The warm rain pitter-pattered gently on the windowsills, falling almost lethargically over closed shutters and roofs. The once calm and gentle river that flowed by the houses flowed quickly and ruthlessly, dangerous currents frothing yellow-white in a spray of foam.
At this time of night, all the windows were shut tightly, except for a lone light that seeped through the curtains of an attic room to settle softly on the roof. Rivulets of water ran down the shingles as thunder rumbled distantly, a flash of lighting sometimes following shortly afterwards.
She hated thunderstorms.
If the resident of that attic room had peeked through his curtains, they would have met an eerie sight. A woman, drenched with water, stood beneath the luminous lamppost that glowed like a bundle of tiny fireflies. She stared dully, unblinkingly, at the rusting old street sign that no longer identified the street, oblivious to the torrents of rain that fell upon her back.
How ironic that it had rained today. She remembered with aching clarity that the sky had cried twelve years ago, on this very day too. Shuddering as she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the screams of her mother, could almost feel the blood fall almost caressingly on her face, so different from the cruel sword that shed that blood.
This river roared in answer to her pain and her eyes snapped open. Kaoru averted her eyes from the sign to stare fondly at the water that had so easily become part of her. She wept there often when the guilt of her parents death became too much for her, finding time at night to let the calming sound of waves lull her to sleep, the open air and grass much more appealing than a warm bed or a roof over her head.
With one last look, she turned around, wiping water from her eyes quickly. Megumi would not be pleased to see her drenched to the bone, but at least the rain wasn't ice-cold.
The street sign swung in the wind, creaking sadly behind her.
Kenshin frowned wearily at the papers sprawled across his desk, setting his papers down and rubbing his temples in an effort to stop the horrible pounding in his head.
He had been working for the whole evening and into the night, the rain providing a soothing comfort to the swirl of words that seemed to move around as he stared harder at the tiny letters. Hiko had demanded that he translate every word in the forty-page report, including the small font that decorated the bottom of almost every page. Luckily, he was working in his sister's attic, which made thing fractionally easier on his strained mind.
Tomoe lived in the outskirts of town, working at a calligraphy shop just a couple buildings away from the tavern that Kenshin frequented. They served the best home-brewed beer in the district. Often Kenshin would take the closest thing to a break and spend a day or two in the attic of his sister's house. Tomoe always glanced at him curiously when he headed straight to the attic stairs instead of the guest bedroom, but she never questioned his actions, instead bringing her attention back to the current book she adored at the moment.
Something about the constant smell of book pages and white plum blossoms from the blooming tree that wafted up from the ground floor relaxed his muscles and allowed him to really, actually sleep instead of drifting somewhere between consciousness and half-sleeping.
Tomoe often fretted over the darkening purple circles under his eyes, making him herbal sleeping tea every night he spent at her house. Hiko apparently noticed too, since he had unofficially banned him from coming back to the estate until the circles disappeared completely. At Kenshin's horrified reaction, Hiko also reluctantly sent the report with him so he wouldn't spontaneously combust from absolutely no work. He still expected only the best quality work from his only son, though. That, he concluded days before Kenshin's departure, came from his side of the family.
The packet only lasted one night before, over Hiko's morning coffee, it was sent back for his approval.
He briefly glanced through the pages before nodding at the messenger. He took another sip of his coffee before turning to his wife.
"That man needs a wife."