5
Time blissfully out of harm's reach
FIVE YEARS LATER
When time is all you have, it also becomes all you can think about. Ryoga spent an awful lot of time thinking about time, and the ways in which to visualize the concept of it.
Time could be seen as the extension of a line going ceaselessly forward. It never returned to where it used to be; it beat on in a steady forward march with no regard for the events of the past. Thinking of time in a linear sense also meant to consider time as cruel. It flew, devouring everything in its path. Time was a thief of youth. Time is precious. Time is money. Time waits for no one. Time is stolen, killed, and lost. Time cannot be stopped, or slowed down.
It was easy to despair at the relentless and unyielding passage of time. Ryoga had always been a pessimist, after all.
Lately, however, he found himself thinking of time more as a circle.
Time flitted back and forth like a loom weaving a tapestry of tales upon which one could look back on, to cherish and revere the past. Even though time went quickly, it also came back, just as a cold winter was followed by fresh spring, or the darkness of night was banished by the light of day.
Seeing time as a line wasn't entirely a bleak outlook, however. A linear view of the passage of time could also encourage creation and exploration. It instilled a strong desire to live life to its very fullest, for life was as equally fleeting, fickle, and precious as time.
In contrast, the circular view resulted in a sense of having time in abundance, and therefore the mentality that things ought to be enjoyed unhurriedly so as to truly savor them.
Time was in a constant contradiction of itself. Time waits for no one, but there is always tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes, so slow down and smell the roses. There were calendars to mark down important dates in the future to plan ahead for. And there were also diaries to record what had been done in the past to look back upon and reflect.
Ryoga thought more often of his past than his future. The future was a gaping maw of uncertainty, but the past was comforting and nostalgic. The present was soporific at best and gruelling at its worst.
But, after four years, Ryoga had managed to make the ongoing strenuous task of survival mostly hum-drum. He had it down to a science by this point.
That didn't mean he ever stopped trying to get home.
He had tried to build a raft once. He waited patiently for favorable winds and waves, and cast off. Though he had told himself a thousand times that staying put was his best chance, there was always a part of him that yearned to at least try to leave on his own terms.
He didn't make it past the reef. The tides shattered his raft into splinters, and he was knocked into the sea. His leg and stomach were both pierced by the jagged edges of the coral reef the waves buffeted him against, and Ryoga stained the sea red as he struggled to get himself back to shore.
Ryoga could have easily died that day. He came damn close, even after he managed to get back to shore. It wasn't easy to staunch the blood. It wasn't easy to keep up his strength. It wasn't easy to wake up between bouts of fever to dribble water past his lips. There had been many times he was certain he wouldn't make it to see the sunrise.
But he did.
Ryoga had been convinced of two things then. The first was that he was never going to try to get off the island by himself again. And the second was that he had survived the attempt because he was meant to live. He was going to get home, somehow.
That had been two years ago, but Ryoga's surety in that fact had yet to dwindle.
There were two great warriors. One was time, and the other was patience.
When time is all you have, you have no choice but to have patience. But, unlike time, patience is something that must be learned.
Ryoga had always been as impatient as he was a pessimist.
After six years stranded, Ryoga thought that he of all people would have succumbed to a deep and brutal kind of despair that even he couldn't fathom in his darkest nightmares. Maybe if he had continued to think of time as a line, he would have submitted and allowed himself to be pulled down into that grief. And yet, if he had only thought of time as a circle, he would have been stuck in the past and been no better off that way, either.
He couldn't think in either black or white anymore. Time was not just a line, and it was not just a circle. It was both, simultaneously. It was fleeting, and yet he also had more of it than he knew what to do with. It went on forever, and yet he could also feel it tick-tick-ticking away in his ears, an incessant reminder of its presence.
Time was different on the island. There was no society moving in fast-forward all around him, no commuters or cars or buses or trains. There was only the rising and setting of the sun, the push and pull of the tide, the changing of the winds. Growing fruit. Boiling water. Healing wounds.
It felt like he had been there for decades, and at the same time it was as though he had blinked and five more years had passed by before his eyes.
Time was a sculptor that had snatched Ryoga up and reshaped and transmogrified him.
He was in his early twenties now. A young man, no longer a teenaged boy. He had lost pretty much the entirety of the muscle mass he had accumulated during his years of training in martial arts. Ryoga had tried his best to maintain what he could of his physique, but what muscle had remained was covered in a thin layer of flesh which showed more sun damage and bone than anything else anymore.
His hair had grown slightly past his shoulders, so Ryoga had to repurpose his bandana to tie it back in a loose ponytail that rested against his neck. Several years ago he had started growing facial hair that wasn't just a few meager chin hairs like the ones that used to sprout in his early years of puberty.
Ryoga was thankful that he couldn't really get a good look at himself, except for a hazy reflection in the water. He would be turning twenty-four in two more months, but he looked twice that. There wasn't much use for vanity while in isolation, and Ryoga had come to accept the changes that time had shouldered him with. But he'd do just about anything for a hot shower, a clean shave, and a fresh cut.
He's not sure how in the hell Ranma managed long hair. It drove Ryoga nuts. And the beard was itchy.
It was October 23rd. Give or take. Probably.
Ryoga never stopped keeping track, but it was still a fairly loose guesstimation. Last month was the official six-year anniversary on the island. Not that he really gave much fanfare to the occasion, but he also didn't regard it with the same solemn reflection he had in the early days, where each passing day felt like a colossal failure.
The morning was spent the way it always was, looking out across the sea to watch the sunrise.
How had Japan changed in the new millennium, Ryoga wondered? Perhaps there was a new Super Famicom system out, called the Super-Ultra Famicom, maybe. Maybe a couple new Rockman games had been released.
After sunrise, Ryoga headed out into the sea, naked as the day he was born. Modesty had left him even sooner than vanity did.
It's about as close to a 'bath' as he got. He once mashed up some papaya with a bit of coconut water in an attempt to create a sort of shampoo, but it basically just wound up being a watery pink mush that took far too long to fully wash out of his hair.
His hair did seem a little shinier afterward, though. And if he liked papaya, it would have smelled pretty good, too. But he still didn't like papaya, and eating practically nothing but the accursed fruit for six years had only deepened that hatred even further.
So there would be no experimentational papaya pulp smushed into his hair today. Instead, Ryoga just walked out until the water was up to his hips, and splashed the sleep-crust from his rubbed at his eyes, then stretched his arms above his head as he let out a long yawn.
Something caught his eye out near the horizon. Curious, Ryoga stepped out a little further into the surf as he held a hand to his face to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun.
There was…something out there, but Ryoga couldn't quite make out what exactly. As he looked on further, it turned out that there were three of something.
There were two long ships moving parallel to one another, and at their bows there was a large arching spray of water. Dredger ships, Ryoga realized, as he noticed that each was affixed with large excavating cranes and pulleys.
The third object was yet another ship, and unlike the dredgers it was larger, but faster, and moving toward the island.
All the vessels combined were all much, much closer than any ship that Ryoga had ever spotted over the last six years.
For a while, he just stood there in the water as the waves lazily lapped at his legs, staring at the incoming ship.
Perhaps this was a dream. He'd certainly had plenty of dreams about being rescued before, only to wake up just before he could be found. But, it felt different this time. Ryoga found that his heart was racing and only beating harder and faster the closer the ship got.
He hurried back to shore and found his incredibly threadbare pants and yanked them on. He sprinted back to the shoreline, and sure enough the ship was still there, still moving towards him.
He should be making a signal fire. Or jumping up and down, waving his arms, screaming. Anything.
Instead, Ryoga just stood there watching the ship, and felt the same sense of hope he did when he watched the morning sunrise.
He felt as though he was in a walking daydream, in a floating and hazy daze as the ship at last made it to shore. Ryoga still couldn't bring himself to move.
Two men stepped out of the vessel and out onto the sand. They were both wearing the same matching uniforms. The ship had the red Chinese flag flapping in the ocean breeze…or at least, it looked like the Chinese flag, at least upon first glance. But the gold symbol upon it was a bit different, missing some stars.
The two men looked at Ryoga. Ryoga stared back. They were the first human beings Ryoga had laid eyes on in six years.
They walked across the sand toward him. Their jackets were adorned with several pins which caught the sunlight. When they reached Ryoga, the man on the right spoke in Mandarin.
Ryoga blinked, and it broke the dam on the pooling tears in his eyes. They ran freely down his cheeks.
Nobody had spoken to him in six years. Ryoga didn't even care that he had no idea what the man just said, he was just…so relieved. None of this felt real.
He started laughing. More of a soft, silly giggle at first, and then it grew into a full and hearty belly-laugh.
The uniformed men did not look nearly so amused.
The man on the left barked something sharply at Ryoga, but he was still speaking in Mandarin, so Ryoga still had no clue what he said.
Ryoga wiped at his face as he tried to settle his mirth. "Sorry, sorry," he said, "I-I'm just…so happy…"
The two men look at each other quickly, and then back to Ryoga again.
"You're Japanese?" the man on the right said in bewilderment, now speaking in Japanese himself.
Ryoga's mouth fell open at the sound of his mother tongue coming out of someone else's mouth but his own. It was enough to get him giggling again.
"Stop that!" the man on the left snapped. He was also speaking in Japanese now.
Ryoga pressed his lips together, trying to stifle his laughter. Right, he must look absolutely crazy to them, all wild hair and beard, skin and bone, giggling at the sound of their voices.
"Y-yes, I'm from Japan," Ryoga replied, "My name is Hibiki. Ryoga Hibi—"
"China has sovereignty over this land, as well as the surrounding maritime areas," the man on the left grunted, "Are you belligerently occupying this land in reclamation for Japan?"
Ryoga's eyes popped open wide. Then, his lip quivered. He bit his lip, but he couldn't stop his mouth from pulling crooked. Then Ryoga was doubled over and bellowed out a loud laugh. This has the officers stumbling backward in alarm, watching on in shock as Ryoga wheezed and clutched his sides and he laughed harder than he'd ever laughed in his entire life.
"I…ahahahaa…I c-can assure you, I'm not!" Ryoga guffawed, still bent over, shoulders shaking as he grasped at his knees to stay upright. "D-Do I look like a spy t-to you?"
"Well, if you are no spy, then who are you?" the man on the left grumbled impatiently.
"Just a man," Ryoga said with a half-shrug, "I was traveling to China on personal business. I got lost on my way back home."
The man on the left squinted suspiciously, and looked over at the other officer. The man on the right furrowed his brow, and crossed his arms.
"And how did you manage to wind up in the waters of the South China Sea, when you were on your way back home to Japan?" the man on the left probed further.
"Ah! I knew it, I picked the wrong one!" Ryoga crowed, and the men jumped back again at the sudden volume in his voice. Ryoga winced. "Oh, sorry. Um, I…I don't really have a good sense of direction. I was supposed to get in the East China Sea, not the South. So, I was swimming in the wrong direction, and then there was a storm, and—"
"Wait, wait," the left man interrupted, holding up his hands, "What do you mean you were swimming?"
Ryoga scratched at his beard. "Uh…I was swimming, and then I got caught up in a storm and it marooned me on this islan—"
"You expect us to believe these lies?" the irritated man exclaimed, "You expect us to believe you were just swimming out in the open ocean and then washed up on these shores?"
"Well, yes, because that's what happened." Ryoga said simply.
The officers gave each other another concerned, searching look. Ryoga sighed, and folded his arms across his chest.
"So, uhh…am I rescued, or arrested?" Ryoga asked slowly, raising an eyebrow.
The man on the right removed his hat and ran a hand through his short hair before putting the hat back in place, letting out a long and weary sigh. The man on the left glowered at Ryoga, a vein in his temple protruding out.
Ryoga frowned. It looked like it was going to be the latter.
"How about we bring you to the ship, and we can talk this out?" the man on Ryoga's right said.
The man on the left did not seem to like this idea very much, if the alarmed expression he shot his fellow officer was any clue. The man on the right paid him no mind, however.
Ryoga looked over their jackets, and spotted a few extra medals pinned to the right man's chest. At least the more agreeable of the two of them also seemed to be the one in command.
"Hibiki, was it? I'm Colonel Zhou," the man on the right continued. He swept his hand across to the other, grouchier man beside him. "And this is Major Gao."
Ryoga brought up his arm and saluted rather hesitantly, not sure if he was even doing it correctly. Considering the pinched look on Major Gao's face and the way he grumbled in Mandarin as he turned sharply on his heel and stormed back to the ship, Ryoga figured he probably would have been better off if he had just bowed instead.
"He quit smoking last week," Zhou said with a sigh, once Gao was out of earshot, "the withdrawal has been a nightmare. Mostly for me, since I have to work with him all day."
Ryoga blinked owlishly, surprised that the colonel was suddenly addressing him so casually, especially to speak about his major in such a way. Zhou removed his cap again, tucking it under his arm as he turned and began to follow his fellow officer towards their vessel. He flicked two fingers at Ryoga, encouraging him to follow.
"I'm sure it's different in your country, but the People's Liberation salutes with palm down, like this," Zhou explained as they walked, showing Ryoga the hand position. "But proper etiquette won't soon cool my major's temper, I'm afraid. All this excitement might just have him going back to his pipe, though. That would be nice."
Ryoga found that he couldn't look away from the colonel's mouth, fascinated in how it moved, and made sound, and formed words, and spoke to him. Someone was speaking to him. He was having a conversation. It was extraordinary.
Zhou reached over and pat Ryoga on the arm, and it felt like Ryoga had touched a bug zapper the way a jolt shot through his nerve endings.
"By god, you're skinnier than my nephew," Zhou muttered, "How old are you, Hibiki?"
"Twenty-four this December." Ryoga said.
"Ah. I've got a boy about your age," Zhou said thoughtfully, "I thought you'd be older."
Ryoga let out a sheepish chuckle. "Yeah…island life hasn't been very kind to me."
They had reached the ship. Major Gao had already gone inside, and was seated at a small table when Colonel Zhou and Ryoga stepped into the ship.
Flickering stars hindered Ryoga's vision for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the changing of the light. He found his feet stepping awkwardly on the hard floor of the ship, his gait so accustomed to unsteady earth and sand.
Gao was slurping at a small cup of tea, and paid the two of them no mind as he guzzled down the rest of his cup and reached for the pot in the middle of the table to refill. Zhou directed Ryoga to a nearby seat, and then headed for a small kitchenette.
Ryoga sat down slowly at the table across from Gao, looking all around the ship's interior. It was incredibly utilitarian in nature; Ryoga had never seen anything like it before. It also felt incredibly strange to be seated in a chair. Ryoga kept shuffling around in the seat, which earned him another dirty look from Gao. Ryoga cleared his throat and tried to remain still.
Colonel Zhou returned from the kitchenette and placed a small plate in front of Ryoga. And next to it, a can of beer.
Ryoga watched in awe as a droplet of condensation rolled down the side of the can, his mouth agape.
"What are you giving him that for?" Gao blurted, sitting up straight in his seat and jabbing a finger at the can of beer.
"He's not on duty like us, major. I'm sure it will be fine." Zhou said calmly as he seated himself at the table. He poured himself his own cup of tea while Gao slumped back in his chair, silently fuming.
"Drink that slow," Zhou said cautiously, "And take small bites."
"Th-thank you, sir," Ryoga murmured. He looked over at his plate of food, which consisted of a bun, and something that looked a bit like some type of meat jerky.
"My wife made bak kwa the other day. It's a pork jerky; delicious, she makes it the best," Zhou explained, "And she packed me a pineapple bun, too. Go on, now, eat up. Remember, slowly now."
Ryoga picked up the pork jerky, tore off a small chunk from the sheet, and popped it in his mouth.
It was the most delicious thing Ryoga had ever tasted.
There was a marinade on the pork that was delightfully savory, even a little bit spicy, and it was the perfect blend with the sweetness of the pork. Colonel Zhou had told him to eat slowly, but that was going to be a considerable feat of willpower. Ryoga bowed his head, chewing the small bite slowly, counting to thirty before he allowed himself to finally swallow the bite. He raised his head and let out a long, thankful sigh, his eyes closed in bliss.
After a moment, Ryoga opened his eyes, and noticed that both Major Gao and Colonel Zhou were giving him curious looks.
Zhou set down his teacup, and leaned forward intently. "Hibiki, how long have you been on that island?"
Ryoga set down the pork jerky and pulled the beer can closer to him. He pulled on the tab and the can opened with a satisfying pop and sizzle. He doesn't even drink it just yet, just savoring that wonderful sound, listening to the bubbles crackling inside the tin. He's never even drank a beer before. Maybe he won't even like it.
Oh, right, he was just asked a question.
"Six years, and twenty…" he trails off, humming thoughtfully as he counts on his fingers for a moment, "…uhhh…and twenty-eight days, I think."
Gao's teacup didn't quite reach his lips, and spilled down his chin and the front of his jacket. Zhou stared at Ryoga like he had just sprouted a second head.
After a long beat, Gao rose from the table and walked on rather unsteady feet over to the kitchenette. He popped open the fridge, and then slowly walked back to the table.
He placed down another can of beer in front of Colonel Zhou and then cracked open the other as he sat back down in his seat. Zhou did not seem at all perturbed by the fact his subordinate was openly drinking while on active duty. In fact, the colonel wasted no time in following suit with the major, opening his own can and taking a long swig.
Ryoga watched the officers in stunned silence for a moment before slowly raising up his own can and taking a small sip. It was like drinking liquid fucking gold. He might just start to cry with joy again.
Zhou set down his beer and let out a long exhale, then wiped at his mouth.
"Major Gao, kindly send a message to the Coast Guard," Zhou says, "It will take them some time to arrive at our location."
Gao looked incredibly reluctant, but begrudgingly set down his beer and rose back up from his seat.
"In the meantime, Hibiki," Zhou said, returning his gaze to Ryoga. "How about you start back at the beginning?"
It took four hours for the Coast Guard to arrive on the island.
And those four hours consisted of a myriad of questions and answers. The two dredgers out past the reef ceased their production and the crew from both vessels all came to shore as word quickly spread. Every single one of them wanted to meet Ryoga, even if most of them didn't know a word of Japanese. A man who survived six years on an uninhabited island in the middle of the South China Sea was fascinating in any language, after all.
By the time he had explained his whole tale to Colonel Zhou and Major Gao, Ryoga had depleted the colonel of the remainder of his dear wife's packed lunch, and finished off another can of beer. The colonel only gave Ryoga water after that, because two cans of beer was plenty to get him feeling tipsy when he was half of his normal body weight.
Major Gao was also cut off after two cans of beer, so he switched to cigarettes afterwards, which had Zhou in good spirits. Or maybe that was the three cans of beer the colonel had drunken himself.
It was incredible that the moment that a bit of society was dropped back into Ryoga's life how quickly time started to move again. Those four hours were the fastest of his life, flitting by in a complete blur that he could hardly remember. Perhaps that was mostly the beer's fault, too.
Ryoga was showing Colonel Zhou and Major Gao (already down to half a pack of smokes) around the island when the Coast Guard arrived. Things moved even more quickly after that. He was whisked away by a swarming medical team, and barely had time to offer the officers a proper palm-down salute before he was wrapped up in a blanket and taken into the Coast Guard's ship.
There were flashlights shot into his eyes. Wooden sticks pressed down onto his tongue. Every nook and cranny poked and prodded and examined. Ryoga had been missing human touch, and suddenly there was so much of it all at once that he had no idea how to process any of it.
He was given more water. Lots of it, and it was beautifully cold, and he was encouraged to drink it slowly. He was also given food, though nothing too heavy. Just small things that he was also urged to eat as slowly as possible.
Ryoga found it quite funny how he kept being told to take everything slow, when everyone around him was going so fast.
It took several more hours to get back to land. He wasn't sure where exactly he was brought to; he never bothered to ask and nobody ever thought to tell him. But it must have still been China, because pretty much everyone was speaking Mandarin around him still.
He spent the night in a hospital. He got to lay in an actual bed, and that's when the adrenaline from the day finally wore off and Ryoga passed out just seconds after burrowing his face in the pillows to huff the fresh scent of fabric softener.
While he was out, he was hooked up intravenously to fluids. He must have been sleeping very deeply indeed not to feel them sticking him with a needle. When Ryoga did finally wake up, he was informed by one of the nurses that he had slept for thirteen hours straight. He was given protein shakes, vitamins, water, cups with ice chips. And then he slept some more.
That went on for a while. Ryoga couldn't seem to stay awake for very long, not any longer than to take some vitamins or gulp down a shake, maybe answer a few questions for someone who only knows some broken Japanese at best, and then he was out cold again.
He had been battling every day for six years to keep himself alive. Now that there were people around him to take care of him, it's like there was a switch inside him that he finally got to flick off. And now, all his body wanted to do was to rest.
Ryoga was in the hospital for three days.
The best part was definitely the shower. Ryoga probably used up all the hot water there was in the entire building for how long he spent just standing under the piping-hot water. His darkly-tanned skin was already red and pruned by the time he finally reached for the shampoo and began the thorough and much-overdo process of washing himself head-to-toe.
Turns out bathing in the ocean for six years isn't effective in washing off grime. Ryoga was very glad nobody but him was around to see just how dark brown the soap bubbles got. He had probably gone nose-blind to his own filth after so long—the hospital staff were truly professionals indeed, because Ryoga never saw any one of them wrinkle their noses when they were within smelling vicinity of him.
By day two he finally got to shave off his beard, which in turn shaved a good couple of years off of his appearance as well. He decided to keep his hair as it was for the moment. While the beard was cumbersome and itchy and made Ryoga look haggard, the long hair was something that Ryoga had become strangely sentimental about. There was nothing on the island he had taken with him, he'd left behind all the tools he'd crafted, his shelter, even his seashell collection. His hair was all he had as proof that he had really been there.
Perhaps someone else would want to just chop it off and forget the whole ordeal had ever happened, eager to get back to a normal life. But Ryoga didn't want to just cast aside those years and forget all about them.
The island had given him an outlook on life that Ryoga had never considered before. Before the island, he was a sullen teenager with a reputation for misfortune and a bleak, pessimistic view of his own existence. But now, he was a young man with an old eagerness to savor his life. He spent all that time surviving in the hopes that one day he would be found and get back home.
And it was finally happening. Now he didn't have to just survive—he could finally live.
Ryoga was cleared for release after three days in the hospital. He had managed to gain back four pounds during that time, thanks to vitamins and protein shakes and hospital food that, while well-balanced in the food groups, was still hospital food. Of course, Ryoga was grateful for every morsel of food he had been given; he wasn't about to be picky. But by the time he was leaving the hospital, he was seriously craving a cheeseburger.
Ryoga didn't get a chance to track down the nearest McDonald's, however, as preparations began to get him back home to Japan. There was a whole slew of people working tirelessly to make sure that happened, and it was such a fast-paced revolving door of meet-and-greets and questions that Ryoga had barely had a chance to learn most of their names or even thank them all properly. For the most part he just went through the motions, followed any instructions he was given and went where he was told and when.
After a week since his rescue, Ryoga arrived at the Hong Kong International Airport and was put on a plane for a direct flight to Tokyo, Japan.
He was finally going home.
It probably would have happened a little faster if Ryoga didn't have to battle with the media so much. He insisted that he didn't want to make this all into some huge global phenomenon, and that wasn't something very easy to negotiate. It's not every day that a man is discovered on an island who has survived for as long as Ryoga did. It's a record-breaking sensation, a miracle, a front-page story, the headline of every news channel across the globe…only Ryoga demands to keep it quiet.
As much as he wanted to remember what had happened to him, he didn't want it to become his entire identity, and all he ever talked about for the rest of his days. He didn't want cameras and interviews and fame and glory. He had just done what he had to do in order to survive, so he could go home.
It was thanks to the involvement of the People's Liberation Army that Ryoga got to remain inconspicuous. It turned out that Ryoga's island had been chosen as China's next military base. That explained the dredgers that had come along with the colonel and major that day—they were tearing up the seabed in order to prepare the surrounding area to construct an artificial island for use as an airline strip.
They had assumed that the land, claimed by historical rights under China, was completely uninhabited. Much to their surprise, it was not.
China's territorial claims in the South China Sea were steadfast and assertive, and they were staking their claims further with their construction of military bases scattered among multiple islands in the South China Sea. It was information that the People's Liberation Army, and the People's Republic of China in general, did not wish to be plastered across every news outlet in the world.
Ryoga didn't really understand much about all the politics behind land disputes over contested archipelagos, and he couldn't really care less what the hell China decided to build or where. Ryoga was just glad he was found, and he was just fine with taking advantage of the tight lips of the Chinese military if it means he won't become sensationalized.
It took three days to find his house.
For Ryoga, that was actually a lot less than what it usually takes him. All Ryoga had to worry about for many years was navigating a single patch of sand that was generally flat terrain. He thought being back in civilization would be a shock to his system in more ways than one, and that his sense of direction would be one of the things negatively impacted.
But it turned out having just one spot that he had to focus on navigating had kind of trained his brain in a way. He thought over his literal next steps, and did not just move ahead mindlessly. It wasn't exactly a complete cure, but it was certainly an improvement, and Ryoga would take what he could get.
The house was quiet when he arrived. There were no booby traps set up, which made Ryoga think for a fleeting moment of elation that one or both of his parents might be home, but nobody seemed to be around.
Ryoga sighed. He was used to coming home to an empty house, of course, but he was kind of hoping for something a bit different this time around. It would have been nice to see even one of his parents again.
Ryoga was about to head into the kitchen when he suddenly heard the tell-tale click-clack of claws on the hardwood floors upstairs, making him stop in his tracks and whirl around just in time to see Shirokuro bounding down the stairs and rushing towards Ryoga.
"Shirokuro!" Ryoga cried out, and he threw out his arms as Shirokuro leapt into the air and tackled him down onto the floor.
Ryoga was laughing and crying all at once as Shirokuro licked every square inch of his face, lapping up his tears before they even got a chance to fall. Ryoga burrowed into his pet's soft fur and squeezed her close as her tail wagged so hard it shook the both of them.
She still smelled exactly like Ryoga remembered.
"Let's have a look at you," Ryoga said, leaning back and cupping his pup's head in his hands, "gosh, it's good to see a familiar face…"
She had the same happy expression as always, tongue hanging out as she quickly panted. As Ryoga looked further, he noticed that the white side of her coat was seeming to blend a bit further into the black. There were flecks of white hairs all through her muzzle and around her eyes.
It was the same face Ryoga remembered, but also not quite.
"Right, you'd be…ten now, huh, girl?" Ryoga murmured quietly as he scratched at Shirokuro's ears, "Sorry I missed all those birthdays. Guess we both look a little different now, huh?"
Shirokuro let out an affectionate awoo. The passage of time meant nothing to her; she was just happy to see Ryoga again.
Ryoga smiled crookedly, his eyes still shiny with tears. He leaned in and kissed Shirokuro's snout, then gathered himself up off the floor, brushing dog hair off of his clothes.
He headed into the kitchen, now with Shirokuro dutifully at his heels, ready to lead him to wherever he wished to go in the house. The kitchen was clean, which was a surprise. There was normally at least one note from his parents, or some leftovers sitting on the counter.
The rest of the main floor was more of the same. He checked around for more booby traps in the usual spots he knew his mother set them up, and nothing was triggered. His curiosity growing, Ryoga headed for his bedroom next.
It looked exactly the same as when he'd left it. His mother must have been home somewhat recently, because there wasn't any dust on the surfaces. The only difference was his bed. There was something laying atop his pillows.
Ryoga stepped over to the bed to investigate further, and realized that it was a thick stack of paper. When he picked it up, he recognized his mother's handwriting on the first page. She always put the date on the notes she left to him so he could have an idea of when she was home last, and the frequency of her visits.
The top note was from May of 1996. A month after Ryoga had left for China.
He had left a note at home before he'd left Japan, informing his family that he intended to go to China. This note had well wishes from his mother, hoping he had a safe trip and came back home soon. Ryoga couldn't help but let out a light scoff at the irony. He flipped to the next page.
It was more of the usual. Some of them were a week or two apart, others a month, sometimes three. There was a mix of both his mother and father's notes. They were all used to going a long time without seeing one another, sometimes up to a year at most. So naturally the beginning of the pile was just typical updates.
But the stack in Ryoga's hands was as thick as a textbook. Ryoga's heart lodged into his throat.
Ryoga sat down on the edge of the bed, and started to flick faster through the pages. They start to grow more and more concerned the farther he goes. Small updates turn into pages filled, sometimes on both sides, with his parents begging for him to respond to their letters, to let them know he had made it home even once, that he was okay.
He couldn't bear to read them all, to see their panic and worry. Ryoga set all the pages but one to the side, and scrubbed at the fresh tears in his eyes before he read the final letter.
It was dated October 4th, 2002. Nineteen days before he was rescued from the island.
Ryoga,
Exactly two months today, you'll be twenty-four years old.
I can't believe my baby boy is already a man. You grew up so quickly, and your father and I missed so much of it. I'm sorry.
I miss you all the time. I think about you every day, my sweet boy.
I hope you're happy and safe, wherever you are in this big world.
Love, Mom
Ryoga curled in on himself as he choked on a sob, setting the note aside so his tears wouldn't drip onto the paper and smear his mother's words.
His poor parents. He had been gone for so long, and they never once gave up on him. They were still leaving him notes, with every faith that one day he would come back when he could have easily died on that island and never gotten to see them again. They would have grown old and gray and their son would have just vanished without a trace.
How long would they have held onto their hope, Ryoga wondered? He would have subjected them to a lifetime of clinging on to that false hope, waiting for a son that would never come home.
Shirokuro rested her chin on Ryoga's thigh, effectively pulling Ryoga from his despairing thoughts.
Ryoga wiped at his eyes. He wouldn't make his parents worry about him any more. He had survived, and their resilient love would finally pay off.
Ryoga patted Shirokuro on the head and then rose to his feet. He carefully set the stack of paper on his desk.
"Alright, so if Mom was last here around early October, then she could be home any day now." Ryoga said as he rubbed at his chin—an old habit from when he had the beard that he still found himself doing. "Guess I better stick around here for a while and wait to see if Mom or Dad make it home."
Ryoga looked down at Shirokuro, who's tail began to wag when their eyes met. Ryoga smiled, and crouched down to rub one of Shirokuro's fluffy ears.
"Wanna go for a walk, girl?"
Shirokuro barked.
Five days passed.
Ryoga remained at the Hibiki residence, passing his time with Shirokuro. They went for plenty of walks and played in the park. They hung out in Ryoga's bedroom, watching movies and old family videos, and reading books. Ryoga also spent a lot of time watching the news, trying to catch himself up on everything he'd missed. The world had gotten itself in one big damn hurry without him, and he felt incredibly behind.
He used up most of the groceries in the house, so then he had to tap into the emergency funds that got left in a jar in a kitchen cabinet.
After ten days, he was out of food and out of funds. And what little he'd had left of his own money had gotten washed away along with the rest of his belongings six years ago.
There was still no sign of either of his parents. Shirokuro obviously didn't mind having Ryoga's company, and of course Ryoga was enjoying spending time with his pet. And he did occasionally interact with some fellow dog-walkers when he took Shirokuro around the neighborhood and to the park, but Ryoga still found himself craving for more.
He missed his parents, and desperately wanted to see them again…but he also missed his friends.
He was also starting to get just a little stir-crazy. Ryoga wound up going from one routine on the island to another one at home. Sure, one was far more preferable to the other, but he had always had trouble staying put for very long.
Ryoga wound up making the decision to leave a note for his parents. He wrote small, and it still wound up filling both sides of the paper, and it still didn't feel like enough.
He would make sure that he checked back often, and hopefully catch one of them on their rare visits back home. But for now, he wanted to go and find his friends.
He made sure to pack a bag. His usual travel pack was long gone, but he had a spare camping rucksack which he filled with the usual essentials. Hopefully he wasn't going to need it; he found his own house without too much hassle, after all. But he would be an idiot if he of all people didn't err on the side of caution.
Shirokuro got set up with plenty of food, water, pets, and kisses. And then he was off, back on the road once again in search of the Nerima ward.
He thought of the white hair that had begun to bleed into the black side of Shirokuro's fur, and wondered what time had done to the rest of his friend's faces.