Two.
She trips and falls on the sidewalk in the rain, skinning her knee rather badly. There are no tears from Arashi; the sky is crying already. What's the use for more tears?
A wanderer, a little child.
Hungry. Blindly searching through clear white bags of mottled meat and black vegetables and broken eggshells. After a week, Arashi has learned there is food here, but you must have patience to find it. The rain stops, but the sky is bleak and disgusting. The humidity outside is almost unbearable, giving a passerby the feeling of breathing in a ghost. She finds a half-eaten onigiri riceball and stuffs it in her pocket. She leaves quickly, looking over her shoulder once.
Arashi pads past a nice restaurant—there is a little band playing, for its one of those restaurants that rents out a few musicians every Saturday night. But only a flute player and a cellist for this restaurant. Times are tough and music suffers.
She sits against the building and takes out her little riceball. It begins to rain again. She pretends she is eating inside with her mother, listening to the cello and watching it rain outside.
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