GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Hand in the Sky — III

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Anaximenes of Miletus

Anaximenes was the third and last of the Milesian school of philosophy.

When he followed after Anaximander, he rejected the ideas of the two who came before him. In contrast to Thales, he disagreed with the fundamental material principle of reality. He claimed that it was absurd to assert that something that was dry—that was, something that was not water—must be explained in terms of water.

He also diverged from Anaximander's conclusion of the apeiron; that, if he supposed such a thing, then infinity must have been meant to exist beyond human comprehension. And so, he rejected the 'boundless', because it was unperceivable.

However, he suggested a different element for the idea of the arche: air. It was in the human's very soul, and their very being. Everything was made up of something definable and material, and yet divine. His metaphysical reasoning stated that, just as souls—air—held people together, so breath and air surrounded the whole cosmos.

Air was god; one could define the arche, but they could never grasp what it was.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You would not deny that you revelled in the security you had, right now. Though most of your days were hindered by the lack of eventualities in life—that nothing at all seemed to be happening, that all you truly needed to worry about at the moment was being a child—you could almost consider yourself content.

The joy of being with your new family kept the bouts of melancholia at bay. Your parents, Sachiko especially, became overbearing in the weeks that passed. She fussed over you more than your father ever did, doing that strange little check-up with even more frequency than he had. Sometimes, when her gaze lingered a bit too long on your face, you returned it with confusion and fascination.

Beautiful, she would whisper with a near-reverent tone while stroking your cheeks, different.

I have no idea what you're talking about. You would then muse.

(Every time she presses her face close to yours and gives you little eskimo kisses, you wish you could see your own reflection in her eyes.)

Other than that, you supposed most other things both adults elicited feelings of positivity in you. They were certainly more…attentive, than you expected them being, more hawk-eyed than what you normally considered. Nevertheless, though, you basked in their affections.

That they gave it so freely was a concept so foreign to you; expected if for the fact they made it clear that they loved their children, but so very unusual to you if for that you were unused to it. Though it might have been the matured side of you speaking—the one with the rationality to comprehend things as they were. It did not stop you from soaking up every bit of their joy, in wonder as you had been with it.

It became easier, then, to nudge away the thoughts of your past life—even if they came back with full force in sleep, you had to admit that there was a certain release in pretending that everything was alright, for now.

(There is space to simply be, just as you are, with no fear of consequence from outside influence.)

(A gap in infinity.)

(It is a fresh breath of air—and even if you run out of it in the future, you could at least claim the triumph of enjoying a momentary reprieve.)

Such elation, while it had not been…non-existent, before, it became scarce to you. Slowly, eventually, the people from before withdrew their fondness—and you supposed it was why you took so well to the ones with you now.

And so, whenever your new parents interacted with you and your brother in such a manner that made your instincts swell with childish delight, you accepted it as they gave it—because, even if sometimes they did so with tiredness in their eyes (keeping up with children will never not be demanding, you knew), it stood to fact that they continued with it.

And you—you have always been a greedy child.

(There is a sound that wants to escape your throat, something between mocking laughter and a deprecating scoff.)

You would not deny that much.

("You filthy fucking thief.")

(You will not—cannot—even deny that much.)

Sometimes, as you laid between the arms of your mother and father, right beside the warmth of your brother, you pondered how long you could last with this façade. Sometimes, you stared off into nothing, thinking of what you could or would do when everything came to pass. Sometimes, you lowered your eyes when you recalled the reason why you did it at all.

Perhaps because you knew, even if things were still to happen years from now, the ones happening now would not last forever.

(Perhaps because you are a coward, and this is the most that you can do—right now—to savour it.)

But that's a problem for future-me, you sighed as you snuggled into Light's embrace, shifting around to make yourself comfortable in the shared bed and grunting when Sōichirō moved behind you, I'm going to regret this.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

It was not until around the ninth or tenth month that you actively made an effort to speak. Or, well, to make any comprehensible vocal noises in front of anyone, honestly.

After returning from the hospital, all those weeks ago, your family settled into a new routine. It was still slow-going. In that span of time, you learned that both your parents took leave from their jobs, due to your birth. Apparently, Sachiko encountered several issues during her pregnancy—not the least of which included some heart-related disease. A result of faulty genetics, and her own stress.

When you managed to piece this information together, doing your best to comprehend the characters written on the papers your parents left scattered on the coffee table, you had to pause for a moment.

Did she ever encounter this in canon? Once, you looked at her with eyes lowered in guilt. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.

And so, in an attempt to pass the time and your own worry, you decided to make progress with your physicality. You started sitting and crawling perhaps two months after the hospital visit, then babbling in full two weeks after that. Sōichirō already knew you could pick up on your environment quickly enough—("They're both so quick," Sachiko said, in pure amazement)—so, it did not come off as much of a surprise when you applied yourself more.

Previously, your parents were alarmed, you knew. After your little revelation in your mother's hospital room, along with your brief confusion with the disappearing cat, you had not made a single sound in the following days in a fit of sheer pettiness. It was likely that your father told your mother that you had been a relatively happy and easy babe—that you barely even cried or complained, unless you required getting yourself fed or changed, or if you signalled about something that did not fit within your frame of comfort.

And so, it became odd—worrying—that you fell quiet all of a sudden.

Often, the man frowned when he remembered this. He was the one most subject to your silent tantrums, of course; he was the one most familiar with how you acted. It did not ease the anxiety, visible on his face, so, you decided to take matters into your own prerogative before he or his wife fully questioned your silence.

It had been when you assumed to be left alone, or, at least, when no one was paying attention to you—in the kitchen of the apartment, seated atop your high chair, with a view of the city below—that you indulged in the whim to practise speaking, intent on getting certain letters right before you declared yourself confident to talk to others.

You tried singing a song from your old life.

"Do, mi, ti," you tested out the syllables, "why—"

Embarrassed at the voice crack, you huffed.

In slight frustration, you bit your teething ring, immediately satisfied when the rubber scratched a part of your gums just right. The childish part of you enjoyed it as you swung the toy around while it was still in your mouth, much like the dogs you had once seen on television shows do. For a few seconds, nothing else happened, until finally you gave up on the filthied device and made another attempt at singing.

"Do, mi, ti, why…yah,"

Your tongue still would not move as you wanted it to, as if weighed down by some invisible force—and all that came out of your mouth was a series of giggly, watery babbles. You groaned.

"Do, mi, ti, why…mi,"

A grunt from behind the kitchen counter had you ceasing your attempts. Bewildered, you turned to see your brother—crouching, and badly hidden behind a stool. He gasped when you faced him, immediately stumbling and shielding himself from your view. A part of his head was still seen near the legs of the chair, you noticed. Unable to help yourself, you giggled.

"Mom, Dad! Listen! She sings!" Light's voice was in a toddler-slurred, rushed whisper.

You sighed softly.

In response to his declaration, the two adults' attention had been shifted. Previously, they had been on the other side of the room, fixing the pots and pans in the kitchen. They paused in their conversation and made themselves quiet, even as they joined him in his position by the counters.

Light was already proving to be an extremely observant little thing, and so, any and all of his attentions were met with positive reinforcement. If he said that you were singing, then you must be, because why else would your brother have said so—and that was enough for Sachiko and Sōichirō to monitor you again.

You puffed your cheeks out.

Honestly, you thought.

"Do, mi, ti…do, mi, ti," you warbled, "why…mi—mi…do, mi…do, mi…"

Sōichirō was the first to break the silence. He laughed, the volume of his voice startling you. The man side-stepped to avoid hitting your brother and scooped you up from the high chair. This action made you scream in utter joy—and the part of you that remained a babe, the one that directed all your instincts, felt pleased as your father held you up in the air.

"Dawn-Dawn," he chuckled, "sweet girl."

(For a moment, you can breathe. Just as you are, you can smile.)

"Pa!" You shrieked, which made the man pause in his attempts to make you laugh. He stuttered, and looked at you with wide eyes.

"Pa! Pa!" You said again, whooping and wiggling in his hold. "Do, mi, ti…Papa!"

"Oh!" Sachiko gasped from her position by the counters.

Beside her, Light clapped his hands. "Dad! Dad! She's calling!"

Sōichirō laughed again, breathless. He picked Light up from where he laid on the floor and walked over to his wife, both children in his arms. You looked at your brother with a gummy grin, and he returned it. Another pair of arms wrapped around you. You twisted to see your mother with a soft smile on her face.

"They're perfect, dear." Sachiko murmured, cheeks red, eyes somewhat glazed. "Ours."

The man hummed. "Ours. Yours."

You reached up to lean your forehead against your father's, and he indulged it, drunk on the elation. Your form shook as you laughed.

(Tokyo sits bright outside the window, winter illuminating the atmosphere, and for a few seconds, you can breathe.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You came across your reflection in a mirror the next day, just after Sachiko bathed you. There you sat, by the sink, towel wrapped around your shivering form as you stared at the figure in front of you.

(Red, red, red.)

What a pretty child.

(The air stills, and then bites at your naked skin. The water drips from your hair, infinity blinks back at you, and then the sun shines from outside. They all sing in harmony.)

And so went the letters and numbers, swirling atop your heads.

(Foreboding slithers into your gut.)

You puked out your milk into the sink. At the sound of your gagging, Sachiko fretted about, making quick work to clean you again; and as she wiped your mouth, you made a small noise of discomfort. Whether it was to reassure yourself or as an apology for the mess you made, you did not know. Warmth enveloped everything as your mother took your shaking form into her arms, and you hiccupped with a silent cry. She rocked you, hushing and humming.

You leaned into her embrace, satisfied when she rubbed a hand onto your back.

(The dreams begin.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"The moon comes out—round, round, perfectly round—like a tray." Sachiko sang to your brother. She placed a card that held an outline of a kanji character on it, and you watched as the other child scrutinised the image, then compared it to something in the book he held.

"Moon?" He asked.

"Moon, dear—" your mother continued, "hidden clouds; black, black, coal black in clouds like India ink."

The toddler expressed his confusion. "But I'm Light! Rai-Rai!"

"And your name is spelt like moon."

"Huh? But why?"

"Because, Rai-Rai, the moon that came out again was round—round, perfectly round! The moon, like a tray."

"But Mom!" He whined. "I'm Light, not Moon!"

You were amused by this interaction, and you clapped as the boy continued to throw that small tantrum of his. As you did so, he glared at you. Sachiko laughed, and you grinned at the fact that you caused her that small joy.

"Moon! Moon!" You repeated, which caused him to make a sound of frustration. "Rai-Rai, moon!"

"No, Dawn! Light. Say it again." He demanded. "Light. Raito. Not moon."

You liked this—the childishness of it all, the ease in which you could be free with your stupidity. No one minded the shenanigans of a child; Sachiko and Sōichirō knew that the both of their children were freakishly advanced for their age, but at the end of the day, they still allowed you your innocence. A darling little pair of geniuses, they would crow, and at their praise, you and your brother preened.

(Perhaps for Light, it is all so rewarding…not so much for you.)

Your brother toddled over to where you sat, dragging his picture book with him. From beside the coffee table, your mother forced herself to quiet her snickers, but let the two of you have your moment.

On the page, Light pointed at an image of a sun, similar to the one you saw before; although, this time, instead of it being a simple collection of shapes and lines, it was a watercolour depiction of a scene. Three children played on the deck of a harbour. They ran around the platform, singing sea songs as the sun rose high in the sky. One of them waved around with a den den daiko, and the others pulled along a burnt orange kite that dragged on the ground.

"This is the sun—" Light traced a finger on the little yellow circle, "it makes light. That's me."

Then he looked at you. "It makes dawn. That's you."

Deciding to humour him, you went along with his actions.

"Rai-Rai, Light!" You chirped. "Dawn-Dawn, me!"

He beamed. "Yeah! Not moon."

You stepped on his moment. "Mama, Rai-Rai, moon!"

"No!"

"Moon-Moon!"

"No!"

He groaned, and your mother let out a noise of delight again. At this, the boy slumped, and you copied the motion.

Both of you laid on the floor. Light huffed, dramatic as ever, like someone told him the world was ending and he found it to be an inconvenience—and you giggled at his antics, as if more unminding of the destruction such an event would bring than anything else. He rolled over to his side and poked your cheek, frowning. You grabbed his hand.

"My name is Light."

"Rai-Rai-Li-Li!" You squealed.

He sighed. "Okay."

Sachiko then chose this moment to lie beside the both of you. She made herself comfortable by the couch, leaning on its frame. Her eyes held a warm glow, and you thought it made them look all the bit brighter. When she sat down, you caught a whiff of her scent—faint and flowery, like hibiscus, you assumed—and you shifted to face her. A strange feeling then made itself known in you—desperate, needy, hissy, loathing—as you looked up at the woman.

(Her face does not exactly overlap with another you know—not in the same way, at least—but still, you see the resemblance between them. In the crinkles of her eyes, in the love she gives, in the gentleness of her smile. Something in you wants to claw it down, to feel as her skin bundles up underneath the hard build of your once-long nails; for her image to melt, so you can have a momentary peace of mind.)

(Mother, your mind whispers, and you feel yourself burn with a certain resentment.

This one is different, you try to reason…but you do not exactly deny it.)

"Moon, moon," Sachiko sang again, and you giggled, joining in, "round, like a tray."

"Moon, moon, Rai-Rai," you continued the verse, humming, "Li-Li, moon!"

Light pouted at the both of you.

(And so everything shone, bright and happy; round, like a tray, amongst the clouds—a space for your own dance unto transience.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Anaximenes, unlike Thales or Anaximander, took the effort to explain how his chosen element related to being an arche and the process in which it happened. Thales never expounded on how water came to be—though, this was likely due to the fact that none of his original works survived—and Anaximander's theory on fishlike creatures had been deemed incomplete in terms of thought.

And so, while he learned from the ideas of his predecessors, Anaximenes rejected their conclusions.

One of his most famous concepts was the presence of the water cycle—or, at least, a version of it that suited his thinking, which had still been limited with the technologies of his time. The man made mention of such: air existed to be the arche because of the features it contained.

Condensation and rarefaction; where water came as it did due to vapours collecting together with the presence of humid temperatures, and where a gas lessened in density; these two developments made it possible for air to be seen as the driving force behind natural formation. With condensation came ice, solid chunks of water, something almost-earth; with evaporation came the winds. So, then, Anaximenes ruled that air must have been present in all things, and it was their density that made the difference in how much air was in them.

The arche then evolved to mean something that resided within things, not simply as a metaphysical concept that existed outside of them.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Gradatim, life continued along, and you made more progress with yourself. The cultural shift kicked you off with a disadvantage, along with the fact that you needed to relive this part of your childhood. It was not that you hated it in its entirety, but it stood to truth that the process of a second experience peeved you.

(There is something simmering underneath your skin, something that bubbles with the need to budge out the confines of your own body. It frets about, impatient and imminent; hoping to burst out at that very second, so that it can breathe. You remember the events that led up to your own death, and this feeling has everything to do with it. Your breathing slows into a quiet heave.)

It felt much like being a ghost, repeating motions you were already familiar with but could not quite get right—like an absence of reality where you still perceived it, and only the body of a babe forced you to comply. On most nights, when you could not bother yourself to cry from restless dreams of both the past and the abstract, you calmed yourself with the sound of your own breathing. If you focused hard enough, you could even pretend the memories never existed at all to begin with.

But the thoughts that came with them, the ones that leeched at the edges of your mind—incessant little roaches that never left—they stayed, they made their mark. They settled like dust, like mould, and made themselves known when you least needed them. And you loathed every bit of it.

Your hands twitched as your new family cared for you, so, you stilled them. It went on to be passed off as a developmental thing, that perhaps it was a part of the way you gained bodily coordination. Your fingers gripped onto your sippy cup handle too tight for a moment, so, you calmed when the plastic started to whiten with the force of it. In an attempt to control the budding urges, you toddled around with your walker and wheeled yourself across the floor, and for the barest of moments, you forgot about the tightness in your chest.

It did not go away entirely, and you doubted it would; it might worsen if you left it as it was. But for now, here, it became enough as you set it aside.

(You can breathe, you can breathe, you can breathe.)

(For now, for now, for now.)

It hardly made things any better, but you welcomed the distraction.

(The bubble of happiness chokes you, but you ignore it. The pressure blocks out all sound from your ears, but you ignore it. Your own fallacies could be blown over with only a whisper in your head, but you ignore it.)

Life went on for even longer, and you settled into a new routine. It felt wonderful, you thought in amusement; the way a child can view the world in such a light, from their position as someone so small in a place as vast as it was. Everything looked so big, so new, so much. To your adolescent mind, it was normal—boring, mundane, anticipated. But in the body you never thought you would inhabit ever again, it was…

Surreal, you grinned to yourself, unexpected.

Your parents doted on you just as much as they did your elder brother, though you could see some hints of favouritism peeking out here and there. You were the babe, so, obviously, you had the privilege of receiving more care and attention. It did not really affect Light, not with the way he focused on his own growth and development. He did not see it, or, at least, not yet—and you crooned at the fact that Sachiko and Sōichirō gave you this bit of ego.

Still, though, you could not help but compare it to some aspect of your past life; and you wondered if your own parents were ever like this back then, when you had truly been a child. From what you recalled of that life, you knew they never became as lenient the way this couple was with you, now. You did not feel sad over it, but such a notion still bit at you—to how you went about things, like you should be owed more, even if you acknowledged that you truly were not.

Your new family gave you more than you could have ever imagined, in this regard.

It was strange—jarring, especially when you came from an environment that bred ignorance and let unhealed wounds fester. You wanted to immortalise this—you wanted to keep it in a glass sphere where time never escaped and you could spend eternity in some ideal of peace; but still, you worried, because that was impossible, because you knew it would not last.

(Then, you forget how to breathe.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Up you go, sweet girl—" Sōichirō grunted as he picked you up from the ground and placed you into the stroller, "ah, you're getting heavy."

You laughed at his misfortune, patting his hand when he fixed you into place. His glasses were slightly askew, dropping on the edge of his nose, and his shirt became rumpled as he bent over to tuck you into your seat.

What an adorable man, you thought, thanks, Papa.

Right beside him, Sachiko did the same with your brother, who wiggled into the blanket in his stroller. It was during times like these that you remembered you were still a babe—small, needy, and so very fragile—and while you lost dignity at being handled in such a manner, you felt pleased at the coddling. Much like a cat.

(Your mind drifts back to the animal by the windowsill. In a breath, though, the notion is gone.)

As your parents walked you around, after the lapse of a few minutes, idly, you observed the world around you. You knew your brother had been doing the same, if his happy noises were any indication. Every once in a while, here and there, he would point something out that tickled his fancy—and both Sachiko and Sōichirō responded to his comments with their own humour—and you let it all pass over you, like radio music as you rested on a beach. The rocking of your carrier did much to add to the feeling.

"Mom, look! A crow! And another! And one more!"

"And what colour are they?"

"Black! And…blue? Dark blue! No, wait—black!"

"How many?"

"Oh, oh! Fou—five!"

Sōichirō laughed from his spot above you. You looked up, slowly tracing the outline of his figure; tall, bright, and proud—and you would have continued to scrutinise him, had you not been distracted by the characters moving around above.

[夜神 総一郎]

Fuck. No, no, no, no, no. Stop.

You refused to look any further than his name—something you did with a surprising amount of vehemence—pursed your lips with a bitter sigh, and stared on straight ahead.

(The red digits tease you.)

[夜神 幸子] [夜神 月]

As was the case with your mother and brother, so, you closed your eyes, opting to listen as best as you could instead. You did not want to see those things, you did not want to wake up and be greeted with the reminder of where exactly you had been reborn in. It was a stupid thing, you knew. To think that you might be able to avoid the idea of it, just because you could block out everything in your vision.

But, you did it anyway.

The travel glided by you, and you drifted off to the sound of your family's happiness.

As you dreamed, their faces bled into phantom images of horror and guilt.

(The mother is forlorn, looking into the distance, waiting for people that never come home. The father lies in a bed, ironically at peace even despite the tragedy that strikes. And the son—this little boy beside you, he…the son is a mockery of everything he once swears not to become. Dissonance, ignorance, arrogance; their roles went on repeat, and you stay rooted in one spot as the world burns, unable to do anything but watch while all you cherish crumbles before you.)

(Sōichirō looks into his son's eyes as the last of his breath leaves him; content, even when he knows he has not completed his duty, even when he passes another burden to the world. Sachiko falls to her knees when another team member knocks on the door, voice cracking as she glances back to her daughter—who sits by the window, head bowed, hands clutching at her arms. And Light…)

(One day, years in the future, you sit on the rooftop of a building the lead detective declares his headquarters. One day, you consider getting up and walking over to the edge—perhaps even past it. One day, you wonder if you will die like your father and brother. One day, the man you detest stops you once more, ridding you of the chance to find out; pushing you underneath him as if you cannot just as easily throw him off with a snarl.)

When you awoke, it was to a choked snort and the movement of being lifted out of your stroller. You blinked the sleep out of your eyes and grumbled out something unintelligible, sighing and leaning against your mother's chest.

On her other side, you saw your brother being fed ice cream. Vanilla, you assumed, in an adorable swirl and on top of a cone. Sōichirō, while he did not appear to be struggling with giving it to Light, seemed amusedly exasperated as he did so. The boy accepted it, every once in a while—though it was clear he would not be favouring it, should they have it again.

"Are you sure you don't want it, Rai-Rai?"

"Nuh-uh."

Boo. Vanilla's nice. Plain, but nice.

"Here, Dawn-Dawn," Sachiko prompted, manoeuvring you to have ease with her own ice cream cone, "say ah."

You giggled, and bit into the dessert as best as you could without smearing it over your face. Your mother smiled, and you clapped.

"Yum! Yum! I want!"

Sōichirō shook his head, grinning. "At least she likes it. We'll have to find another treat for Rai-Rai."

"I'm sure we'll come across something he'd want. We haven't passed by that new store near Pao's, have we?"

"Ah—the kid's shop? Kiki's Parade? Not yet. From what I know, though, they mostly sell stuffed toys."

"Let's go there, anyway—we could get Dawn some new things. Also, I saw some stalls outside. Maybe they have other food as well."

Shifting in the woman's hold, you moved forward to gesture at the treat in her hand. Upon noticing this, she held it near you, and you squealed as you devoured the rest of the confection. Your parents chuckled, and Light watched with wide eyes as you practically inhaled the ice cream. He gave the one in his father's hand an inquisitive look, and then copied your actions.

"More, Dad! Please?"

He made to grab at it as well, clearly seeing your enthusiasm as a challenge, and followed in eating the food. The chuckles around you turned into full-bellied laughter—and in a shared amusement such as this, you joined in.

(For a moment, the future disappears; it does not exist, and the sweetness of the interaction is all there is in your mind.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You wanted to call it an illusion of your ego—a way of denying your own mortality. A means of comfort, a method of coping.

(A way to breathe, without being shamed for it.)

(Though, in reality, you are your own worst critic.)

As your days of infancy danced by and you found yourself growing into a bigger body, you wondered if there was a price to all of it, if there ever existed a toll for the privilege of being reborn. A part of you acknowledged yourself fortunate that you possessed this second chance—but the darker side of it, the one that remained dormant even as you smiled and laughed with your new family, lied in wait for some sort of compromise in exchange for things.

(After all, is that not what some Eastern religions teach? Reincarnation is not only life once more. You need to struggle to deserve it, and later on, you need to prove yourself worthy of being granted freedom from this cycle. Dharma, karma, samsara, moksha. Duty, bound by law; rebirth, and the goal of release.)

You were, you thought, tapping into a very fundamental truth of life in the world. No matter what you did, you assumed you still had to be bound by something. The circumstances, the environments, the genetics, and perhaps even the physical body itself; you must be held captive by this world, especially with the narrative you once read about.

And you knew you could never have complete liberation, unless you escaped your own existence.

You had no desire to carry the burden of witnessing the names and the numbers. It should not be possible. Not on you, you thought—not today, not tonight, not ever. But still, they would have never gone away entirely, even if you tried. So, all the same, you made do with what you had.

(You need to breathe. Gods, it is becoming harder and harder everyday.)

Both of your parents resumed their jobs a week ago. You already had an inkling of what Sōichirō did, considering his own occupation in the story. What you did not expect, however, was Sachiko's employment as a teacher at a kindergarten. She and her husband alternated their work days, though you overheard them speaking about hiring a nanny, or perhaps calling in a relative to watch over you and your brother when they became unavailable.

Once, they sat down and discussed it over dinner. From what you could parse out through their words, they were also considering sending you both to daycare if necessary. However, as Sachiko was still recovering from her pregnancy—and here you surmised that your birth may have affected her more than you initially thought—they opted out of it for the moment.

Oh! I want to see more of this family. You smiled, at some point.

After all, in the series, audiences were not shown any other members of the Yagami household save for the three that Light interacted with—just Sōichirō, Sachiko, and Sayu.

And here, you paused in your line of thinking.

Sayu.

Sometimes, as you watched Light make progress with himself—talking, walking, reading, writing, and everything else, really—you wondered about her.

(A little girl holds your hand and stares up at you with tears in her eyes, unwilling to let go when you bring her to her classroom.)

You did not recall much about her character, save for the fact that she was your brother's little sister—coming to be, now, and would be yours too as well—and that she had been kidnapped during the later half of the narrative. Other than that, and perhaps the one scene where she playfully flirted with a police officer, you possessed little frames of reference as to how to even begin with her.

So, you decided to shelve that thought, for now.

(For longer than you think, than you even realise.)

(This is another mistake. Your complacency curses you into paralysis, and so, then, you must deal with the consequences.)

Though, perhaps you should have continued with it at an earlier date; because, before you knew it, a year had passed, and then two, and then three—and finally, you celebrated your first one-thousand-ninety-five days in this world, and you were forced to think about Yagami Sayu again.

The cycles continued; spring and summer came, and then the cold, and finally, the sun returned with a heat that reminded you of all that you have changed. It kissed your skin with finality, like ideas that withstood time and lived to establish themselves as lasting constants—and finally, the peace you knew met its end.

(You cannot breathe. You are not allowed to breathe. You should not even be breathing, you think to yourself, as the moon and the stars on your crib mobile spin. Round and round they went, swishing, like a tray; like the endless loop of questions plaguing your head.)

(The water returns and infinity takes its course; and eventually, the air around you runs from your lungs—and you are left gasping, fearing, heaving—)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The Milesian people were sailors and traders; with their land lying by the mouth of what became known as the Turkish Meander River. Thales caught a few children playing on the riverbank, and saw as the silts of the earth floated and then dissolved into water.

The Milesian people were dedicated to the Greek pantheon; with several versions of their founding legend being attributed to Miletos, one of the sons of Apollo. Anaximander paused in his walk on the harbour as a thought struck him, and looked up at the mid-noon sky.

The Milesian people were under Persian rule when the Ionian revolt failed; with their land and ships seized, their soldiers dead, and their women and children enslaved. Anaximenes stopped in his musings, and breathed in sharply as he watched them fall.

And then, Miletus was destroyed.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(You drown in an abyss, slowly, painfully, as the oxygen leaves your body.)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The song that Sachiko sings to Light near the beginning of the chapter is titled Tsuki, literally meaning moon. It's a Japanese folk song; I thought I could sneak it in considering the kanji for his name is the same as the character for the word.

Also, I took some creative liberties with the Milesian philosophers at the end. I don't actually know if they did do those things I wrote them doing—if the history I read about is fully accurate—but if the timelines do add up (especially with the unsuccessful Ionian revolt), then it should be fine. I just hope I'm not getting any of the facts wrong.

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FACT OF THE DAY: Much of pre-Socratic philosophy was cosmocentric (relating to nature and the origins of the world), asking the question—where did everything come from?