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On her Day of Flight, Rakka is alone. She is one of the last of the older girls, and though her presence steadies those who came after, they have different stories to tell of the Glie that they are born to.
The children are out and about in town, two of the newer Haibanes at their heels to watch over them. Kana is at the clockmaker's, tinkering away at yet another new project. And she has just finished visiting the old Communicator for one last time.
She looks at her room — Reki's old room, the one she relocated to, after Rakka took the guestroom. Though the sheets are different, and the room no longer smells of cigarettes and paint, she likes to imagine that she grew into the room. The way that Reki grew to fill her role, as much as she doubted herself all that time ago.
It's just her and Kana, now. She wonders at what's keeping the other girl, who's been here for longer than her.
Rakka considers the old watchmaker. The look in his eye as the grey at his temples pales more with the years, trained solely on Kana. Her friend has only grown better at mending all sorts of watches and clocks, trying to capture more and more time.
And the watchmaker looks on, without a son to pass his craft to, but a girl who can't linger on after he's gone.
The two of them had never been very honest, even back when Rakka was new to Glie. Just like Nemu and Reki.
She slips the old lighter from her coat pocket, inspecting the shiny metal, and resolves to leave it in Kana's room.
After one last lookover at the hallways and rooms that made up her life, Rakka departs Old Home. Left behind her is a freshly-cooked dinner for the hungry Haibanes coming home later. Feeling whimsical, she had decided to make pancakes; these kids would never taste Hikari's cooking, but she had done her best to fill in the spaces since.
The trip to the woods is at once long, and all too short. She watches the windmills spin lazily, in the distance, as the sky changes color. There had been many afternoons, when she had free time, when she would just visit and let the winds blow past her face and through her hair.
Sometimes, the wind carries faint echoes of Kuu's laughter.
A man on a passing cart waves at her. Rakka returns his smile, bowing low when recognition passes through his eyes. The townspeople, some of them, have the strangest sense for when something is amiss.
He doesn't stop her, but she feels his eyes on her back as she continues her leisurely walk.
How long has it been? The Haibane don't care about the passage of time as much as the people of Glie do.
She remembers the feeling of a baby's fingers clutching her thumb. Sumika watching her, deep brown eyes gentle. Nemu never got the opportunity to hold little Mio. She hadn't lingered long, after Reki.
But Rakka did. The new mother told her that she'd raise her child on the story penned in Nemu's hand.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep when Rakka steps foot in them. She doesn't feel the same stirrings of fear, like in those early days. Today, there is nothing but peace, and the knowledge that her feet will lead her where she needs to be.
There have been a few changes in these woods. Though the town of Glie itself feels eternal — despite the finite lifespans of the people, change has been slow to come.
Through the efforts of the Touga, there is now a wooden path. It is not lit up, for adding lanterns to this forest would intrude on its peace. But it is there, for those who seek it.
Rakka had learned how to say thanks, in the language of the Communicator and the Touga. She likes to think that the stern old man appreciates it, even if she has never seen his face to tell if her intuition is right.
The path is easier to tread. Less tree roots to trip on, more time to listen to the soft hush of the ancient woods. Like the inside of the walls, the trees here have a voice—
And they sound like Reki.
She has to pause, once. Though she hasn't forgotten Reki's voice, how long has it been since she last heard it? And not in the echoes of the walls, near where Reki's name is engraved, where Rakka sometimes nearly falls to the temptation of leaning her forehead against those beloved characters.
It won't be long, now—
She hears Reki's laughter, the same voice that chides and praises the kids of Old Home. Rough from her smoker's habit, yet infinitely soft like a mother's hand upon your head.
"Reki? Will we ever see each other again?"
A sigh, like lips exhaling against her neck as long dark hair drapes along her back. "I think we will."
Rakka remembers missing Reki. Searching for dark hair and eyes when she turns a corner. Listening for a sharp bark of reprimand in the middle of children's mischievous giggles.
The cold of the forest doesn't touch her skin, even with her being underdressed for this journey.
Longing is warm, like a tear on the cheek. You let it creep in the quiet spaces inside of you to keep the little hearth ablaze. And you wake up the next day with enough warmth to share with the others who remain.
She reaches the old ruins. Night has fallen, now. The little Haibanes with their older guardians should be coming back, carrying the chill of the evening inside. Rakka hopes that the food she prepared and covered would soon warm them up.
The incomplete stone steps stand before her. Reki's voice lingers in her ear, at once a promise and a question.
When she steps on, Rakka answers that question.