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Zen began his morning as he always did after a deadline crunch. As always, he forgot to set an alarm and woke up an hour late. As always, he jumped out of bed wearing the same clothes he wore the day before with no intention of changing. As always, there was a kink in his back, his neck, and every other possible joint. But, unlike always, Takafumi occupied the left side of the bed, still asleep. Zen attributes it to a sick day; Takafumi had mentioned something about coming down with a cold a few days ago. It must’ve finally hit.
A smile lilts across Zen’s face. He had chosen to sleep in Zen’s bed, hadn’t he? At the time of Takafumi’s weakness, at the time of his own weakness, he wanted to be close. Zen’s hand brushes over Takafumi’s hair, revealing his thoroughly exhausted face.
Takafumi looked ill, or maybe it was distressed. A bad dream, perhaps. He sniffles, turns away. That would be their goodbye.
The routine snaps back in place: he assumes his daughter has made her way to school and bolts out the door, down the stairs of the apartment building, down the streets— there was no use in waiting for a train.
He stops short before a red light, catches his breath. But, traffic does not pass. There is a crowd of people in front of him, their eyes wide in shock. An accident, perhaps. It would be a clash of metal, there would be blood. The pedestrians would watch with gaping mouths. “Always watch if the light is green,” a mother would lecture, “You don’t want to end up like him, now do you?” That, he supposes, was also part of the routine.
But, Zen was not exempt from this insensitive notion; it was human nature. He snakes his way through the crowd, the closer he gets, the greater the anticipation. And then, there was a clearing.
A man run down in the middle of a road by a car unseen. His skull was cracked, his brains leaked onto the asphalt. An array of twisted limbs compliment the scene. A man in Zen’s unchanged clothing, now stained with garnet. A man with Zen’s face, now contorted and drooped. A man with hazel eyes, wide and bright as his own.
Zen’s back aches, but his mind is clear. In the pool of blood, he can see a reflection of himself; he can see the pearlescent wings outstretched. And over his shoulder was the loving face of Sakura, holding his torso back. “Let us go,” she requests, “Let us go.”