GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Eyes On Your Feet — II

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Heraclitus of Ephesus

Heraclitus followed after Pythagoras and completed the next element of the arche: fire.

He believed that it was the source of all things and the driving force behind all change. Everything in the world was in a constant state of flux; that, even the four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—underwent their own respective developments. But the most constant of them all was fire: present in a variety of forms, essential to the process of change and transformation—capable of altering and destroying the material world.

It was the most important element because it was the foundation of everything that existed. He also believed that fire had a special power of transformation because it was able to change things so drastically and so quickly. So, for Heraclitus, fire was the most important element because it was the foundation of all change and transformation in the universe.

Part of his philosophy was the idea of the unity of opposites. In this line of thought, the man did not encourage chaos, but rather change. He did not tell others to go against it—rather embrace it. Just like fire, life and the world around people underwent several different stages, and it lasted for years and years even after life died.

Similar to Pythagoras' ideas; the unity of opposites was a core principle of the universe. For Heraclitus, the world was governed by fire; and it was essential for people to understand their relationships, as well as understanding the world and being able to make sense of one's place within it. He believed that understanding the unity of opposites could help people to understand how the universe worked, and how they could find harmony within it.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

('It's there—is that it?'

'Look at it.'

'Doesn't look like much.'

'Does it even realise it's dead?')

('What's the tally, now?'

'Pushing…it'd be the third, in this century.'

'Annoying, I tell you.'

'They really need to deal with this.')

The whispers came to you, suddenly and forcefully, and your whole being twitched with agitation as they increased in volume. They were there, in every corner you hid in, and you could not seem to avoid them no matter what you did. Your head spun with their endurance, and soon, you found yourself with headaches when they appeared.

You covered your ears, you buried your head in your pillows and blankets, you sang as loud as you could, you distracted yourself with laughter. None of it worked. They taunted and tittered, murmurs akin to the crawl of an ant onto skin, or a strand of hair in your mouth. Their voices were there, only barely, like the torn-up remains of dead leaves scattering in the wind—but they never stopped. And as they came along, you developed a newfound sensitivity to noise.

Fuck. I'd need to remedy that soon.

('It shouldn't be long.'

'It likes the rain! Remember that last one?'

'This one won't be different from the others.'

'Dead things should stay dead.')

('What else is it interested in, do you think?'

'It looks so small. I want to eat it.'

'Gobble, gobble, gobble—'

'Shut it, both of you.')

Often and while in denial, you attempted to disregard them. There was no reason to heed to such things, even if their being there in itself bothered you—because, for most of the time, you had little idea of what even they spoke of. For most of the time, you could hardly even parse through what they said—because of how they blended into one strange monolith of chaos, because your ears could not follow the speed and vagueness of their passing.

Some words, though—the ones you could make out—they struck at you, because you gave them meaning. Had you not—had you dismissed the context behind their comments as a figment of your imagination, you would have howled yourself silly like the child you were.

But something was watching you.

You knew it, you did.

(Or perhaps that is what you would want to believe. Some things? Several more? Oh…who knows?)

Maybe I'm taking this out of nothing. Maybe it's really, honestly nothing at all—and this is just me freaking out over another trivial piece of bull…again.

('How young do you think this one was?'

'Guess we'll have to see.'

'What would—do you remember what the last one did?'

'The one over the sea?')

('I mean…it looks like her, somewhat.'

'Her? Hmm…no, it doesn't.'

'I don't really see it.'

'This one just seems a bit more—well. You know.')

Am I actually hearing this? Or is this a side-effect of my overthinking—that I've started creating this shit, because I need a sense of humour to cope? Ugh, fuck.

You pondered upon the notion for a few more weeks, yet failed to come to any notable conclusions. Perhaps this was your mind's way of coping—that it started compensating for your experience with bouts of lunacy. You would not discredit the thought, especially if it truly had been a result of your paranoia.

You would confirm that idea the following day, where, then, the whispers acted out in full capacity.

With complete comprehension on your end.

And then.

And then.

(But then.)

The whispers passed by you like the smell of burning materials, hot and heavy in the air. They permeated your senses in the same way the crowds ran across the streets, the way wires overhead caught fire, the way a raging heat ate through familiar copper and steel. Everything blurred into a monolith of chaos, and you stifled a cry with your hands. But, still, even then—

You—

You watched and listened to it all, paralysed.

('Look! Look! The one on the post!'

'Will the child make it, I wonder?'

'Is it the end? So soon? A bit too early for my tastes.'

'Where's the father?')

('Oh—now, that's five of them. The family over there—'

'Do you truly have nothing else to make fun of?'

'What else is there for us to even watch?'

'I'm bored.')

You sweated off your exhaustion as you evacuated the apartment building with your mother and brother, thinking of nothing and everything as the air was stolen from your lungs. You choked back a sob when black smoke filled up everything in sight—heart pounding in your chest as others dodged and screamed in the chaos. They whimpered and withered in the mania, flailing in their desperation while the world went up in flames.

(This moment, you think one day in the future, is where you realise the beginning of your undoing. One part…one of many.)

The whispers went along in varying states of jollity, and your vision clouded up in shades of red, pure red. You saw it all: in the dash of firetrucks, in the wailing of ambulance sirens, in the lace of a frantic old woman's dress, in the cheeks of those lying exhausted on the concrete floors, in all the melting wood and metal, in the gums of those who screeched their throats raw, in—

—in the streaks of blood that splattered on your face—

—in names and numbers flickering, fading, all of them falling to zero—

—in your own eyes, as you glimpsed your reflection in the window of a nearby shop.

('It's crying!'

'Dead people don't mourn. They're not allowed to, they can't.'

'So, why's it crying?'

'Who knows.')

('Oh, oh! The mother! Look at the mother!'

'Oh, dear.'

'Does the child see it, do you think?'

'It has to.')

"Mama." You croaked out, trembling as your hands clutched at the fabric of her shirt. A choked-off sound came from your throat.

Sachiko tightened her hold, doing the same with your brother beside her as he hiccupped. "Mama, it hurts."

The woman rested on a nearby wall, half-squatting against it as you laggardly took your surroundings in. You minded her stomach as you were jostled from your position. She joined a few other people there; families and friends alike, others neighbours and acquaintances—all undeniably kin in this moment of frenzy.

Light took a gasp of air and huddled close to the two of you, clutching at her skirts. Sachiko sighed, readjusting you on her hip.

"What hurts, Dawn?"

"My chest," you rubbed at the said spot, coughing, "and my hand. It hurts."

Before she could reply to that, though, a loud bang sounded in the distance. It jolted you.

The three of you watched, helpless, as your place of residence was swarmed by the authorities. There the firefighters went, shouting and hauling even as some other people made a grab for things they left behind. It was useless. The fire continued to rage with a ruthless sweep of the area; and it was indiscriminate, you knew, as you watched the sky become dotted with warm hues.

Reds, oranges, yellows—they all appeared the same. It did not stop, and you thought it ironic, how gentle the falling of dust and embers could be.

(Never has anything so soft in touch be so cruel in their kisses.)

You regarded the noise. There was no way to block it off. It simply was. Here, you had no pillow to bury your head in and mute out the world to, there came no laughter to muster up. There was only the sound of crackling debris, the shrill cries of the injured, the overwhelm of everything amalgamating into one horrible night.

('Oh, it's still alive.')

Alive, alive, alive. I'm here. You breathed. Gods above and below, I'm still here.

('I'm surprised it didn't burn with the rest of them.'

'You don't really see its…you know.'

'Which is exactly why I'm saying that.'

'Well, fine, you have a point.)

('The boy's about to topple over.'

'Eugh, I just saw some vomit on the sides.'

'Get away from me—'

'Move!')

Light was shaking badly. You swallowed, despite your throat being dry from fear. In an instant, you motioned to be let down, minding your own mother's state. Sachiko allowed you this, still overcome with shock herself. She sighed with a jittery exhale.

You shuffled over to your brother and took him into an embrace, initiating the move when he did not seem to protest it. He smelled like soot and sweat, with a bit of baby powder mixed in. Briefly, you mused on the notion if the white flakes you saw on his skin and clothes were not ash. You supposed it hardly mattered, now, when everything ended up smeared anyways.

Ugh. I probably look and smell like he does, too.

The boy reciprocated the hug.

"I-I…I saw them." He cried softly. You stared up into your brother's face, gaze sympathetic.

Gentle copper, your mind supplied, poor child.

He sniffled, rubbing at his eyes, and you held onto him tighter. "It looked so bad, I hate it—I saw old man Ichiro, he-he—he was—!"

Light sobbed, words inarticulate. You keened, throat clogging up again. Sachiko grunted from beside you, broken out of her stupor by her son's low weeping. She pulled the two of you close to her as the bustle continued.

('How sweet.'

'How sickening.'

'Sprinkle more ash on its head.'

'Give me some of that.')

('I wonder when it'll see the—'

'Shush! What if it hears you?!'

'Can it even—'

'Shush!')

Seconds later, your group was approached by a medical team. Of course, you accepted the help.

"You're pregnant, Madam," said one of the members to your mother, "and you have children with you."

"Of course." Sachiko replied a bit numbly, and her children followed her lead for first-aid.

Everything blurred after that.

(The heat distorts your sight.)

You did not pay attention.

(You really, truly, should have.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Sōichirō found the three of you nearly five hours later, when the fire had been put out and the damage and casualties were being accounted for.

The man hurried into the scene, hair dishevelled and uniform hastily put on. He was in quite the state of disarray, all trussed up and pale. The man rushed over as he caught sight of you in the back of an ambulance, sipping on a small box of cherry juice given by one of the responders.

"Oh, Dawn, fuck." His voice gave out. "You're here, sweet girl, oh, Dawn."

"Papa," you groaned as he pulled you in and your face smashed against his chest, "my juice."

('Oh, so the father wasn't there?'

'Where did you assume he was?'

'Thought he'd be with the thing.'

'How…fortunate.')

('I'm still surprised it hadn't gone down with the rest.'

'And what a shock, isn't it? The fire came from somewhere near their hovel, didn't it?'

'You sound so happy at its distress.'

'Can you see me smiling? How do you like it?')

He laughed wetly and only put his hand on your head, cradling you. You did not protest the action. His perfume—Gaultier, you saw, he and his wife used the same brand—was a familiar scent, warm and citrusy, lightly tickling your nose. Sōichirō then turned to see Light resting on one of the ambulance cots. The boy cried himself to sleep, and you did not know what else to do save to rock him in comfort when he did. Sachiko tried what she could, but it was still too early for him to truly comprehend what happened earlier. Your father sighed.

"Where's your mother, Dawn?" He asked as he walked around the cot. His hand ghosted over your brother's face, and he tucked a few of the boy's bangs aside, something tender in his eyes.

"There." You pointed to a nearby tent. You did not fail to see how your father's eyes drifted to the bandage wrapped around your hand. "With the neighbours. She's with the woman in blue. Her name's Miss Yumi, I think."

You paused to take another sip from your drink, feet swinging and forth as you did so. "She gave me juice!"

The man looked back to where you gestured at. There, Sachiko conversed in a subdued manner with one of your neighbours from the apartment, wringing her hands as they cast worried glances at the still-smoking buildings. She had yet to notice her husband arrive.

"Ah," he nodded, "okay."

Sōichirō looked torn for a second, as if he could not decide what to do next. He stood there, body unmoving and breathing harsh, until he pursed his lips and seemed to reassure himself with a thought. You wondered what it was that he had been thinking about. Your gaze flickered down to his hands, still on you and your brother, and he moved.

He let go of Light and kissed you on the forehead. You returned your father's gaze, wide-eyed.

"I'll go to them first, alright? Here. Aizawa."

The name made you perk up.

Aizawa?

"Sir!"

You did not notice the other person as your father approached earlier.

In the man's haste to see you, he blocked out your peripherals, and you had not thought to check if he arrived with anyone else. It seemed sensible, though; while you were not certain of what position he currently held in his department, you knew he stood well in the way of earning a promotion. That gave him some degree of seniority in the field. And he must have come a few hours late due to the ongoing investigation—if the police van near the middle of the road was any indication.

You shifted your attention to the other adult in your view. It was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, dressed in a light grey suit. Most notable of his appearance had not been the afro, rather his height. He stood tall, likely around five-foot-ten or five-foot-eleven, towering over your measly three-foot-one.

He regarded you with a mix of hesitance and curiosity.

"Oh, oh!" You chirped, smiling. "Are you Papa's friend?"

He blinked, then bowed. It must have been a comical sight, for such a man of his size to be bending for a child as small as you.

"Ah. Er, I suppose. Mister Yagami is my boss. Of sorts."

"'Kay! What's your name, Sir? I'm Dawn!"

"Aizawa Shuichi, at your service."

Oh, he's so young! That's honestly so cool, what the fuck?

"He's my co-worker, Dawn." Your father said. "Aizawa, is it alright if you looked over them for a moment? I'll be quick. Then we'll get to the team."

"Sure thing, Sir."

Sōichirō shot you a stern look. You kept smiling.

"Dawn, behave."

"'Kay, Papa."

Your father walked over to the other group of adults, and you watched as Aizawa placed himself by the side of your cot. He fidgeted with the edge of his suit jacket, lips pursed and avoiding eye contact. Pitying him, you jumped off the bed with a small grunt—careful, so as not to disturb Light with the jerking of the surface—and shuffled over to the small table stationed near the back of the ambulance.

The man with you took this all in stride, though monitored your movements. He kept silent as you set about with what you did, content to keep you in his own line of sight and nothing else.

"Here!"

You took another box of cherry juice from the table. It was one of the last left, the rest having been taken by the other survivors from the fire. Thankfully, the drink you held was still somewhat cold. You ran over to Aizawa and grabbed his hands, placing the box inside his larger palms.

"Miss Yumi said it helps with ner-vous-ness. Dunno what that is, but the juice tastes nice!"

He tilted his head, considering. "I…I don't—um. Well, uh—thank you?"

"Promise! It's sweet!"

('Sweet, it says.'

'I want one! Maybe even cherry wine!'

'Fool. You can't eat.'

'I still want one!')

('Cherry? Haven't had that in a while.'

'D'you think it's good?'

'Don't they…what's the word? Manufacture it? Won't it taste different?'

'Worth a shot, if ever.')

Truly, you did not take well to meeting new people. In the past, you struggled to present a good introduction to others, even if you knew you did fairly good at first impressions. You would feel more at ease if your father did not leave you alone, because then, at least, he could direct and mitigate the conversation.

But you had to make do.

So, when the man's brows scrunched up and his lips turned downward, you needed a way to keep your interaction going without betraying the fact that you had very little of the energy to do so.

"Oh, no!" You gasped dramatically. "D'you not like sweets? Mama says I eat too much konpeito, and it's bad. So, I gotta slow down. But some people can't do that! 'Cause their teeth and tummies can't have it!"

Aizawa nodded sagely, deciding to humour your attempt at friendliness. On his face sat a thoughtful expression, as if confirming what you said, and he put a hand on his chin. He crouched down to your level.

"Some people can't. I don't mind, but I don't really drink sweet stuff."

"Aww! Sorry!"

"It's fine, Miss Yagami."

"Jus' Dawn!"

The man paused in reluctance, but conceded to your request, sighing. He patted your head with his free hand and smiled.

"Dawn, then. Thank you very much for your offer, but I don't drink cherry." At seeing your crestfallen demeanour, he backtracked. "I'll give it to my brother, though. He likes these."

"Oh! A brother?" You asked in wonder. "Like Li-Li?"

"Rai-Rai?"

"Yeah, yeah! Rai-Rai-Li-Li!" You beamed and took Aizawa's hand, directing him back to the cot.

He understood in an instant, knowing you referred to your brother. "He's my elder brother! He's four! I'm two an' a half! He's taller than me! An' he calls me Dawn-Dawn!"

The man chuckled. His voice carried a fondness for his sibling, you were sure, and a part of you wanted to croon at the way he said it. It felt pure, carefree. Easy and unbothered, with a gleam in his eyes that conveyed a certain amusement—like a jest only he and his sibling knew. Did he see himself and his relative in you, you wondered.

"Well, my younger brother is sixteen. I'm twenty-one. He calls me Shu, for Shuichi, and I call him Mo-Mo, for Mamoru."

You giggled. Well, not at the names, but—

"You're old! Like Papa!"

('It thinks one-quarter of a century is old?'

'Do you think it even lived to that age?'

'What does a child know of old?'

'It barely even recognised—')

('Doesn't matter now.'

'Would it—?'

'Probably.'

'HA!')

At your declaration, Aizawa sputtered, indignant. It was hilarious, how immediate his mood shifted into something else.

Aha, the wonders of being seen as a kid. Seriously, though, you're not that old. But it's funny.

Before he could retort, your smile widened at seeing your parents approaching from behind him. You waved at them, and Aizawa craned his neck at the action. He stood up, sighing, cherry juice still in his hold.

"Sir, Missus Yagami."

Sachiko waved a hand at him, and here you noticed the minute trembling in her form. Something about her countenance betrayed fear. Odd, you thought, because it did not look as if she was even thinking of the fire. That conversation with the other neighbours must have had something else in it.

Similarly, Sōichirō held her close to his person—hands on her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around herself—his fingers whitening in their grip. Your mother did not seem to mind, or, more likely, did not even notice. You assumed your father did the same.

What the hell did they talk about?

"I made a friend! I'm friends with Papa's friend!" You spoke up, grinning, and raised your cherry juice in the air. The straw swirled in its hole. "Mister 'Zawa's brother likes cherry, like me!"

Sōichirō's lips twitched, and Sachiko let out a shaky breath. They seemed to ease up, though, even by just a fraction, and satisfaction coursed through you when it happened. Gone was the weight, though it was quickly replaced again—this time by the weight of urgency.

"I'm sure Mamoru would…appreciate the comparison." Your father knelt before you, taking your hands in his and squeezing them. Aizawa snorted. Oho, you sensed something there. "Dawn, I have to take Aizawa away for a moment."

"Oh. Okay!" You nodded, turning to the said man. "It's for police stuff, right? The…the fire?"

The junior police officer gave you an affirmative nod. "Yes. Your father and I are investigating it right now."

"Then, I won't stop you! I hope your in-ves-ti-ga-tion goes well, Papa, Mister 'Zawa!"

Sōichirō smiled, patted your head, and stood up. "Take care of your brother for me, will you, Little Red?"

Little Red, my ass, but that's so sweet.

"'Kay, Papa! Promise!"

Sachiko laughed again, and went over to you, taking your hand. She bid her husband and his colleague a short farewell. The two men left, chatting away about one piece of evidence or the other. They conversed with more police officers in the area, the ones who manned the streets, and ambled off to meet with the medical responders.

You watched them all with a heavy feeling in your gut. The numbers over their heads flickered dangerously, shifting up and down in a rapid switching—like they could not decide what to be, like they would not settle for anything at all.

Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down.

You shivered.

('Ha! I think it sees them!'

'But would it know about—?'

'It's starting to know.'

'Oh, how exciting.')

('What's the hit count, now?'

'On it being like the one from—?'

'Pushing a hundred, if you include the ones looking for it.'

'Would the others in the area join in, do you think?')

"Let's go, Dawn-Dawn." Your mother smiled down at you.

They're gonna be fine. They have to be.

When you turned, however, you nearly cursed out loud upon seeing the numbers atop the woman's head. And so; an uncomfortable heat passed over you, threatening to suffocate and subdue.

It came to you in a sudden force of reality, and for a few moments, you could do nothing but to stare as the gravity of the situation settled onto your shoulders in that post-disaster daze. You stood there, feet rooted to one spot, as her lifespan fell down.

(As they tick, the sensation of mud and scum crawls onto your skin—a wet and slimy mess that leaves you shivering and shuddering in disgust—and you feel like you are falling into a black hole, into a well of nothingness.)

(The whispers are laughing.)

The cherry juice warmed like bile in your throat.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Heraclitus described how perception changed one thing's purpose.

Social harmony, he reasoned, was vital to living. And in order to achieve this, one must learn how to function as a person before they interact with others. The only thing permanent was change; everything changed but change itself. In this regard, he quoted, the individual must adapt to how life became and use it for the better. Everything flowed and nothing remained the same; as the philosopher said, a person could not step twice into the same river, for other waters and yet others go flowing ever on.

All things were in a constant flux, and so too must man know how to traverse that continuity.

This argument appealed to the logos as well: the logos was true, but people lived by their own understanding—by their opinions—and there was a difference between an individual's perceptions and with what was objectively truth—implying that no matter how one were to look at the world, there would always be a dichotomy in the way people thought and experienced life.

So, they ought to embrace change. They ought to embrace the world as it came to be, no matter what might have come to pass.

Fire was the orchestra conductor of all things, because the world was in a permanent state of change. Conflict between the opposites became the permanent state of things. Fire was the symbol of it: fire destroyed and rekindled, and where something perished, something else also emerged.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The fire consumed five buildings on the block. No one knew the source of it, but so far, the police suspected arson. Sōichirō himself was the one to tell your mother this, while you verged on the edge of sleep by her side. Her grip tightened and you jolted in surprise, alerting her to your state, and you yawned as she then shook your brother awake.

"Come on, kids," your mother muttered, sighing and groaning when she collected her bearings, "we'll have to move."

You ignored all of it, instead choosing to focus on the numbers swirling in red. They were all stable, now, compared to when you had been rushing out of the apartment building. All the people around you, they celebrated amidst their sorrow as an official police statement announced the temporary housing for those caught in the tragedy.

It's…good to see these people alive. Distressed and traumatised, but alive.

You wondered when the grief would settle in.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You were born in summer.

An April babe, Sachiko murmured as she brushed your hair. It pleased you to know that your birthdate had not changed, save for the year in which it happened. In this, you smiled, you had something from the past to call truly yours. It comforted you more than you wanted to admit.

(Fire, fire, fire. Red, red, red.)

(You recall a blinding whiteness when you hit the waters. The pain stings, but then relief comes with the chill. And then, you gag.)

Sixth of April, in the year nineteen-eighty-seven, at exactly four forty-four in the morning—a few seconds before dawn broke.

How fitting. How incredibly pleasing. And weirdly amusing.

Previously, you had not bothered to learn when you had been born. It was with distaste that you even considered the notion, still unwilling to think much about what changed—if anything did at all—and you went back to babbling and cuddling with Light. In your first three-hundred-sixty-five days, you let it all pass by you in a haze. You did not want to think of your grief, then; but now, you were simply glad something remained constant.

Your third birthday was close. Distantly, you wondered what you wanted to have as a present.

On your last celebration, last year, the four of you went out to an amusement park.

It had been quite the event to experience; going on various rides and picking so much candy. Sachiko shook her head in exasperation when your father agreed to purchase three packs of sweets. Light had butted into the conversation, telling the man about your sloppy katakana—and so, you bargained extra study time in exchange for four packs instead. That man could never resist against his own daughter for long.

Currently, you were staying at a hotel while your parents went house-hunting. They made that decision last night. Your family could have stayed with your grandparents, but when you brought it up as a suggestion over dinner—that perhaps you could even meet them for your birthday, Sōichirō had shuttered himself off with a hesitant expression.

Oh, dear, you thought then, something's up.

Light shifted in his sleep from beside you.

"Summer, summer, summertime," you sang quietly as you leaned on the headboard of the hotel bed, closing your eyes, "and the livin's easy. Bradley's on the microphone with Ras M.G."

You wrapped your arms around him.

"And all the people at the dance would agree that we're well-qualified to represent the L.B.C.—me, me and Louie, we're gonna run to the party, and dance 'til—"

You stopped your singing when the door to the hotel room clicked. Your head shot up, and so you hummed instead, continuing with the tune of that song yet to exist. The boy was curled up in the blanket, face buried into your side as you continued to get lost in your head.

Sachiko and Sōichirō walked back into the bedroom. They carried two paper bags of freebies—from the hotel staff, you assumed—and upon their entrance, you questioned them how long you were going to stay in the hotel for.

Your mother tiredly replied with, "A week."

"Oh." You tilted your head, then nodded. "'Kay, Mama."

"What's that song, Dawn-Dawn?" Sōichirō yawned as he set down the bags by the counter. "It sounds nice."

"Dunno. Jus' heard it somewhere."

"Would you sing it again?" He went over to arrange the materials they came with, bending by the mini-refrigerator to put several bottles of water inside. "You have a lovely voice, Little Red."

You giggled. "Silly Papa! I dunno the words. I just heard it from outside."

"But you were doing fine, dear." Sachiko smiled as she sat on the edge of the bed. You turned to her with wide eyes. She lightly pinched your nose, and you playfully pretended to bite her knuckles. "I was wondering who was singing from down the hall."

Am I really that loud? Or are the walls here really that thin?

"You heard me? From outside? Oops."

(You are born in summer, just as you had been before, and the first thing to come to your lips is a song that reminds you of it. Notes that taste like a cold drink at a bar, or perhaps a child laughing by the shore; they linger, and it is like a gust of wind at night.)

(You die in summer, trapped because of a fire—until you fall into water, under the heat of high noon. Hot, searing, and so very bright.)

It struck you then that your parents might have heard you mouthing the words in English, a language that you should not have known—so, you excused it as something you heard in passing, from a foreigner on the streets or so. The thought speedily passed by you, and when they asked you to sing once more, you ensured you intoned the lyrics with a few jumbles.

It did not matter. They loved it, anyways; Sachiko in particular complimented how smooth the melody sounded from your throat.

"Rai-Rai's been messing with your old sports equipment, dear," your mother said to your father once you had been tucked into bed, after, "maybe we could have some music lessons for Dawn. My sister would've loved seeing her like this, I know it."

"Maybe." Sōichirō smiled at his wife. "Let's look into it after we get the house."

"Singing and piano!"

He laughed, the bass in his voice reverberating around the space of the room. "And guitar, and violin."

Adorable, and here, you ignored the sudden itching in your throat, as well as the tears that clouded your vision, I want it to last. Please, let it last.

The thought of the future inspired uneasiness within you. You wanted to address the problem, only you did not know where to begin—not even a clue as to what questions you first needed to ask. It was awfully absurd, you knew, because the moment you vocalised it, you feared that you might just bring that possibility into fruition.

Sachiko was not supposed to die, and neither had she done anything to deserve that. Even if you found hints of another person in the woman, it did not equate to the desire for her punishment. Your mother was never even meant to die, in the original narrative. She ended up as a housewife, but that signified little in terms of danger.

Safe, Sachiko was safe; she had not gone anywhere, and because of her overall passivity, the woman stayed untouched by the larger horrors of the world.

(Not like her husband, her son, or even her daughter. Echoed to her is the pain of their losses and experiences, but she stays safe.

Ignorant, more like, your mind snorts, or some degree of it.)

You curled up underneath the covers, and in a breath, you turned away from the awful neediness arising in your heart. In a sudden bout of melancholia, it began stomping around, throwing a fit of pettiness.

Unfair, it hollered, much like a child being denied their playtime and their favourite food, I want it, I want it, I want it! Why can't I have it?!

Why was it that her numbers refused to budge?

She'd been alright. Even with her condition, before, she's never had to face a problem like this. Why start now?

You squirmed underneath the thick blanket and gritted your teeth, pretending to calm an itch when your parents glanced at you. They shrugged it off.

You saw those numbers from the fire. Everyone else's had been shifting, too. Your father's and Aizawa's had done the same. And yet, they all came back—or at least, most of them. It told you one thing: the lifespans changed every once in a while, with every action that a person undertook. That should have been fine, then—because it meant that there was a chance for change.

I can do something. I have to. I can—

I—

What can I even do?

Those people got caught in the fire, and even if they did not choose to do so—they were still in there, and that affected their numbers. The same applied to Sōichirō and Aizawa. The investigation escalated into a case of serial arson, with other related incidents cropping up in other wards in Tokyo; and as the two men participated in the authorities' actions, their own numbers fluctuated.

But all of them—some of your neighbours, some of the other strangers you encountered on the streets, your father and his friend—they were still fine. At the end of the day, they returned, hale and whole, and they did not disappear into the assemblage of burnt bodies being discovered with every passing week.

(They remained, despite it all.)

A technicality, but I'll take it.

So, why was it that Sachiko—whose laugh you listened to like music in the womb, whose perfume reminded you of flowers you once loved, who kept pushing you to do better even when you tired of her urging—whose numbers had been stable and untouched only a few weeks ago—

Why aren't Mama's numbers moving? It doesn't make sense. She was fine before the fire. She was fine. She was fine. What the hell is changing and why is it doing so?

(This is not a technicality. This has something to do with the bigger part of the world.)

(Evil, I've come to tell you that she's evil. Most definitely.)

You softly hummed the rest of the song with downcast eyes, unable to look much at anything else. With a dawning fright, you realised this was the toll; it arrived and you cared little to notice it in the beginning.

You were too focused on minding your own happiness, and that had been your mistake.

(Evil—ornery, scandalous, and evil. Most definitely.)

Now, you must pay.

(It ends in summer.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The woman with the blue kimono did not return for a while. You hoped she would not.

You hoped wrong.

(Because, the moment you see the blue silk of her robe, the change already occurs.)

You encountered her again when Sōichirō took you along as he shopped for new baby bottles for the newly-named Sayu. Previously, Sachiko decided on that as you ate lunch in the hotel room, and your brother smiled when he heard it.

"What does it mean, Mom?" He asked, delighted and wanting to know the kanji. "Sa and Yu? Or just Sayu?"

"The first one, Rai-Rai. The characters mean adornment and abundance. We were planning to name her something similar to you and Dawn-Dawn, but your grandmother insisted on something simpler this time. Something actually Japanese." She laughed a bit at the last sentence.

"Simpler?" You tilted your head. "Why? What was the first name?"

"Yagami Hope. It's a pretty one, isn't it? Light, Dawn, and Hope. You could've been a set." Your mother sighed. "Well, I suppose we still have it. Your Papa's Sōichirō, I'm Sachiko, and now we have Sayu. You and Rai-Rai would be the pair."

Hope.

The desire or expectation of something desirable or good happening in the future; holding onto a dream, a goal, a desire—despite the possibility of a happier ending failing to materialise. Without something like it, the world would be a bleak place. A vital force in life, and without it, the joy of living and the will to struggle on through hardships became greatly diminished.

You curled your lip at that name, now.

(Hope is a delusion.)

(The whispers make taunting cries of the word. They speak in a strange dialogue, and although you cannot see them, you get an impression that they are mimicking some sort of memory from history.)

Little hope, brighter light, better dawn, you rocked back and forth on your feet as you stood beside your father, inspecting the items in his hold, dimming faith, seeping darkness, sunset.

I want to dream.

"That one, Papa, on the right."

"Sure thing, Dawn."

('Oh—!'

'Make way! Move! Now!'

'We are not worthy, we should not—'

'I can't, oh, I can't—is it really her?')

('My Lady.'

'Shh, let her pass.'

'Move aside, you dolt.'

'It's an honour.')

You stiffened when the whispers began doubling in sonority. They reverberated around you, circling the expanse of the department store, and you could not hope to pinpoint an exact source. The voices all cheered in chorus.

My Lady, my Lady, my Lady—they all said it with reverence; and you closed your eyes as that ghastly—and yet familiar—sensation neared.

You clung onto your father's legs, leaning against his thigh as an act of comfort. He responded with a hand to your head, chuckling in fondness while he browsed the shelves in front of you.

"Which of these do you think your sister will like, Dawn-Dawn?" You felt him fiddle with a lock of your hair. "Red or violet?"

"Vio-let, Papa."

He hummed.

The woman was right behind you, you knew. You refused to open your eyes. But even still, the whispers only grew louder, and it was all you could do not to fall down right where you stood as they giggled and circled you. Your hands clenched into the fabric of Sōichirō's pants, and your breathing quickened into quiet little gasps.

"Dawn?" His voice was a distant thing.

"I'm fine, Papa," you mumbled, "I'll be fine. Jus' a bit dizzy, 's all."

('She's here. She really is here.'

'The little thing doesn't even realise this kind of honour—'

'When was the last time one of them came down?'

'None even considered it for the previous ones.')

('Would it mourn the life it left behind?'

'They would not allow it to mourn.'

'You've said that before. But what about…her?'

'Dead people should only stay dead. They do not mourn.')

Dead people did not mourn, because they could not.

Because they should have stayed as corpses, as all that passed came to be, and only that. Unfeeling, unseeing, unalive; without perception, without thought, without anything more to realise what else happened around them. And perhaps because, for most of the time, they chased the past—what they could never again relive; and mourning had always been meant as an act of closure.

You got neither.

(You are the aberration in this story, the being of chaos that cannot cope with itself. The world shifted during your birth, and now you must face the change.)

Hope.

(It rises and falls in your chest, an instability that you dearly loathed, a daydream you find yourself—more often than not—humouring. But that is all it can be—a fantasy, and nothing more. A singular wish in a sea of so many more ambitious and fulfilled desires.)

The presence drew away, and you breathed.

"Come on, Papa." You opened your eyes and flinched as the light flickered into view, then beamed at your father. "Baby Sayu needs clothes too!"

He laughed. "Okay, okay. Calm down, Little Red."

Hope.

(It tears through you, savage and without direction.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

In the end, the choice was taken from you. If you acted earlier, or if you had done anything at all, maybe you could have gotten an extension of time with Sachiko.

But you did not.

You sat and you waited, eyes wide as her numbers went down with every passing day.

"Baby Sayu, Baby Sayu, Baby Sayu," you giggled as you snatched some old newspapers from the magazine stand in the hotel room, "Baby Hope, Baby Hope, Baby Hope."

Light gave you a queer look from where he sat on the bed. The boy was parsing through some car catalogue or so, appealed by their descriptions on the page. Your mother handed it to him when he grew bored of watching the old samurai movies on the television. She went to take a nap after, and you jumped off the mattress when she did so, wanting to get entertainment of your own when the last one had been turned off.

You rolled up the paper into a long tube and pretended it was a horn, bellowing like the warriors on screen.

"Shh!" Your brother glared, eyes darting to the slumbering woman.

"Boo. Bwah!" Then, you branded the item like a sword, and copied the motion you saw the actor do earlier. "This is where you both die! I'm afraid I can't offer you any rites."

"Dawn!"

A swish with the makeshift sword here, a kick there, and you imagined a shoji screen breaking down and falling upon a group of men. The motions gave you a rush of adrenaline, and you posed, frowning with the same severity the lead character had as he slaughtered his enemies.

"Huh, take that, and that, and that—a-hah!"

Kill the enemy, kill what you hate, kill it all with the pain in your heart. That's pretty fucking edgy. And ha! The blade sheathes itself in their stomachs.

"Dawn!"

(Summertime—your mind sings—and the livin's easy.)

(Thief, thief, thief. Look at what you did.)

The fires of change lapped at your skin, and you could do nothing but watch as the smoke curled up around you, as the last of what was comfortable melted off and vapourised—like sweat underneath a burning sun, like a fainting spell in humidity.

"And ho! And huh! This is for Baby Sayu!" You swung the paper around, breaking out into helpless laughter when you turned and accidentally hit Light in the arm.

"And that," he deadpanned, swiping away the newspaper from your grasp, "is for me."

"Bah! Fun-sucker."

"You'll wake Mom."

The two of you faced her, and you snorted when you saw that she was still passed out on the bed.

"Dawn, shut up."

You slapped him in the arm again, this time, for good measure.

"I didn't even say anything!"

(You ignore the numbers ticking down.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Is this how I die, now? What a shame." Heraclitus groused as the pain of his infliction spread throughout the last untouched parts of his being.

Back and forth and up and down, like a fluctuation that never settled, or a war drum calling from a distance, his heartbeat pounded within every inch of his flesh. The swelling only worsened as the time passed, and soon even his arms would not budge. He laid there, in the middle of the field, still as the statues of the gods he and his country-fellows worshipped; groaning as the last of his strength left him.

It felt much like the fire he so loved to speak of, he mused—an agony that set his body aflame, a trouble brought by his own blood and psyche—and this time, for his sense of closure, he was going to sleep in a pile of wet shit.

Perhaps a thunderbolt could set his corpse alight, after.

"I have never been more alive than while under the pain of death." He laughed, wheezing, though it turned into a hacking cough at the end. "Fire is in my skin."

Heraclitus closed his eyes and smiled, heart bitter and body bloated.

A beastly growling was the last thing he heard, a mere second before his final breath escaped him, and once and for all, he succumbed to the light behind his eyes.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(The biggest change is you.)

(You are your own reckoning.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I just got reminded that seasons between countries (or, perhaps, parts of a continent) are different, and so, wanted to clarify a small thing. Dawn (or, well, the self-insert) came from a place where April was part of summer. I know April in Japan is spring, but she's going to be making a lot of mistakes :P/p

Initially, I thought about including this detail inside the chapter text itself, as perhaps a note of reprimand (where Sachiko's teaching the kids about the seasons, then Dawn slips up, and Light giggles at her error)—but then forgot about that idea as I showered; and so, here we are.

Also, Dawn was reenacting two scenes from Hunter in the Dark, released in 1979. It's a samurai movie I kept seeing on one of the old channels on my grandfather's television as a child.

⸺

FACT OF THE DAY: According to ancient accounts, Heraclitus dies by dropsy, or edema, as it's known in the modern time. Apparently, he covered himself in cow shit too, as it was supposed to relieve him of the fluids in his body. Anyways, poor man, he still died.