkward conversation. So she picks the first thing that pops into her mind.
"My name is Cynthia."
"Cynthia… I see. My name is Cyrus." The man named Cyrus straightens, his hands clasped over one knee. "If I may ask, Cynthia, what will you do now? Do you have a plan?"
"N-Not yet." She fiddles with the stray strands of gold. His stare really is penetrating. "I haven't thought past that part yet."
"I see." Cyrus turns to the window, where the skies have turned a dour orange. It's impossible to read him, and she suddenly realizes how much that bothers her. Is he mad at me? Annoyed? Her throat dries up, and it's not from thirst.
"You should rest," Cyrus finally says. He removes his dirt-caked gloves, setting them on the counter. "Perhaps you'll remember everything after you rest, Cynthia."
"Oh. Um. Thanks. Cyrus…"
The setting sun casts red light over his form, bathing him in a halo of fire. "Do you like turnips? I've leftover turnips from the last harvest."
What? Is he… is he inviting me to stay for dinner? Cyrus is staring at her with his head tilted, his hands clasped behind his back. He's so weird. "Turnips?" Cynthia squeaks. "Oh yeah, turnips. I love turnips."
"I also have potatoes," Cyrus mumbles, shifting to the side. "Cucumbers, strawberries… I can make cabbage soup with Moondrop and Toyherb, if that'll be easier to digest." Cynthia's jaw is open. He clears his throat. "Those flowers are perfectly edible, I assure you."
"I've never eaten flowers," Cynthia huffs. Cyrus turns and gestures for her to follow. As the skies darken, she follows him into the kitchen to witness the magic that weaves from those long, slender fingers.
It looks incredible! But she says nothing. Those three meager bowls hold all the colors of the rainbow on a dull wooden table. She casually points to a dish. "What is that? Cyrus?"
Cyrus pulls out her chair. His gaze falls to the plate with thinly-sliced pieces of vegetables. "Pickled Radish," he replies slowly. "With rice. And soy sauce. And that's the soup."
It smells amazing. Cynthia polishes the chopsticks with a napkin. Oh. The turnips have a sweet-and-sour crunch to it. Pleasantly cool against her parched tongue. She combines the pickled vegetables with warm, white rice and almost loses her aloof composure. And the soup… Who knew flowers tasted this good?! She feels as refreshed as she would after a restful night's sleep.
"Is it… edible?" Cyrus mutters. She almost missed his voice the first time.
"It's decent."
He seems to be satisfied at her reply.
As Cyrus cleans up the area, Cynthia takes the liberty of exploring this cozy little house. Quite sparse but clean. Nothing much of interest… except for the diary that's aaaaaaaal the way in the back of the drawer-!
"Cynthia?"
ACK! Fortunately, she managed to jam that notebook back before Cyrus enters his own bedroom. In his hands are folded blankets, which he sets on the bed.
It hits her just as she's making herself comfortable. "Isn't this your bed, Cyrus?"
"Yes." He's fluffing the blankets for her. She feels a little bad, but the sheets are so warm and soft. "The floor is clean. Do you need anything else from me?"
"No…"
A nod. "Good night, Cynthia."
"Um… good night, Cyrus."
The man gives her another nod before closing the door. Then it's just Cynthia in a stranger's bedroom—a man's, no less!
But for some weird reason, she feels like she can trust him. He's awkward, but he seems like a decent guy. He can cook, his house is clean… She sinks into the pillows. And he smells like crops. What a weirdo.
The moon is but a crescent in the starry night sky. It's the perfect atmosphere to think about life, as well as to attempt to recall an ever-evasive mystery. Why did I lose my memory? What was I doing before I came here? Who am I? Questions without an answer. It's pointless to think about it right now. Maybe something'll come up tomorrow.
Yes… tomorrow. Cynthia's eyelids are fluttering. Tomorrow, let's see what Cyrus has to say.