Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews! I know that I haven't been able to update as frequently as I'd like to, but whenever I can, I try to upload several chapters at once.
There's something I feel when I study Tomoe's character. It's because of how quiet she is and how little she speaks of meaningless things. When she does speak, her words seem loud, not in volume but in strength, and they just pierce through.
We emerge from the Shikki-ya, and the world outside greets us anew. The sun paints the land with its golden light as we amble through the streets. Before us lies a canvas tinted with shadows and whispers of strife, now concealed beneath the sun's unforgiving rays.
Each time I tread these paths, be it under the brilliant sun or in the depths of night, it has always been a realm of shadows to my eyes. A realm of blood and death, marked by trails of ruin. Harsh ruin, yet necessary for the birth of a new age.
It is I, undoubtedly, who leaves these trails of destruction upon these streets. Yet, curiously, when she is near, only when she is near, the edges of my reality begin to blur. The sharp lines of my existence, etched in shadows, fade like mist. Her mere presence drives away the specters lurking in the corners of my mind. It requires no loving gaze or tender words; her simple presence, even when her eyes are not upon me, effortlessly rewrites the stories of my world.
As I contemplate the nature of my existence, I find myself overwhelmed by a startling realization. The darkness that envelops my daily life can be pierced by the mere presence of a single individual. This thought is both exhilarating and disconcerting. I am struck by the immense power she unknowingly wields over the shape of my reality.
My eyes are drawn to her, sometimes consciously, sometimes without my awareness. Often, I find myself already gazing at her before I have even registered the act. I make feeble attempts to avert my eyes, yet they persistently trace the gentle lines of her profile.
Each glance seems to capture her tiniest movements. I notice how her lips part slightly when something catches her interest, the way her eyes flicker beneath her lowered lashes, and how her slender, pale fingers occasionally brush a strand of hair, or the soft fabric of her kimono, or trail down to her neck. These observations invariably remind me of that particular evening, and her scent that lingers in my memory.
However, a nagging fear remains - the fear that she might perceive the emotions stirring within me, causing her to construct barriers around herself even more impenetrable than those already in place. Thus, I conceal my feelings, locking them behind an impassive exterior, though I suspect this mask is more transparent than I would prefer.
I come to understand that the vulnerability of my emotions instill in me a fear more profound than that of death itself.
As we walk, my thoughts wander to the man she conversed with earlier today. A subtle unease takes hold of me as I recall, stirring a quiet jealousy within me. I strive to maintain an outward calm. Yet I cannot help but ponder, once more, if he too has traversed these very streets at her side, and this notion causes me almost physical discomfort.
My ruminations on her interactions with that man, and my utter inability to broach the subject, render these thoughts all the more difficult to bear. As my mind continues its meandering, Tomoe-san abruptly halts.
I observe her head turn to gaze at something across the thoroughfare. Following her line of sight, I perceive a modest Wagashi shop. Before it stand two children—a boy and a girl. The boy, elder and taller, is clad in threadbare attire, while the girl, perhaps his sister, clasps his hand, equally shabby in appearance. They stare longingly at the Wagashi shop, the costly confections on display seeming to mock them. A mere few steps, a thin barrier, yet the division is as vast as the expanse between two banks of a river. Even that small delicacy remains a luxury forever beyond their grasp.
As I stand on the opposite side of the street, my eyes catch sight of Tomoe-san making her way across towards the shop.
I remain where I am, observing. The sight of the children before me stirs a reflection: if our society persists unchanged, that young boy too might one day find his world entirely lost. In my mind's eye, I see a group of children, their play diminished by days of hunger.
The gentle tinkle of the Wagashiya's bell announces Tomoe-san's entry, her figure vanishing as the children's gazes follow. Moments later, she emerges, a small package in hand, its paper wrapping - no doubt concealing the prized Wagashi.
Tomoe-san's head turns slightly towards the children, and she takes a few steps in their direction. I observe as she presents the beautifully adorned parcel to them. Their faces betray a mix of confusion and surprise as they exchange uncertain glances.
As I observe, a peculiar sentiment rises within me—curiosity, but chiefly anger and bewilderment. My mind fixates on the reasons behind her deed. Does she yearn to be seen as a kind soul? Is this the cause of her behavior? Does she believe her sudden act of compassion will alter their existence in any meaningful way?
As she presents the confections to the children, their eyes sparkle like fireflies in the deepening twilight. The elder child permits a lovely smile to grace his worn countenance. The younger one grasps the elegantly wrapped package as if holding the most valuable treasure.
I perceive a tenderness in Tomoe-san's expression, and all my anger and bewilderment vanish in an instant. She gently strokes the heads of the children, and they gaze up at her in awe. Yet even amidst such gentleness, a smile never adorns her face.
Although I understand, better than most, that in the realm of destitution, kindness is but a fleeting illusion, I too ponder if, in those bygone days, someone had placed such a gentle hand upon my head, would my life have taken a different course? I watch as her action skims the surface of their hardships, like a passing breeze that scarcely disturbs the dust of their daily struggles.
She will never comprehend that beneath the veneer of temporary relief, the wounds of poverty run deep—perhaps far too deep—carving a painful truth that endures long after the fleeting sweetness of a mere purchased treat. I observe as she concludes this brief interaction with them, traverses the street, and once more returns to her place beside me.
Without exchanging any words, we resume our walk. I wonder what thoughts occupy her mind now.
The words reach my ears, "I wonder how they are living their life".
"Perhaps from mere pity, just like how you showed them today," I reply. The sarcasm in my tone is unmistakable, and I make no effort to conceal it. Yet, as always, she remains unperturbed.
"It was not pity," she asserts, her voice unwavering.
"When the powerful fight over great ideals, their tiny worlds are trampled on."
"I know that in the waves of turmoil, their lives might fade away and no one might even remember that they were once there."
As these words fall from her lips, they stir something within me - a faint melody of remembrance, echoing from the depths of my consciousness. Hazy images of my own impoverished youth flicker before my mind's eye.
She continues, "When I was a child, Wagashi used to make me happy. I wanted them to have the memory, the tiny happiness that I felt when I was a child."
For the first time, she speaks of herself. In this fleeting glimpse of her past, I am struck by the vast chasm between our worlds. Yet, a desire to know more about her wells up within me.
"Does it still make you happy?" I inquire.
A momentary silence hangs in the air before she responds, her voice devoid of emotion, "No."
With these words, she draws a line once more - a boundary she will not permit me to cross.
As the sun begins its descent, painting the bustling streets of Gion with a warm, golden hue, she breaks the silence that has settled between us.
"Is it very hard to live on pity?" she inquires, her tone devoid of any particular sentiment.
Her unadorned questions, though cloaked in polite phrases, never fail to catch me off guard, despite my belief that I have grown accustomed to them. A sigh escapes my lips unbidden.
"It makes one ponder if one's existence is akin to that of a stray dog, scrounging through refuse for sustenance. Even the smallest acts of kindness, which ought to be taken for granted, become cause for immense gratitude. One must bow and scrape like an inferior being, begging for the grace of those deemed superior."
As these words leave my mouth, memories rise unbidden to the surface of my mind. A hazy recollection of a woman - perhaps my mother - in tattered garments, prostrating herself on the dirt path of our village, beseeching something from a man whose clothes remained untouched by the very earth she pressed her forehead against. He paid her no heed and departed.
With characteristic attentiveness, she absorbs each word before posing another question.
"Isn't a life like that painful beyond comprehension?" she asks.
"Yes, but in time, pain becomes a luxury, for eventually, one ceases to feel anything at all," I reply, my gaze fixed on some indistinct point in the distance.
When I turn my eyes to meet hers, I realize she has been studying me intently. No, 'studying' is not the right word. She has been observing me, and as I catch sight of my reflection in her otherworldly eyes, I understand that she has been peering through me, discerning something I have not willingly revealed. Perhaps she sees the echoes of my past etched upon my very soul.
It is in this moment that I comprehend she was not speaking of the children at all. It was about me that she had been inquiring all along.
As I ponder the hidden motives behind her actions, a gentle touch upon my head pulls me from the depths of rumination. This touch is unfamiliar - strangely soothing yet equally disarming.
An odd surge of emotion threatens to breach the carefully constructed walls of my composure.
I attempt to quell this vulnerability. "I'm not a child," I say.
She remains undeterred. Her treatment of me as a child displeases me.
I feel her hand stroking my head, softly, unhurriedly.
For reasons unclear, I find myself unable to meet her gaze.
"It's in the middle of the street; people are watching," I inform her.
This is no mere statement - passersby are indeed turning to observe what may appear as a tender moment between siblings. This displeases me.
I grasp her wrist, feeling its delicate nature in my grip. My fingers traverse her wrist until they slowly intertwine with hers.
This time, I meet her eyes directly, maintaining my gaze as I sense her fingers between mine. My heart quickens, but I wish for her to recognize me as a man, not a child. I am the man who kissed her, caressed her, touched her, and I desire her to feel nervous in my presence, to be aware of me, just as I am of her.
I sense her pulse through her skin. I can feel its rhythm. And thus, I know it is slightly, just slightly more erratic than usual.
Ah, so she is indeed conscious of me. Whether it stems from fear or affection, I cannot discern and I dare not to.
As I gently clasp her hand, I find myself taking the lead, a step or two ahead.
In truth, I advance to shield my countenance from her gaze. I dare not let her perceive the profound effect her mere acknowledgment has upon me. That she should notice me, despite my affected indifference, that her heart might quicken even slightly on my account - such thoughts fill me with a joy so intense it borders on the unbearable.
We approach the inn, and I sense her sudden halt. I turn, compelled by her stillness. Her voice, soft as a spring breeze, breaks the quiet.
"The hand," she utters, then pauses,
"There aren't many people anymore".
Only then do I become aware that I have been holding her hand all this while, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if I had always done so. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me, and I avert my face slightly, hoping to conceal the warmth I feel rising to my cheeks.
I release her hand without protest. That is certainly not why I held your hand. The thought crosses my mind as I glance at her hand, now empty, and feel a curious, subtle yearning.
She remains motionless, and I wonder if she has more to say.
She speaks, "The Shikki"
Ah, she wishes me to hand over the packed lacquerware.
"It is heavy," I say,
"I will bring it inside and hand it to the Okami-san." I respond to her.
"I see"
"Thank you," she says.
I find my gaze still averted from her.
Her voice pierces the lingering silence,
"Give me your hand", she says.
Such words startle me greatly, causing my eyes to meet hers with genuine bewilderment.
Yet, she maintains an air of normalcy, as though her request were most ordinary. She waits, but not for long - perhaps her patience wanes, or she perceives my lack of comprehension. Without delay, she takes my hand in hers and turns it over, placing upon my palm a small parcel adorned with intricate paper, not unlike those given to the children.
As the diminutive bundle rests in my hand, her gaze fixed upon it, she speaks:
"It's Wagashi made of Ume."
"I've noticed you always finish the Umeboshi, even when you don't eat much."
"I think this will suit your taste."
Her explanation is matter-of-fact, and she departs with casual indifference. I remain, the small package nestled in my palm, as an ineffable warmth envelops my mind - a gentleness so profound it aches. I sense that even the faintest touch might cause it to dissipate, much like the person who evokes this warmth - a tenderness so delicate it borders on cruelty.