January 2nd, 1989

For the past two months, little Anju, who grows closer and closer to turning seven with each passing minute, has been having some particularly strange encounters. It has nothing to do with random passersby or visiting the extended family next door; no, in fact, it has absolutely nothing to do with the living.

But it certainly has everything to do with the dead.

It started with those around her age; sometimes older, sometimes younger. Always, when the children noticed she could see them, they'd follow her; from the street, the mall, the park, they followed. Always, they'd ask to play. Being a child as well, she saw no harm in it; she became their companion for however long they remained. However, there was a downside; her mother, uncle, and heavily pregnant aunt-in-law saw it as an 'imaginary friend' phase. They mentioned it once around her; she didn't know what it meant. She still doesn't, actually.

After a while, Anju noticed that the children weren't always entirely there; she could see through them sometimes. It was odd. No one else she knew could do that, look as if they were slowly vanishing. She never voiced concern, though; it didn't seem like a big deal. Maybe they were just different.

Then, she started seeing adults; some were opaque, others were transparent, but like with the children, only she could see them. They scared her at first; stranger danger was well taught to children of her age. Eventually, though, she grew to realize they were okay, too, just taller. Unfortunately, her mother found it very disconcerting, seeing her daughter suddenly look up towards the ceiling or sky, only to immediately start speaking to the air. Anju never understood why her mama couldn't see, too.

In due time, Anju started calling her unseen friends, 'shadows'.

Anju sits uncomfortably in a chair, avoiding eye contact with the older man sitting across from her. Beside her, her mother sits; she's saying things, voicing concerns, but all of it is idle talk to the young girl, who doesn't pay close attention to any of the words being stated. Mama will talk and then we'll go home, she innocently thinks.

Then, her mother grabs her shoulder and gently shakes her, breaking her naive thought process. "Anju, baby, the…kind man wants to hear about the…shadows." The little girl in question doesn't detect the hesitation in her tone, nor the concern.

The therapist silently listens as Anju tells him everything about her shadow friends. How it was just other kids like herself, at first, before she started seeing adults, too. How sometimes they are just there, like everyone else, and then are see-through other times. She doesn't notice the man's concern, doesn't notice his brows lowering each time she reveals something else about the shadow people, her friends.

When she finally stops talking, her mother starts speaking again. Anju just wants to go home now. She doesn't understand what's happening. She doesn't get why she's talking about it to someone that isn't family.

Time passes. Maybe it's just seconds. Maybe it's minutes. Maybe an hour. She doesn't know.

In the end, the man she'd never seen, until today, tells her, in the most gentle tone she's ever heard, that her friends aren't real. The shadow people aren't real; it's just in her head. Because of 'trauma' and 'an overactive imagination'. She knows what imagination means, but what is trauma? And why are they staring at her like that? It wasn't in her head; she really sees them. She sees one right now; a lady, standing just past the man's shoulder.

Neither adult appreciates her pointing out the mystery lady. If anything, it only makes them look, and sound, more worried about her mental state.

She starts crying; she wishes they'd believe her. She even tries to run out of the room; her mother stops her, holding her tightly by the arm. She squirms; she just wants to go home. She doesn't like this room.

Her torment ends about three minutes later; the meeting is cut short, due to her growing distress (not that she's aware of the reason being because of that; she just thinks they're finally heading home, which is true, in a sense). So, mother and daughter leave, both emotionally drained and stressed.

Unbeknownst to the immediate family of two, a rift begins forming between them that day. Whether it'd be patched or not someday, time will tell.

November 30th, 1989

On February 28th, Soichiro and Sachiko Yagami welcomed their first child into the world; they named him Light. The following day, Kaede, with little Anju in tow, visited them in the hospital; prior to arriving, the mother and daughter had the awkward conversation of 'where do babies come from', to which Kaede simply stated, 'they're delivered months after the parents secure their love', knowing her child would have no idea what she was talking about.

Meeting her cousin was a strange experience. He was so little, compared to herself. Was he always going to be small? No. When would he be big enough to play with? Someday. Would he act like her? Maybe. Why did it take so long for him to be delivered? It just takes time. Why? Because. So many questions, she asked; so many answers, she got. So little she actually understood.

A few months passed. Anju noticed a change in her mother's behavior. She started calling the Yagami family everyday, she returned home early from work more often than not, and she was often shaking her foot in rapid succession, biting her nails as she frantically paced around the house. Anju didn't understand what was happening; she just knew something felt off.

A few days later, the off-limits room was open. Her mother was sobbing inside, holding a teddy bear. A picture book laid open in front of her, on the floor. She didn't notice Anju walking in, even though they locked eyes a few times; it was like she wasn't truly seeing. It gave the little girl an opportunity to look through the things she'd never seen before; actually, somehow, a few of them looked familiar.

Inside the picture book were photos she didn't recognize. All of them were of an infant, like Light. Anju flipped the pages through to the end; there wasn't much to look at. At the very back, though, was a note; her mother must have stuck it in there when she stopped taking pictures. All it said was to 'beware of S.I.D.S.', whatever that meant.

Too young to understand, and not really remembering the short time she was an older sister, Anju closed the picture book and left her mother alone; she'd fallen asleep, cheeks drenched in tears. On the way back to her bedroom, some of her adult shadow friends told her that they understood the meaning; they wouldn't tell her what it was, though. She didn't see them for a while after that. She always wondered why.

Kaede finally relaxed when Light reached seven months of life. At the same time, Anju's shadow friends returned with kind smiles and apologies for such a long absence. She didn't question it.

Now nine months old and constantly growing, Light crawls on the floor of his living room. His mother is in the kitchen, cooking dinner alongside his aunt, Kaede. His father isn't home, still at work. Across from him, also on the floor, is Anju; she is lying on her tummy, kicking her legs lazily whilst having her hands outstretched towards him.

"Come on, Light," she encourages. "This way."

He shifts gears suddenly; he starts crawling more towards her left than directly at her.

"Wha-?! Heeey!" She pouts, waving her hands to try and get his attention on her again; it doesn't work. "No faiiir; you're supposed to crawl to me…"

He crawls towards her left some more, stops, turns, and starts heading back where he came; the child couldn't make up his mind.

"How rude." She keeps pouting, disappointed.

Seconds later, he has changed his mind again; he's now crawling towards her right.

"Hmmm..." Thinking quickly, she grins mischievously. When he has crawled close enough, she rolls to the right, landing upside down; she's directly in his path again. "I've got you now!" She sticks her tongue out playfully. "I win!"

Surprisingly, he keeps crawling towards her, only stopping when he's nearby. He reaches his tiny hand out, trying to grab her tongue. He blows out a raspberry when her tongue retracts back into her mouth before he can grab it. He palms at her face, trying to find it again.

She giggles at him. "Stoooop i-ek!" He had shoved his fingers in her mouth while she'd been talking; probably hadn't been the brightest idea, her speaking. Gently removing his hand from her face, she makes a disgusted expression. "Ew. Bleh." She blows a raspberry at him in retaliation.

He giggles and blows one back automatically, creating a spit bubble that hits her in the face. She shrieks in dismay; he giggles some more, babbling happily.

Without their knowledge, their mothers, briefly pausing in their cooking, watch them with fond looks and a smile. It's almost as if the shadow people issue is a thing of the past. If only it were that simple.

September 15th, 1991

Laughter.

Throughout the courtyard of the church, joyful cries fill the air; children are playing as they await the arrival of their parents. Tag, hide and seek, and red light, green light are just a few of the games they all partake in. All save for one.

In the midst of the courtyard lies a hedge maze. In its center resides a marvelous fountain, its copper aged and its water flow neverending. Sitting peacefully upon the marbled wall, which surrounds the cascading aqua, is four-year-old Hajime Katsuragi. In his lap, there lies a small notebook; in his palm, a pencil is securely gripped. Unlike all the other children, he has chosen to spend this time practicing his handwriting; he didn't much care for playing.

He pauses briefly, after some time has passed. He listens to the water behind him, more closely than he had before, and smiles softly. Appreciate the little things, he hears his adoptive grandmother say in his head, a not-so-distant memory coinciding with the words. So, he does; the sounds of nature and everything in-between are soothing to him. Not many others, regardless of age, can say the same.

"Appreciate the little things," he quietly recites, slightly butchering the pronunciation. He releases a long hum afterwards.

"Hajime," a familiar voice calls out from within the hedge maze.

Instinctively, the boy in question stands upright, his notebook and pencil dropping onto the ground, landing in front of him (though his writing utensil rolls away a little bit). "I'm here, Sister Miu," he respectfully announces.

Seconds later, the elderly nun in question walks through the leafy archway. Upon setting her sights on him, her expression immediately becomes one of fondness. "Hajime," she repeats sweetly. "You do not need to refer to me as such anymore; your education for the day has ended."

The youngling looks troubled. "But it's dis…" He has difficulty pronouncing the word; additionally, he has a slight lisp. "Dis… Disrespectful."

Her fondness for the boy simply grows. "Without expressed permission, yes," she admits. "An authorization in which you have."

Auth… Authorize… Authorization… He weakly repeats the word in his head; it sounds nowhere close to how the woman said it but he'll learn. Someday, he'll be able to use big words, too, and he'll be able to actually say them right. That is…the same as permission…maybe. He hesitates. "...I don't know…"

"Hajime…" she gently says, expression soft.

He makes his decision. "Grandmother…" he says back, just as gently.

She smiles then. "Now, that's better."

Pinkness enters his cheeks, but only slightly; he's embarrassed. "...Is everyone gone?" he wonders, realizing he doesn't hear distant laughter anymore. She nods shortly. Returning the nod, he leans over, picking up his fallen notebook. He brushes the dirt off before closing it. Then, he grabs the pencil he'd been using. "...Is it time to go home?"

"Yes." She studies him, curious. "Were you drawing?"

He shakes his head slowly and slightly. "Writing." He walks forward, approaching her. Once standing close enough to her, he flips open his little notebook and turns it to her. "See?" He points to the last sentence he'd written: appreciate the little things. "See? I-I tried a b-bigger word this time." He shifts on his feet, nervous. "D-Did I spell it right…?"

She glimpses through it. It's still sloppy, like most handwriting of children, but it's more comprehensible than it once was. He even spelt everything correctly. "You're improving steadily, my boy," she praises, sounding delighted. She gently ruffles his messy hair. "I'm proud of you."

He beams, smiling brightly up at her. He closes the notebook again.

"Come along now." She takes his hand into hers. "We'll stop for a treat along the way." She lets out a small laugh when he quickly takes the lead, practically dragging her out of the hedge maze; he's excited.

He's such an odd child, she thinks as they walk through the church courtyard. Different in comparison to the other children. Whilst they are rowdy, he is quiet. Whilst they are rude, he is polite. Whilst they care for nothing but their own little worlds, he cares for everything else. Whilst they play, he studies. She gazes at him as he leads her out of the sacred building; he slows at the steps, suddenly more mindful of her frailness. My blessed boy; you'll be a fine man someday.

She smiles to herself.

December 25th, 1991

Eyes of amethyst stare blankly ahead, void of emotion. Her fingers skim across the table to her napkin, where one last utensil remains: a butterknife. Her mother doesn't let her have a real one, not that it matters; you can hurt anyone with anything, if you try hard enough. So, sneakily, the butterknife goes under her long sleeve, to which she discreetly holds it there, moving her arm back to its original position.

Barely three years of age, Hotaru has developed a defense mechanism, of a sort; she automatically grabs anything that's close by, whenever the arguing between her parents starts taking a violent turn, ready to use it if need be. Currently, various objects are being thrown, back and forth, across the dining table at two different speeds: fast and lazy. What exactly triggered the events, the child doesn't know (and likely wouldn't have entirely understood anyway), but she's aware that her mother is extremely upset and her father is just being his usual unhappy self.

Casually, she stabs her fork into her food and continues eating, silently watching. Nothing ever changes in their household; there's always something negative occurring at some point everyday.

Eventually, her mother storms out of the dining room, as angry as a hornet; Hotaru hears glass breaking in the hallway. She always does that when she's mad. Mama likes wrecking, the girl innocently thinks. Me too. Breaking stuff is kind of fun to her.

She glances at her father, chewing slowly.

He groans in frustration, runs his fingers through his hair, and rolls his eyes. "Crazy bitch," he utters, reaching for the salt. All of its content pours out the second he tilts it over his food. "Goddamn it!" With a single swap of his arm, the plate goes flying, shattering when it hits the floor; food, salt, and glass is just about everywhere now.

Hotaru hides a smirk; she had sabotaged the salt container. Just because.

"Mama," she innocently calls out, knowing her mother is still within the next room. She never ventures far; me no alone with papa, she thinks, grammatically incorrect. Bad. Seconds later, her mother reenters the dining room, glaring at the grumpy man before smiling at her. "Done." Hotaru drops her fork onto the table, kicking her legs, waiting to be picked up.

As she anticipates, her mother quickly approaches, maneuvering around all the broken items so as to not cut her feet, and gently, but hurriedly, picks her up. She's carried out of the room; she can hear her father swearing loudly behind them, though it grows more distant as they move further through the massive house.

Down a few hallways, up the stairs, and down another hallway, they finally reach their destination: Hotaru's bedroom. Once upon a time, the large room once held only a few pieces of furniture, such as a bed, dresser, small wardrobe, and short desk. Now, after the early morning, it contains a few more objects, which consists of a variety of play-sets; a kitchen, a stage, a cleaning station, a medical center, and a retail counter, all made of plastic and with many accessories.

The minute her little feet touch the floor, she roams, eyeing all the new things. Some, she recognizes; others, she does not but will likely figure it out, eventually. She mainly lingers by the toy kitchen; it appeases her most, at the moment.

"Do you like your new toys?" her mother asks, watching her every movement.

Hotaru turns her head towards her, answering flatly. "Yes."

Her mother bites her lip; it looks like she's trying to hold back laughter. That's my girl, the woman thinks. Any other mother would've been disconcerted about their child being devoid of emotion; it's not of much surprise, though, given their way of living. "Do you want to play alone or do you want me to watch?"

Hotaru stares blankly. "Bye, bye."

Her mother snorts that time; she can't help herself. "Alright, sweetheart." She steps forward and leans over, giving her daughter a kiss on the forehead; Hotaru wipes it away immediately, like she always does. "I'll be in the next room if you need me."

"I know," the little one says, tone remaining flat, emotionless. Before her mother can make a move to leave the bedroom, Hotaru pulls the hidden butterknife out from beneath her sleeve. "Mama." She holds it out. Her mother blinks in surprise; that actually caught her off guard, for once. "Stab Papa hand when," she places her free hand over her chest, close enough to where her heart is located, "hurt."

Her mother makes a face of regret; so she did see me doing that last year, oops, she thinks with slight concern. I've traumatized my own child. She stares at her daughter; Hotaru is just staring blankly back, uncaring, very nonchalant about her own wording. …At least, I think I did. They stare at one another for a minute. Then, Kohaku, very confused and concerned, just shrugs; too late to fix anything about her child now, not that she would've been able to in the first place. "Alright then." Taking the weapon-to-be (because she's absolutely certain her lover is going to irritate her enough for her to stab his hand again), she leaves the bedroom, letting her daughter be alone like she wants.

Hotaru looks back at the kitchen playset. She pokes at the plastic food lying on the counter; some fruit and a loaf of bread. "Boop," she softly comments, poking more objects, such as the frying pan, pots, and cups, all made of fake material. She even throws one of the wine glasses (because one of those types is included, for some reason); it doesn't break, of course. "Yay," she quietly cheers, grinning a little.

Picking the plastic object up and putting it back where it'd been beforehand, she starts rummaging through everything; she looks inside the stove, the microwave, the fridge (that hold a pleasant surprise of fake beverages and other 'cold' food items of a large variety, things typically found in a real refrigerator), and the many cabinets (which also hold plastic boxes with various food labels on them). Having explored everything, she claps and starts pretending she's making breakfast; eggs, sausage, and bacon, yum. She makes sound effects as she does so; lots of sizzling and popping noises.

After acting as if she's eating the plastic foods, and additionally pretending to drink from the gallon of milk and carton of orange juice (gulg, gulg, gulg), she loses interest in the play kitchen. "Bored now." She moves on to another playset.

"Sweep, sweep, sweep," she utters, shifting the toy broom from side to side. She doesn't know the proper sound effect, so that's why she's just narrating. "Sweep, sweep." She doesn't pretend to clean for very long; it's rather boring. Instead, she pretends she's a witch; she runs around the room, acting like she's flying through the air. "Swoosh."

Not much time passes.

She jumps onto the mini stage; it's probably the only part of the playset that's actually real. Minutes later, she has a plastic guitar in her hands, an inflatable microphone stand in front of her, and flashing lights shining down on her; the strobe lights are the only other thing that's real. She 'rocks' out; half dancing, half pretending to play the instrument whilst making the appropriate sound effects (and some noises that don't actually make sense for that particular music style), and half 'singing' (babbling, really). She giggles a lot throughout the entire time she messes with this set of toys, the happiest she's ever been.

Later that evening…

Hotaru is playing with the retail playset, pretending to shop, when she hears noises, of a vulgar type, coming from across the hallway. She pouts and glares at the door. Papa doing it again, she mentally complains, crossing her arms, scowling. She hates hearing those sounds.

A few moments later, as the noises start getting even louder, her mother reenters the bedroom in a hurry, looking very sad. She closes the door behind her quickly and leans against it, closing her eyes tightly and taking deep breaths.

Hotaru watches closely. "...Hoochie?"

Tearfully, her mama laughs. "I never should've taught you that word." She sniffles, opening her eyes again, staring at the ceiling. "...But yeah. Yeah. Hoochie. Again." Like always…

"Bleh," comments her daughter, looking disgusted.

More weeping laughter ensues. "Yes, it's very nasty." She stops leaning against the door, wiping away her tears. "You should tell your father that when he's done with the hoe." No point in censoring her language.

"No." Hotaru shakes her head.

Raising an eyebrow, she steps closer to her child. She, then, crouches to her level. "Why not?"

"Casanova," the little girl bluntly states.

Her mother laughs once more, only this time without the tears flowing; she seems much happier now, despite the loud, echoing noises remaining in the background. "Another word I never should've taught you, but also, you make an excellent point; he wouldn't give a damn." He's never given a damn, she thinks, clenching her fists suddenly. Why couldn't I be enough? Why couldn't we be enough? Why does he always need more? Hasn't he stolen enough money? Hasn't he conned enough people? Hasn't he bred enough bitches? Her thoughts get angrier and angrier; she's tempted to storm into that bedroom and rip the hoe from his arms. She's done it before.

As if sensing her mother's growing rage, Hotaru goes over to the playset she's yet interacted with: the medical center. She throws on the doctor's suit, grabs a thermometer and pill bottle, and then approaches her mother, who remains crouched. "Play?"

That growing fury is gone instantly, due to shock; her daughter never asks for a playmate. It takes her a moment to finally answer. "...Only for a little while."

Hotaru shoves the plastic thermometer into her mother's mouth, not bothering to be gentle; it results in a gag reflex triggering for a second, followed by immediate coughing. Next, she sits the toy pill bottle in her mom's hand; automatically, the woman holds it. Then, the youngling runs back to the medical center playset, where she picks up a fake syringe; sprinting back over to her mom, who just finished her coughing fit, she presses the toy against her arm before pinching the skin right beside it, making her mother yelp.

The little one grins in delight. "No more sad now?"

"Uh huh. No more sad," her mother agrees, rubbing her arm. "Just…in pain. Ow."

"Not sorry," the little girl says, smug.

Her mama snorts. "Of course not."

If only they knew she'd become more of a vindictive little thing…