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It is not a particularly cold day, grayish clouds barely allow the passage of a few rays of light and the drops, although fine, are abundant. Passersby more wary of the variable behavior of the weather walk sheltered, with layers covering their thinner clothes. Others, more unprepared, run in haste, looking for even the smallest ledge to serve as shelter. Outside of the first group or the second, the rain meant nothing to the population of the big city. Japanese society would go on with its course, regardless of the presence or absence of rain. However, it is preferable to be among the attentive individuals, those who did check the weather conditions before leaving their homes and knew in advance the possibility of precipitation. Under that unquestionable logic, Hoshino Aquamarine was walking along the sidewalk as a cloth barrier separated him from the tinkling of fine water droplets.
There was no hurry in his walk, and his clothes were not at all elegant; just somewhat casual, light. His dark vest stood out in contrast to his bright blond hair and those deep blue eyes. A dull star, just as black as his coat, was barely visible. No outsider subject would be able to pick up on anything more than a lack of humor. Or emotions, in general. Not that he cares.
The atmosphere is humid, the wind breezes are starting to blow hard and Aqua can't help but squint for a second. Maybe it wasn't the right day, some would think. The rain will get in the way of your plans, others would say. But they don't know him. Because, if they did, they would have at least a tiny clue as to the elder Hoshino's motivations for being in such a lightly traveled sector. He keeps walking, and as he does, the minutes go by. It is a structured walk, with each step millimetrically calculated; a memory implanted in his memory by the reiteration of a particular pattern.
He climbs the stairs.
He advances three sections and turns to the right.
He keeps walking until he sees the plum tree.
He counts to twenty and...
"Hello."
There she is.
It's barely a whisper. His voice disappears into the din of the rain lashing against the polished rock. Some of it splashes down to his shoes, he's not the least bit bothered by it. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, I've barely had time and—" I was being cowardly. He chides himself. He is thankful that, aside from the erratic symphony of the drizzle, there is no one else around. There is only him, or so he hopes to believe.
He peruses the kanji carved into the rock in the shape of a prism, a common move among his visitors. Tomb of the Arima family. Family. Can it be considered family if there is only one person in there? Solitary, marginalized both in life and in death. The only contents of this grave are the ashes of the one who was once his friend. Because yes, even he had friends. "I don't like to owe people things." He is speaking alone, there are no living witnesses to hear his message. He prefers this discontinuous peace to the intervention of cameras and microphones on him. This should be a moment of peace, of respect. He will not take that away from the one person, besides his mother, whom he feels he failed. "I... I don't want to owe you anything." You don't owe her anything, she's dead. "And, well, I never paid you back."
With a bit of coordination, Aqua manages to pull something similar to a cane from inside his jacket. Slightly translucent, with a steel spider holding it. Small drawings of cat faces and footprint marks make up the adorable pattern on the umbrella. It is clean, but the years are showing on the material. It is not an umbrella of excellent quality, but at least it can continue to serve its purpose until the end of the rainy season. The boy carefully opens the object, glistening once again after years of disuse. Gently, and making sure that the wind cannot blow the object away, the starry blue-eyed boy places the umbrella against the grave. The droplets no longer slide over the kanji, the water's friction against the rock stops. Here you have it back. "Thank you, Arima."
He wants to say something else. There is nothing. He doesn't deserve to say anything to her. Therefore, Hoshino Aquamarine is silent. If he has some idea that he really longs to express, he does not utter it. His feelings about this place and who is down there are stronger than the jumble of emotions that, little by little, is killing him. That doesn't mean he's not on the verge of collapse, his heart racing. If it weren't for the humidity and the smell of wet earth, he would be letting himself be carried away by the memory of the colors and smells of that day. Do you want to mourn her death? You have no right to do so. It is indignation and contempt that your four-year-old reflection spits at you. Don't you dare, not until you come to a conclusion.
He inhales. For a few brief moments he dispels the turbulent hallucinations that haunt him. I should be going now. "Goodbye, Arima."
I hope you can forgive me someday.