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Kaneki was a small seed Touka planted in her garden.
Never did she imagine he would ground himself so firmly in the soil: Not many flourished the way he did in the turbulent weather or drank the poison from the well as well as he did. Most died out, decomposing and returning back to the earth, providing fresh soil for the garden. With death, there came life.
He made growing in her garden look easy with the way he sprouted and grew overnight, white flowers blooming all year round. It was pungent: The blossoms smelled faintly like dried blood and mulled wine. The stench brought tears to the eyes, some even gagged in response. It rendered any semblance of other foliage redundant, no amount of fresh flowers could mask his musk of roast grain and rusted iron.
Kaneki had a way of overshadowing everyone in the garden: Branches outstretched forming a canopy over everyone, roots digging so deep, it over grew into the concrete pavement. He began to become an inconvenience to her life, infiltrating the path she initially refused to stray from. However, she found herself making way for his peaking roots, jumping over cracks found on the walkway–She was determined to live alongside him, to compromise for him as long as he chose to be in her garden.
Not that he had much of a choice: Kaneki was a tree, afterall.
It was by chance he became the centrepiece of her garden, with his roots overrunning the area and scent perfuming the glasshouse. All visitors would complain about the stench, mumbling as they met eyes with Kaneki; Even as they whined, they could not stop staring at his beauty. Even her uncle had asked her to consider removing him from her garden, to chop away at the dark wood and grey leaves.
It was the only time Touka ever ignored him.
There were times where she would stay in the garden through the dark of night; Nursing new buds and seedlings. On some of those nights, they would speak in echoes and quiet whispers.
“It’s rotten work.” She heard Kaneki mumble, leaves rustling in the cool breeze. She tended to his branches, clipping away at decaying limbs, caressing tenderly at his main body, rough tree bark rubbing against her delicate palms.
“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
After that exchange, he was silenced.
But on some nights, in between the sharp chill of wind, she hears him whisper to her a soft tune.
A religious hymn of devotion.