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Humans were glass.
They broke so easily, unrepairable at the smallest crack. So beautiful on the outside but with no substance. Crafted with so much care and effort only to sabotage each other and show the ugliness within.
Humans were so fragile. One small tumble down the stairs could get you a twisted ankle. One heat of the moment punch could lead to self inflicted bruises. One small stab of the knife—
In any case, humans were fragile creatures. He would know. Rather, he knew. Because ghosts weren’t human. They’re remnants of the past and thus are unable to fully experience those feelings anymore. Were they malevolent beings or regretful hauntings? He didn’t know anymore. But humans were weak and needed special attention.
His human assistant Yashiro Nene was the same. She could trip on her own feet and get a scratched knee. She could knick herself with a gardening tool and bleed. She could fall for a throwaway confession and latch onto it like a lifeline. She could shatter into millions of pieces.
Because of him.
Ghosts were terra-cotta.
They seemed dull, but they had substance. The living only had a shallow understanding of the world. Those from the Far Shore were the ones who truly knew of it. They didn’t need to lie to understand.
They were stronger, physically. They were tougher, emotionally. He knew that. He knew that because he was proof. Hanako-san of the Toilet. Mediator of the Near and Far Shore. Unassuming but full of knowledge when placed next to idealistic and naive Yashiro Nene.
Ghosts were terra-cotta. He was terra-cotta. So why were her tears making him weak?
“Stay here until you’re done crying,” he found himself saying. He found himself holding her. He found himself confused.
He was terra-cotta. He was unfeeling, unconcerned, unattached. He didn’t care for this girl, his assistant. She was just a student, a means to the end.
Wasn’t she?
Humans never learned from their mistakes.
They always tripped over the same rock. Always blindfolded when others were trying to teach. They were kids who never learned to outgrow their immaturity and to look at others for guidance. They were selfish and stupid things.
He would know. He would know because he’d been one of them, half a decade ago.
But he was different now.
He wasn’t human anymore. He was an apparition. He needed to learn, to improve, to excel. Because he had no future. Because he had to make the best of his second chance. Because he had to repent.
That’s why, when he scooped the fish out of the pond, he was being smart. He had only one assistant. He couldn’t lose his only chess piece, his pawn. That’s why, when he told the fish the girl was his, that she liked him, he was being careful. He needed to put his foot down and show who was in charge and what was not to be messed with.
“It made me happy.”
That’s why he made a promise to tell her more. One day. Some day.
Because...
Because...
Because he was the leader of the Seven Mysteries of the school. He had a job to do, needed people to play a part, needed her to fulfill her role.
Ghosts were smarter than humans. He was a ghost.
So why was he still making mistakes?
Humans were fated to die.
And weren’t they a silly bunch? They cried, screamed, begged, for more time. They would say it was cold, loveless, such a sad event.
But those who accepted it?
He found those people brave. He had respect for them.
Those humans were calm. They said of it as something inevitable but okay. Warm, relief, love. It’s okay, they would say. It’s fine, they would whisper.
Hanako-san of the Toilet was different.
He had died once. It had been cold.
He had died once. It had been loveless.
He had died once. It wasn’t sad.
Yashiro Nene was not him. She was not of the group that feared it. She was not part of the group to accept it. He didn’t know where she sat on that spectrum.
Because she was lying so lifeless on the ground before he could find out.
And as he cradled her in his arms, he remembered. Humans were going to die. Students of the school had died before. He knew of students who died after graduation. He knew there were students on their deathbed.
Yashiro Nene was human. She was a pawn on his side of the board. She meant nothing.
Or so he thought.
Because as he pondered about what he was doing, she came to him. Talked to him, cared for him, tried to cheer him up.
And then Honorable No. 7 knew then that he’d been wrong. He’d messed up.
Because Yashiro Nene meant something to him when she shouldn’t have.
Because he was afraid to lose her now.
He ran his hand through her hair.
He wrapped his arms around her.
He took her to a festival.
He trapped her in a fake world.
And that had made things worse.
For him?
Or for her?
Who knew.
“I want you to live, Yashiro.”
When did things change?
When had he changed?
When did he start to care so much for this sacrificial pawn, the one who was meant to be a decoy for her king?
When did he fly too close to the sun?
When had he started to plummet back to the cold and dark sea?
When? When? When?
And he looked at himself and wondered.
When had he become glass? When had Nene become the terra-cotta?
When had she managed to make herself the queen? When had she become the most valuable, the most priceless, piece on the board?
When had he fallen back to being human?
He was a ghost. He was dead. He was Hanako-san of the Toilet, the Seventh Wonder, the leader of the Seven Mysteries, the highly feared and respected mediator between the Near and Far Shore.
He was—
“Hanako-kun.”
He was—
“I like you—“
He was—
“As a friend of course!”
He was glass, just a touch away from fracturing.
He’d played himself.
She changed him.
Hanako-kun the slave driver, she joked. Hanako-kun, my hero, she whispered.
He changed, but didn’t like to think so. Didn’t want to admit it.
He pulled her along gently. He brushed her hair with a fleeting touch. He held her loosely and loved her cautiously.
And she reciprocated his feelings with much less vigilance. She tugged him excitedly down the hall. She combed her fingers through his hair with enough pressure to make him melt. She kept him close to her willingly and loved him openly.
He wished he could do the same.
He gently cupped her face, brushing a thumb under her eye. Hanako leaned in and placed a kiss on her eyelid. Slowly, he traversed to her forehead, nose, both cheeks and finally, her lips. Soft, hesitant. Short and aching.
“I’m not made of glass, Hanako-kun. You don’t have to treat me like I’ll shatter the moment you touch me.”
“I know,” he smiled, cracked. Because he knew. Between the two of them, “I’m the one who’s glass.”
Because ghosts like him were human once too. They could carry their burdens of physical pain, their mental anguish. They could keep baggage of emotional turmoil and psychological dilemmas. They carried it to their deaths and continue to carry it after.
He’d thought it was what made them strong.
He should have known it was what made them so pitifully weak.
He was glass and she was clay. She was so much stronger than him. And all the cracks and scratches she bared only proved her strength. There was a pathetic fragility when glass shattered. Terra-cotta was different.
Nene was terra-cotta. Made with love and care, someone with purpose, so unlike the glass decoration he was. But as he stepped away from her, disappeared in front of her after giving her one last kiss, one last hug, one last bit of him , he realized his one critical error in judgment.
Because terra-cotta could shatter too.
And unlike glass with its fake brilliance, terra-cotta would be thrown away rather than be admired.
As Nene sobbed down the hallway, carrying lingering regrets he’d created, he knew he’d messed up.
The future she wanted was no longer possible. The people she cared for no longer existed. Her wishes had been granted with the most horrible of prices.
There was something so inherently fascinating with glass and ghosts. Even if it seemed silly to believe in them and to search for them, there was always a thrill in watching the glass shards reflect light.
But terra-cotta was useless once destroyed. Nene had nothing because he destroyed her. Herself, her wishes, her future, her relationships. Nobody paid any attention to her, nobody bothered to look at her. Because terra-cotta was not worth looking at once it shattered.
He wished he could go back and reverse things. He wished he had the heart to.
But it was too late.
Hanako was many things. Glass, ghost, wish granter, promise breaker. He’d made a mistake he’d never be able to take back or remedy.
He was a failure.
And his only queen on the chessboard, the one who would stay with her king no matter how many times he pushed her into danger, had paid the price.
The glass king was left all alone as he watched his broken terra-cotta queen cry, ruined all because of his arrogance.