June 15th, 2020

It was the Shōwa Era in Japan, and medicine was not what it would be in the decades to come. Huge advancements would be made, but they were but cogs in a machine now, not yet finalized and some of them not even realized.

Rika Furude knew this, and she knew with the benefit of many years of experience some things that the medical men and women of her age did not. But she had never yet lived past 1983, and so she had never yet seen the miracles of the world beyond.

But she saw this, and she knew this, and her hand was gentle and slow as it stroked over a crying Satoko's head. Of all the hurts in the world, the hurt of a friend was perhaps the most grievous, and worst of all, Rika did not know how to help her.

Oh, she knew what was wrong. She knew that Satoko flinched at every loud noise and clatter in the early days, knew that if left to herself she'd just curl up in a dark corner somewhere and try to be forgotten as she cried, and cried, and cried, silent choking sobs that spoke of a grief harsher than mere words could convey.

Rika knew that Satoko was hurt inside, a hurt that went past Hinamizawa Syndrome and was only exacerbated by its presence, a hurt born of years of hitting and fighting and yelling, a hurt born of a brother who smiled and then left her alone, forever, because she had clung to him too tightly. It was a psychological wound, not a physical one, and all the more deadly because it could not be healed with time like a physical wound.

And these wounds ran deep.

Rika also knew what worked and what didn't. Giving Satoko her time, her love, her attention and care, was enough to slowly coax her out of that shell. Having the rest of the club shower her with time, love, and care of their own helped too. Giving Satoko money and coming with her on shopping trips, letting Satoko buy as much of whatever she wanted, letting Satoko have that control over what she ate and when she ate it, that helped as well.

Rika knew it worked. As 1982 turned to 1983, Satoko would be reborn and revitalized, speak with her ordinary peppery confidence and laugh with her usual zeal. Children were strong and flexible: love and reassurances did what Irie's medicine could not.

And Irie did help. He tried, anyways, as much as he could with his limited tools, and Satoko was the better for it.

But Rika with her experience of a thousand years, she knew what worked best of all, and it was this. Holding Satoko, being with her as she wept, whispering comforts and truths as she gently stroked her hair, patiently telling Satoko that she was cherished, she was beloved, that Satoshi cared for her with every fiber of his being and would never, ever run away from her because he loved her so, that Rika and the others were her friends, that they cared for her and weren't putting up a façade, that Satoko was strong and amazing and resourceful and they all admired these things about her.

It was affirmation, it was healing, and Rika fiercely poured every drop of her heart into those words as Satoko clutched her and cried. No matter how many cycles there were in this endless maze, Satoko always was and always would be her truest, bestest friend. Rika would not leave her alone with the demons in her mind, and she would fight them and fend them off with all the ceremony her position as priestess demanded.

She thought Satoko knew it, too. Why else did she turn to Rika like a flower does to the sun? Maybe Rika wasn't a doctor, or a psychologist, or a psychiatrist (were those things even different?) but what she was was a friend, and someone who loved Satoko, and someone who had the wisdom of a hundred cycles.

And every 1982, that seemed to be almost enough.

11.41 AM, USA Central Time