Red, or crimson.
The night air carries the chilled smell of wet bamboo through the shutters. The room is dark but the colour glows before him.
The red one, thinks SHIKI, and wills himself not to cry. Wasn't crying the sort of thing normal people did in this kind of situation? He touches the crimson cloth, he touches the cold knife, and as quickly as the bitter tears had swelled, they disappear. It could rain and rain but nothing could change. He dresses quickly; or she dresses quickly? It doesn't matter. The obi is tightened, a rush of sickening excitement stitched with grief and terror fills him, and his vision sharpens.
It had to be the red one, and it had to be him.
Later, the tears swell once more and they fall towards the sky. The world has become soundless, their body relaxes in the air, and it is too late: too late for last words, too late for the sweet, foolish boy to catch him, too late for the driver to stop. But this is SHIKI's fortune. This is how it had to be, and that brings him peace. The blinding light from his left illuminates his fluttering sleeves bright crimson, and he hopes for their forgiveness and their happiness as his farewell.
A sacrifice - and he rests easy.