THE PASSING WIND

-TheSilentReader-

[PROLOGUE]

Long, straight tresses of blonde struggled against the wind as the person slid the doors open for the female incomer. She engaged a stout grin as she stepped sideways to make way. She closed the door with a dramatic thud as she watched she remove her shoes and arranged them in the foyer with her hands, putting them into the shoe rack. The arrived walked inside to put her handbag on a couch in the traditionally furnished apartment. The couch, however, was solely for that person who waited for her arrival.

After all, this wasn't her house; she was just playing the house dog until everything was over. Before, she was the person who usually had been the last going home—usually at late hours of the night—but this time, she was early. It was the first time that it happened tonight. It was the first time that she'd received and welcomed the owner of the apartment.

It was also the first time that she wanted to take the incomer's bag and take it to deposit in one of the couches, but she was beaten to it.

She was glad that she was here. She was happy that she accepted her in the apartment. She was happy that she allowed her to stay for a while. But she was worried for her, too. Of the reasons that she allowed her for being here.

She could see worry in her eyes, as id she was stuck in a complicated mathematical puzzle. She wore the same expression when she encountered one during high school. But being her older sister was enough for her to notice before what she was showing.

If was her first time that she asked her if she could prepare that bath for her. Or dinner. She wanted food, but she declined the bath. Without anything more to ask from her.

She made it clear that she would try to fix her the best dinner for her little sister. That little sister, however, did not say anything to evoke a declaration of assurance, but she chuckled anyway—the big sister always said those.

The weight that has been saddling her own heart, the petite souer could already point it out, and had induced her to spill it.

It was now her problem, too. She said she wanted to help, and she had allowed her to a position to interfere.

It was also the reason they were sisters, after all.

But, in small ways, she was able to make her feel better, such as doing her favor.

She asked later, as she watched her washing the dishes, "Have you warned Yoshino-san about it?"

"Yes, Onee-sama."

CHAPTER 25

"Something bothered you, Suguru-san?" Shimata-san asked as he whisked away the sedan from the car park of the monumental edifice of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu. Kashiwagi left the old man in his thoughts after he lost his temper. He hated it; he hated it because Ogasawara Kyouiichi had done less provocation that could not even equal how Kashiwagi released his feelings.

It was never a good idea to lose focus when you feel that you are winning. Because losing temper is found on the losing side.

He murmured, but he could tell that his butler could hear it. "Tell me, Shimata-san; you told me about the work that my mother had done for Ogasawara. But you never mentioned the picture she painted. Is it the landscape of the Ogasawara Mansion?"

"Yes." There was silence longer than was allowed. "Yes it was. Have you seen it?"

"Yes. I saw it in his office." He answered his question as he looked to his window, suddenly in a trance to everything that the vehicle had passed by. "Why didn't I notice it when I first went to him?" He asked himself.

Shimata asked when they were already in the outskirts of the city. "How did you know it was her work?"

Kashiwagi looked directly at the mirror where his eyes met the older man's. "Her seal was there, at a tiny spot on the left corner."

Then, a ring from his cellular phone alarmed him. Ryu-san was calling.

1967

He met her in an auction where she the primary painter who restored a fusuma painting, which Ogasawara Kyouiichi wanted to buy for his late father's shrine. There, he met a woman who had eyes as dark as onyx, but shone like a diamond. She was a tall woman, with short, boyish-cut, black hair, which was a messy even in an occasion such as this. She wasn't even wearing a proper gown or whatever evening wear. Just a comfortable black dress. When everyone in the gala was busy with each other—gallery owners, benefactors, sponsors, art collectors and sellers—she was busy inspecting the bubbles of her champaigne while she sat on a duvet. But she looked bored.

It was as if she was tired of this party and society in general, and he was curious of what the reason why she was here in the first place.

"I restored that painting, you see." She elegantly tilted her tall glass and pointed the fusuma that he bought.

"Thank you for your effort." He manage to say, a little irritated at her absence of indulgence, when he was the most important person in the room—she isn't even blinking an eye as she talked to him absently.

"That's what you all do, you just buy them." She huffed, then finished the whole drink in one shoot. "You never know its value because you have so much money to spare, it doesn't matter."

"How daring for you to say that." He accused, silently.

"Tell me, if that painting isn't the real painting, what would you do?" She asked quizzically, finally looking at Kyouiichi.

"I'll send to hell those who fabricated it and sold it to me." He said carefully, making her regret that she made a joke like that on his face. No one makes jokes like that on his face.

Then, she stood from her comfortable seating position, and walked away to the doors leading outside the function hall. She appeared to him as if she was entirely finished of her business being here. It was as if she was put off by Kyouiichi's presence. Just as she walked away entirely out of his hearing range, she said:

"But then, you would never know that," then, a knowing smirk. "Would you?"

Later, when he asked the owner of the museum of whom the person was, the person who restored the fusuma painting, they told, no one, she doesn't want people to know who she was.

But he did find out, and her name was Kinomoto Setsuna.

Kinomoto Setsuna didn't care that much. Kinomoto Setsuna didn't want too much from the world—she just wanted quiet.

There was little that amused her, she felt that her workroom was too small, but only that room only had the most beautiful view of the garden and the dark sky. There was also a little sentiment that conspired with her preference—it was also her mother's favorite room in the compound.

What was unwanted to this perfect, immaculate room was the man that gave him another commission—the Ogasawara Mansion.

In the room was various sizes of photographs of different parts of the front view of the house attached to the walls—an informal collage. Setsuna was in the middle of the room, unmoving except for her right hand, seemingly suffocated by the overwhelming pictures of the house in macro. But if ever she felt like shouting in frustration, she did not show it.

"Why didn't you just go to the mansion and paint there?" He asked, while he was sitting in on the hallway, watching the night sky. He went to the compound so unexpectedly and shoved the commission with humongous amount of money to pay her.

But the picture of the house was easy to paint, she told herself. But Ogasawara Kyouiichi was sipping tea and siphoning his cigar, acting as if he owned this compound. But, it would never hurt, if he were to stay here and act all highly in her household. After all, the money that he'd been giving her is enough to save the compound. The money that she'd get from the commission was enough to sustain herself.

By some length of indiscerned time, the smell of cigar was already imprinted in the workroom.

"Ogasawara-san, why are you here? Don't you have a family to take care of?" Setsuna asked suddenly, all the while curious about the behavior of the businessman who had been visiting for the commission more frequently than before.

"The members of the Ogasawara family are in Tokyo. I cannot be with them if I am here." He said, nonchalantly.

"Why check the commission in the evening? Can't you just visit in . . . office hours, like most people do?"

"I am not like most people."

"Yeah, you aren't. You're ruder than most people." She dropped.

"I want to see your progress. You people are less driven than most people, artists that you are." Ogasawara-san said stiffly, as he waited for his tea to come. He was once more sitting like a peacock on the floor of the corridor, just in front of the workroom's door.

But the insult just flew out of the window as Setsuna dismissed it with ease. "Yeah, but you can't help but need people like us to accentuate your vanities. Thus, this commission."

Then, a young man appeared at the end of the hall, a wooden tea tray on his hands.

"Thanks, Ichirou."

"Is there anything else, Setsuna?" Ichirou asked, not minding the visitor. Ogasawara was slightly annoyed at the servant's lack of hospitality.

"Nah, there isn't. You can go now though. Or you want to join us?" Setsuna asked, a bit playful this time, seemingly annoying the young man.

And she was successful about it. Ichirou said while rolling his eyes, "I'll pass."

Ogasawara was already halfway finished with his tea when he asked what has been on his mind all along, "Is . . . Ichirou-san your servant in this house?"

"No. Have you noticed the lack of honorifics?" She stared at him as if he were retarded. It would usually anger him for her being so disrespectful and rude, but with some reason, he was rather amused by it. "He's family. He helps me a lot with maintaining this house."

"He is a Kinomoto, then?"

"To my bad luck, he's not. He's Shimata Ichirou."

But Shimata Ichirou wasn't just any other family, he was the person closest to Setsuna. He was always thought to be her husband, or her live-in boyfriend, but Setsuna just let the rumors fly, burn and then drift away like embers in burning firewood. There was little to tell; there was no one to impress; there was no one worthy enough whose opinion would matter to Setsuna. Not anymore. After all, everything that she had done, was doing, and would do were for the sake of reviving what was lost to the Kinomoto.

Yet, in line with her mission was Ichirou. He was the one who had accepted her; he was the one who joined her with her vision; he is the only family member she had and mattered. He said, when Ogasawara Kyouiichi had been too frequent with his visits, "He's not here just to check that commission he gave you. He could just reject or accept the commission, without looking at the process. He has other motives going here."

He said it with pure distrust. And she did not like one bit of that audacity. Because he was recurrently correct with his assumptions.

She said absently, while she reached for a spot at the highest left corner of the canvass. "Do you think I don't know that?"

He gripped on the lying plane of the stood where Setsuna was standing, just to secure her base. "He's here, not for that painting. He's here because he's interested with you." He replied.

"Are you jealous?"

The high stool squeaked.

"No. I am concerned." He held one of Setsuna's ankles so that she won't panic. "I don't want you to be hurt again. You're my only family, Setsuna, and I worry about you."

She put her hands down, her brush and palette hanging."If you're concerned if he's trying to seduce me, I hate to break it to you, but he was trying." Then, Ichirou moved away from the stool for Setsuna to jump from it. She looked at him with deathly seriousness mixed with unamused scowl. "But you don't have to worry, Ichirou. I won't fall in love with the likes of him."

She walked to the table where all her paints, brushes, and palettes were situated. She placed her palette and the rest of her brushes from the pocket of her apron to their designated cans. Then, she removed a tiny hairband that secured the tips of her black, short hair, releasing the shoulder-length cropped hair.

"I only keep on tolerating him because I want this house to endure. I want the only remainder of the Kinomoto family to stay with us."

If there were circumstances that would make you do things against your pride and principles, what were they?

This question was reserved for everyone who was struggling to keep on living. Inasmuch as Kinomoto Setsuna was concerned, keeping the house was the only reason for her to break the rules. Family, which was already torn by wretched circumstances during the course of her life, was the only thing that mattered to her—a concept that she wanted to happen once more in her life and live with for the rest of it. It was something that was taken away from her at an early age; but now, her only objective in life is to restore the only proof of the Kinomoto existence: the house and everything in it.

Ichirou and Setsuna were left with a heavy burden. They were taken away from the family long ago, they came back only to find out that the family was long ruined, that the compound was no longer as lively, pristine, and vibrant as it was before. It was an evidence of an end of a line, an end of a magnificent era. It became a manifestation of deprivation. It was as if the artists produced within the long line of Kinomoto did not even exist. When they came back, they were left with a mission so impossible, but all they could see was the future. They could see the compound as a haven of immortal artists—those that were carved into history with the seal of Kinomoto on their works. Artists immortalized because of their talent and acquired skill.

The Kinomoto compound would be like a shrine for her family. Even if the line would end with her, the compound would endure. History would take note of her efforts.

And Ogasawara Kyouiichi was her way of getting things through.

He never knew when it started—his fanatic fascination for her—but he was sure that it was getting out of hand when he had tried to kiss her as she served him tea for the first time in many weeks that he repeatedly visit her to check on the commission that he gave her. Afterall, the painting isn't as small as the fusuma painting that she restored for him months ago—it was like a wall, eight by six meters in area.

And details of the Ogasawara mansion mattered to him. And she painted them with ease.

Kinomoto Setsuna seemed not fazed by his abrupt exposure of sentiment—or desire—whatever it was when he noticed that she failed to respond. It was either she was just as surprised as he, or she didn't feel anything at all, just like when she was staring at her champagne that night when he first saw her.

She didn't feel anything at all. She didn't turn him away, she didn't push herself even in the slightest bit to his arms. She just stood there, a perfect imitation of a horrible sculpture. He felt no soul in her.

No woman rejected him coldly before as Kinomoto Setsuna had done.

Present

Yuuki was in the Kinomoto compound mid-afternoon, and found Yumi at the center of a very large room, covered by the thick blankets of the futon. She was lying flat, but she was very much awake. Yuuki looked at Yoshino, who was behind him as he stormed the house even though the old woman had insisted on leaving Yumi alone. But when they found Yumi lying on Kashiwagi's bed, no one could come inside and talk to her.

"Come in, Yuuki."

"Nee-san." He called her, sentimental and laced with guilt.

Yumi smiled pleasantly, like how she had it when she was still in Lillian Academy for Girls. for the first time. "It's been a long time ever since you called me that."

"I'm sorry." But Yuuki gathered his resolve to reprimand his sister. "You haven't answering your phone."

Fortunately, Yumi wasn't irritable today. "Eh? Ah, I don't have it with me."

(Or, was she not really?)

She lifted herself, and her hand gestured Yuuki to come closer. She said, "Look at those canvases over there." She pointed out the six fake paintings and watched Yuuki looked at them. Yuuki wasn't even surprised as he lifted one—the painting that she spilled tea on. She looked at his face quizzically, each expression she catalogued into what she did not expect.

"You don't look surprised, Yuuki." She stated what she observed.

"Do I?"

"It's The Passing Wind, isn't it? I found it." She told him almost proudly. There wasn't any indication of mockery as he inspected her face—well, he was expecting cruel sarcasm from her: Didn't he fail to find the missing painting, and instead, the one who virtually asked him to find it found it herself?

"Why . . ." But nothing she said made any sense. Why was he in Kashiwagi-sempai's room? Why was she like this? Did something happen between Yumi and Kashiwagi-sempai? Did they—?! ". . . is it covered with tea stains? Yumi, what is going on?"

Then, her face changed and loomed a serious aura. "Take a look, brother. Take a look. You wouldn't know, would you?"

"Onee-san," He hesitated. He glanced from the painting, then to her. Yumi then made an encouraging, impatient nod. "Why did you do this to your work?"

His answer made her sigh.

"Because I found out that that—" she pointed a straight finger at the painting that Yuuki had been holding, "—is not my heart."

Once she mentioned "heart", he abruptly looked once more at the painting—the edges, the canvas-covered back, the brush strokes, Yumi's seal. He concentrated all his senses to the painting before him. After what seemed to be hours than minutes, he exclamed: "This isn't—"

When he looked back at his sister, the calm face was gone. "That one almost fooled me too." Then, to his horror, she giggled. "I know that you'll notice my work among all fakes, because you are my brother, you know me , but it fooled you too, right?"

She continued giggling. "Thank God I'm not the only pathetic in this room."

"This isn't a joke, Nee-san." Yuuki warned, entirely confused of his sister's behavior. It is always better to see her cynical than mad.

"No, Yuuki. You think pouring tea on a perfect replica of my work's a joke?" She asked. "For a detective, you don't look like you've found a lead. These are fakes, as you deduced already, if you were really surprised that there were actually fakes. Tell me, how long have you known? How long have you been hiding it from me? Because I knew from the way you looked at them that these are fakes. It's like you've seen one before, but something happened to it."

All the while Yuuki stared at his sister's eyes, trying to appear so cold and impenetrable. Sudden fear rushed from his fingers to his chest, thus he felt it constrict too tightly against his will. He was suddenly afraid of her sister's blank, hypnotic, brown eyes. All the while he postulated any reason for coming here, and those were thrown away as Yumi read—one by one—his secrets from his eyes.

"Am I correct? Kashiwagi-san told me last night that one replica was missing." She asked, "Tell me, dear, most loyal brother, how did they use it?"

It took him a long time answering her, realizing for himself that she needed her sister to realize that this whole travesty, months and months off curdling it into their lives, was beginning to make sense when he admitted, "They burned it."

"Who burned it?"

"Kashiwagi Suguru and Touma Ryu."

"When did it happen?"

"Three days ago; the day you went back to Musashino."

"Where?"

"At the Ogasawara Mansion."

It was dawning to her what Touma Ryu wanted to tell Sachiko. It was the same as what she would have wanted to do when Sachiko revealed that portrait of hers at the party months ago. She knew that this was personal.

If there were circumstances that would make you do things against your pride and principles, what were they?

She knew why Touma Ryu had done it. He must have done it in front of her, not just to spite her, but to prove that his string had been pulled, strained, plucked, and broken. That he was a person who loved deeply—he accepted all of her, but it won't matter if there was someone else. That he shared her with someone else, that he couldn't have her fully. Man or woman, it takes full understanding to separate love and obsessive impulse for possession, and all the hues of gray between them. Yumi wanted Sachiko too before, as Ryu wanted Sachiko now. She did want possess all of her before. She went almost insane when she lost Sachiko in her life, and had a hard time putting herself together without Sachiko by her side.

No, on second thought, she couldn't even possess Sachiko. Not when Ogasawara Kyouiichi was around. She understood how hard it was to share.

When one thought that the most important person for him would eventually be leaving his life, he'd do two things: he'd get that person back, no matter what it took; or, he'd do anything to spite the other, to destroy the other, to keep the other away from him, just to grip on his pride and to keep hurt at bay.

Ryu . . . Yumi understood him.

Somehow, in some ways, in some twisted circumstance, they were the same, Yumi and Ryu.

She looked away from the painting and lifted herself away from the comforting futon. She noticed that she was still on yesterday's clothes as she arranged Kashiwagi's bed.

"Where is Sachiko?" She asked as she finished smoothing the planes of the pillow above the folded futon.

It was a full minute until Yumi stared to extract the answer from the defeated brother. Then, he braved himself for Yumi's reaction when he said, "In the hospital."

"No." Sachiko tried to shout, but in truth, her pleas were just mere whispers in the background of the humming air conditioning system and horrid silence. In fear of losing everyone and everything in her, she exclamed with difficulty. "NO!"

She was still weak, and on the brink of unconsciousness. Why was Sei here? Why? Why did it hurt her so when she saw Sei by the door?

"Shh." Sei rushed to her side, smoothing her hair away from her face, and pushing her gently to the bed. But for Sachiko, everything she saw was hazy, and the lack of proper lighting did not help to clear her mind. "Hush now. Don't move too much," Sei whispered.

All she could think about was her child. "Is my . . . is she safe?"

"You are in good hands, Sachiko-chan. Touma Ryu made sure of it." Sei whispered.

"My child . . . my child . . . Oh, Ryu . . . ?"

"Shh. Sleep now. Sleep. Be at ease."

"Ryu . . . Ryu . . ."

She woke again, but this time, she saw her husband by his side. But when Ryu was summoned gently, weakly, all he could say to her was:

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry . . ."

She felt his warm hands as she drifted off.

"Shhh."

"Okaa-san," She saw the face that she was seeing only in dreams ever since she left. "Okaa-san, you're here."

"Yes, I am. Your father and I came all the way for you." She's here, she's here, she's here . . . .

"I'm sorry—"

"Do not say sorry, Sachiko, please, no."

"Okaa-san . . ."

"Sleep." Ogasawara Sayako showed the same hypnotic smile that Sachiko had. She understood, she felt that as her mother tightened the grip of her hand that they were the same, in this aspect. They were both weak, in this aspect.

As she drifted to slumber, she recalled that her mother telling her how to see but not look, how to listen but not hear, and how to mourn without crying. But, all she said today was sleep. Okaa-san haven't said that to her for a very, very, very long time.

Sachiko felt she was that little girl once more.

When she woke up again, she wasn't alone.

Then, she remembered the first time she woke—that painting was in front of her.

She wasn't even sure why she had forgotten the painting when one time she just opened her eyes and saw her Onee-sama on a sofa with two of her fellow former Roses. When she saw Satou Sei, she remembered the painting that was supposed to be at that wall where she could see it fully was gone. It was as if it was because of her hallucinations when she was still weak, but she knew . . . she knew to herself that it was The Passing Wind. It would be too much of a coincidence if it were not for Sei's appearance that night.

When Youko had been satisfied of Sachiko's answers to her queries, she asked for Satou Sei's audience alone, and the senior obliged. They were now alone in her bedroom in one of the Ogasawara Zaubatsu's hospitals.

Sei looked at her steadily.

"I know that it's been hanging there, Yumi's painting." Sachiko started.

"Oh?"

Sachiko hoarsely whispered. "Do not play jokes with me!"

"I won't. And I don't plan to mess with pregnant women. You know how you are with your fluctuating hormones."

"Please." She whispered.

"Look beside you." For the first time, she saw a rectungular crate covered with manila paper.

Sachiko asked, "Did you send it?"

Sei gave her an incredulous expression, seemingly not believing why Sachiko had been asking such questions. She replied, "You think I sent it?"

"Sei-sama—"

Sei sniggered. "If I were . . . well, me, I would go straight to Yumi and give what she wanted. The person who actually could return that painting back to her does matter, doesn't it? It would be soooo momentous for her. She'd probably finally agree to grant sexual favors to me, if that did happen. After so many years of ineffective persuasion. Sooo, do you think I would bother to hand it to you, just so you could have all the credit?"

"No. No, you won't." Sachiko reluctantly agreed.

"You probably don't know, but here goes anyway: your husband took great measures to acquire that painting. It took a lot of effort to stop himself from burning it all the way. It took him his sanity to watch you suffer as you watch a fake replica of that burned into ashes. Haven't I told you before? That isn't fake."

She remembered Ryu and Kashiwagi-san—"Why . . . how did you know about . . . ?"

"Anyway, I won't speak for his defence; this was his plan anyway, but nobody knows that. He just wanted to give that thing to you." She sat on the lone chair nearest to Sachiko. But she knew Sachiko wouldn't even dare to touch her. "He knew how much you wanted that, right? He knew that you wanted to find that to reconcile with Yumi. He took great lengths to fulfil what you wanted all your life. Goodness, everyone is looking for it, thought it was stolen."

Sei, for the first time, looked at Sachiko without remorse, without her hatred. She looked like the Sei that she was so many years ago. The untainted Sei. It appeared that she was almost consoling her.

"But here it is, found by the first person who wanted it burned."

Touma Ryu wanted it burned.

"Why are you speaking for him? Why . . . ?" Sachiko asked, after an eternity of heavy quiet. "Where's Ryu? I have to thank him and tell him properly about . . ."

They were both looking at the blanket-covered belly that Sachiko had been smoothing ever since they stopped bickering.

Sei said softly, "Didn't you know? Even this decision of giving you that painting was hard for him. He thought that once you have it, you'd be leaving."

"What . . . ? Why would he think that?"

She stood up, and touched her head lightly, without ruffling her hair. Just like any loving sempai, just like Youko-sama's hand, hers was warm, loving, securing. They were not supposed to have this moment to tenderness and weakness, but Sei was giving this. They were supposed to be enemies for Yumi's favor.

Sei said, "You two are so similar—both of you are pussies. It's almost painful for me to bear too much cowardice and stupid in this room."

Then, she walked away.

[AFTERMATH]

/ Yo, Pawn-san. /

"Yes?"

/ Took you a long time to answer my calls. You drugged me, you fucking shit, and you have the guts not to answer my calls promptly? That's insubordination, Pawn-san. /

"You are awfully rude for a person who wants favors. I am your employer."

/ No, Suguru-chan. You, owe, me. So listen, can you tell me who actually stole it? /

"I . . . I can't be the one to tell you."

/ Eh? What's the use of me being your . . . king if I couldn't even order you around? /

"That's—"

/Take me to Touma Ryu. Tell me where he is. /

"Yumi—"

/Tell me where he is. /

Beep!—Beep!—Beep!—Beep!

"How awful of you to hang up on me, Suguru."

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: Did you know that the file containing this chapter was almost corrupted? It's like losing a yellow, as people here in PH usually say. But… Is it just me, or the DocMan seemed to be faulty nowadays? I checked my documents and some of the spellings were changed when I checked the chapter after the day I published it. Argh. If it was me (but I think it was really me), then, I apologize for the glaring spelling and grammatical errors. I'll find time to fix them later.

Again, with Sachiko: am I doing the right thing for her?

Ah, the [PROLOGUE] here was actually ripped off from the [AFTERMATH] in Chapter 19. Those who guessed right who those two soeurs were before this chapter happened, I would gladly receive rotten tomatoes. XD