part iii. departure (will i see you again?)
It's a cold morning, crisp and still dark: pale sunlight is straining at the edges of the horizon, but he can't see it. He's being shaken gently awake, eyes blinking open sleepily in the gloom, and he knows that something's wrong.
He watches silently as the figure then moves to the other side of the room, pulling open the curtains to reveal the busy, colourful lights of the city outside.
The horizon is hidden; it still looks like night.
He sits up, slipping quietly out of bed, and asks, "now?"
A lamp is switched on, and floods the small room with its artificial glow. Mr Wammy's face, seeming oddly shadowed and troubled, looks away. He nods.
Jung is four years old, but already aware of so much; this is why he hates it when he begins to dress himself, but finds his short fingers fumbling, coordination still so immature. He bites his lip and stares at the ground as Mr Wammy approaches and kneels beside him, helping to button up his shirt.
He doesn't know how this was arranged, or what's happened between them. He knows what's going on, but he doesn't know why.
Jung's a child, after all, and childish. The complicated, dark world of adults is still a mystery, and he hates that. All the same, though, there's still a tiny, scared part of him that doesn't want to know.
When he's lead out into their main room, he sees his mother sitting in an armchair, staring blankly at the wall. Her eyes are red and she's still in her nightdress. The light of the room is harsh and clinical; it makes Jung hesitate, hang back a little from his mother who simply sits there - her but not her - looking so different.
But then she raises her gaze to him, and he has that feeling again; that's wrong, so wrong, and all at once he runs to her, face crumpling and tears falling.
He clings to her legs, and she places a cool, dry hand on his head, stroking his dark, messy hair. He looks up at her and sniffs, and sees that she's not crying.
He knows what's happening, but part of him balks - disbelief, denial, not wanting this to be real. Doesn't she sense it, that something is wrong?
And then she smiles at him, a sad smile, and then Mr Wammy's beside him again, taking his hand and leading him away. In the years to come, he wouldn't really remember this. Only a vague sense of loss, and the gentle smiles of the happy times.
When he became older, more cynical, he began to doubt even those. He would not miss his parents.
Jung doesn't ask where they're going, or if his mother's coming: he already knows. It's like a dull ache in his chest that won't go away - the not understanding why; only knowing that's something's been decided, above and beyond him.
He's angry and scared and sad and numb - but his tiny hand clings onto those larger weathered fingers as they step outside the tall building into the slowly brightening dawn, as it's the only familiar thing left to him.
-
The airport is huge and bustling with so many people, even this early in the morning. The noise - incessant and loud and itwon'tstopwhyitwon'tstop - and mingling, impolite people intimidate him. Jung hides behind Mr Wammy's legs and shuts his eyes wishing he were back in their rooms, and that it were just the three of them again, quiet and calm as it has always been before.
But Mr Wammy's taken him, and his mother's let him go. They can't all have been meant to be together after all.
