The morning light spilled unevenly over the town, sifting through clouds that had lingered overnight like the residue of dreams half-remembered. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional clatter of a bicycle chain or the soft creak of shutters opening. Hana had led Sozuki to the small alley behind the bread shop, where the warm scent of yeast and sugar still lingered faintly in the damp air.
Inside, Sozuki had been quiet, almost serene. He had held the wooden rabbit in his hands, staring at it with a mix of awe and sorrow, the air between him and Hana heavy with unspoken understanding. For a while, the shop had seemed a refuge—a place where past and present brushed lightly, offering comfort.
And then it all broke.
He had remembered everything.
The laughter of his mother, Airi, as she poured tea over tiny cups, steam curling like the edges of a memory he had almost forgotten. The careful carve of his father's knife on the wooden rabbit, the smell of cedar shavings mixing with roasted barley tea. The snow-covered rooftops. The shouting. The red. The silence.
His breath hitched, quick and ragged. His small hands clutched at the bread he had just bought, crumbling the soft crust into trembling fingers. His eyes widened in shock, pupils dark and lost, and then—he screamed.
The sound ripped through the shop like a gust of wind. Customers turned, startled, and the baker paused mid-stir, eyes wide. Hana rose immediately, hands outstretched, but she didn't step closer, unsure.
Sozuki bolted, the wooden rabbit bouncing in his pocket, and ran through the doorway. He tore down the cobblestone streets, small feet slapping wet stone, tears streaming freely from his eyes. "No… no… no…!" he cried, voice raw and jagged, carrying across the sleepy town.
Hana ran to the door, heart thundering, but then stopped. The thought struck her like a stone in the heart: if she chased him, if she tried to pull him back into the world too quickly, the flood of memories might crush him further. Her instincts whispered a painful truth—he needed to breathe, to run, to scream. Perhaps her presence should be a quiet anchor, not a leash.
She lowered herself to the doorway, letting him disappear from sight, her hand resting on the frame. "I'm here, Sozuki," she whispered into the morning light. "I'll be here when you're ready."
And then she followed at a distance, careful, giving him space while remaining near enough that he wouldn't feel entirely alone.
Sozuki ran until the cobblestones gave way to the riverbank, where the Kisaragi flowed wide and silver under the soft light of morning. Rain had begun again in faint drizzles, making the river swell and ripple. He dropped to his knees at the edge, gasping, and clutched the wooden rabbit to his chest. The petals from cherry trees long past in bloom—fallen, scattered, forgotten—drifted in the water, carried away without ceremony.
"Why… why…?" he whispered, voice breaking. "Why did they… leave me?"
Hana watched from a safe distance, barely moving. She could feel the weight of the memories pressing against him, shaping the kid who had been lost for decades. She understood, finally, that some wounds could not be rushed. Sometimes, the only help you could give was patience and proximity, the assurance that the world would not abandon him a second time.
She sat on a nearby stone, knees drawn up, hands wrapped around herself. Her heart ached with the quiet tension of the scene. He did not notice her. He did not yet see her as a refuge.
Hours passed in silence. Rain fell in sheets, coating the river in a liquid mirror. Sozuki remained by the bank, small and trembling, the wooden rabbit pressed against him as if it were a talisman against the cruel weight of memory. Hana did not approach. She only spoke once, softly, as though the wind could carry her voice without touching him:
"You are not alone."
He flinched, then whispered something she almost did not hear. "I… I… was alone… for so long…"
"Yes," Hana said gently. "But not anymore. I'm here now."
The kids sobs were quiet, but they were heavy with decades of grief—the loneliness of wandering without a name, without a family, without even the simple comfort of growing older like everyone else. He pressed the wooden rabbit tighter, rocking slightly, whispering fragments of remembered warmth: the smell of miso soup, his mother humming, the river, the cedar forest, the snow, and then the night it all ended.
It was late afternoon when he finally looked up, tear-streaked face toward the water. The sky was beginning to pale with the fading light, casting everything in shades of gold and gray. Hana rose, careful not to startle him, and approached slowly, letting the distance between them shrink without pressure.
"Do you… remember it all?" she asked softly.
He nodded, voice barely audible. "I… remember you. You… help me… help me carry it."
She knelt beside him on the damp earth. "I will, Sozuki. Always."
He pressed the rabbit into her hands briefly, then held her gaze, small eyes wide and shimmering. "I… I don't want to be alone anymore. Even if it's… scary."
Hana smiled faintly, lips trembling. "You're not. Not anymore."
And then the moment passed, fragile and fleeting.
Days returned in a gentle rhythm. Hana guided Sozuki through the town, visiting the bread shop again, walking past his favorite park, sharing quiet meals at tiny stalls. He laughed softly at small jokes, and she laughed with him, careful to let humor act as a salve, a bridge back to the simple warmth he had known as a child.
He would hum in the mornings, tentative at first, then growing stronger, the sound a reminder that life could still be gentle. He began to carry the wooden rabbit openly, as if asserting that his past could coexist with his present. Hana noticed him looking at the river often, at the old Torii gate, and sometimes he would sigh, heavy with longing yet not broken.
It was the first hint of acceptance.
But acceptance came with its own cost.
It was during one quiet evening, walking home from the bread shop, that Hana first noticed it. Sozuki had paused on the bridge over the Kisaragi, the wooden rabbit dangling loosely from his hand. His reflection rippled in the water, and she froze.
The kids outline was faint—so faint that at first she thought it was the mist rising from the river. She blinked, shaking her head, but the shimmer persisted. The edges of his jumper seemed to blend with the air, the faint color of his hair becoming translucent in the dim light.
"Sozuki," she whispered, reaching out instinctively.
He turned, small and wide-eyed, a hint of calm in his expression. "I… I think… I'm okay," he said softly. "I feel… I feel like I… belong here… now."
Hana bit her lip, heart heavy. She wanted to call out, to pull him close, to assure him fully, but she did not. She knew that pushing now, forcing the issue, might tear him away again. If he faded too soon, too fully, the memories they had reclaimed together might scatter into fading. and she didn't want that. no matter how selfish she was, because she didn't wanna let go of him.
Instead, she nodded. "I understand," she said gently. "I'll stay here. With you."
He smiled faintly, a small, fragile thing, and together they watched the river. The water flowed endlessly, indifferent and eternal, carrying the echoes of the past but never letting them drown.
That night, Hana prepared dinner in her small apartment. Sozuki sat at the table quietly, pressing the rabbit against his heart, watching her. Occasionally, he would glance out the window toward the city lights, faint traces of cherry blossom petals drifting across the night sky in memory.
"You're quiet," Hana said softly, setting a bowl of rice and miso soup in front of him.
"I… I'm… thinking," he whispered. "About… everything."
She nodded, giving him space. He ate slowly, methodically, the ritual grounding him in the present even as his past hovered like fog behind his eyes. Occasionally, he would hum softly, the song incomplete but familiar, stitched together from fragments of memory.
Hana watched him, heart aching, knowing that each moment of peace was fragile. She knew he was beginning to accept his existence—that perhaps acceptance came hand in hand with the fading she could now see clearly. It was gentle, like smoke rising from a candle, almost imperceptible at first, but undeniable in the soft light of their shared apartment.
By the next morning, Sozuki's outline had thinned further, edges blending with the air. Yet he did not panic. He ate breakfast with Hana, talked about small dreams he had for the day, and even suggested they visit the park once more. Acceptance had tempered his panic, but Hana could feel the subtle tug of mortality—the price of remembering, of finally holding the past in his mind while existing in the present.
He touched the wooden rabbit and whispered, "I remember Papa's promise… I will protect the people I care about."
Hana smiled through her tears, softly pressing her hand to his. "And I will be here to help you, always."
For a while, there was quiet, tender life between them. But as they sat watching the sun climb above the rooftops, she could feel the faint shimmer along his arms, the soft fading that would continue if he did not learn to anchor himself fully to the world of the living.
Acceptance was bittersweet. It brought him peace, but with peace came the knowledge of impermanence. She did not speak of it yet. She only held his hand, let him sip his tea, let him touch the world gently, as she had for so many days.
And she knew, quietly, that this was the beginning of a longer journey: teaching him to exist fully in the present, even as the shadows of the past and the ethereal edges of his being continued to whisper against the fragile thread of life he now grasped with trembling hands.
TO BE CONTINUED...