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Piccolo’s days are orderly. Watching him lead a life that so perfectly reflects his earnest nature is something I have grown very fond of.
In the morning, when the edges of the horizon still hold the colors of the night, Piccolo wakes. Even as spring approaches, it must still be cold at this hour, yet he rises from the bed without a moment’s hesitation. In the past, I used to wake at the same time, only to retreat deeper into the covers, earning me a look of exasperation.
Lately, I never tire of watching him from the moment he wakes until he leaves the bed. It is a quiet joy to see the Piccolo who is disheveled from sleep instantly regain his usual, resolute expression. It feels as if I am seeing both the Piccolo only I know and the Piccolo everyone knows, all at once.
"Good morning, Piccolo-san."
Upon rising, Piccolo first opens all the curtains in the house and, except in the dead of winter, flings open the windows as well. Fresh morning air surges into the house, washing away the stagnant stillness. Taking a deep breath, I used to feel as though my very being was being purified from within.
As he opened the window of the eastern room, the sky was stained with a magnificent sunrise. From the edge of the distant mountains to the delicate veins of the budding leaves on the tree just outside the window, the morning sun illuminated every corner of the world, erasing every lingering trace of the night.
Yesterday, an old day, was dying at this very moment, and a new day was being born.
The light streaming from the rose-colored clouds was so dazzling that I instinctively looked away, stealing a glance at Piccolo’s face beside me.
"A beautiful sunrise..." Piccolo murmured. I felt a sudden flutter of nervousness, as if my gaze had been caught.
It was indeed a beautiful sunrise, but the eyes reflecting it were even more beautiful. He likely doesn't realize his own beauty. Those clear, cool eyes, moist yet refreshing. I truly loved gazing into the depths of those eyes, finding my own reflection within them.
Before I could say anything, Piccolo turned and began to walk. He was going to have breakfast in the living room.
Our seats were always fixed. Facing the kitchen, I sat on the left and Piccolo on the right.
I loved sitting in this chair, watching Piccolo bring food from the kitchen, observing him as he took his place at the table. Though his "meal" consisted only of a single glass of water, seeing him consume something always brought me a sense of relief. It made me feel that this man, who seemed to transcend the mundane world, was indeed a living creature.
Seated shallowly, Piccolo drank his water with great deliberation. He would take a sip, set the glass down, and gaze absentmindedly out the window. He would take another sip, lift the pitcher, and wipe away the ring of water left on the table. As he matched the pace of my own eating, this slow speed had become a habit for him.
Watching through the glass as Piccolo's throat shimmered through the water—that sensual, fragile motion—always stole my breath away.
Sharing a meal brings hearts surprisingly close. It means sharing life itself, exposing one's defenseless self to another. We grew closer that way in the wasteland, and after we became adults and began living together, we deepened our affection day by day at this dining table.
Piccolo finished his water and stepped out into the garden, so I followed after him.
The sun had fully risen; it was a crisp, clear morning.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" I said with a smile. Piccolo, too, seemed to be in a good mood.
The soft early spring breeze carried the scent and moisture of new buds. Morning dew glistened on the leaves, trembling to the bright songs of birds. The golden yellow of the Japanese roses was vivid to the eye.
Piccolo sat beside the roses, crossing his legs. I followed suit and sat next to him. The lush leaves gently softened the bright, low-angled sunlight.
I had never been very good at meditating in imitation of him. I was always better suited for actual combat.
However, I truly loved watching Piccolo's profile while he meditated. After all, his eyes were closed, so I could direct my gaze at him as unabashedly as I pleased.
His slightly tilted cheek, the clean line of his jaw. Those eyes with the depth of a sunrise were hidden by his calmly closed lids. His thin, firmly set lips gave an impression of absolute purity. A profile as refined as an exquisite sculpture. Yet, the slight rise and fall of his chest proved that he was indeed alive.
"Are you going to meditate all day today?"
I knew there would be no answer even if I spoke, but I asked anyway. A fallen rose petal bloomed upon Piccolo’s shoulder.
"I’m going to go out for a bit. I’ll be back by noon."
Drawn by the cheerful weather, I decided to take a stroll through the nearby hills.
Everywhere was overflowing with the breath of spring. Wildflowers were budding at my feet, and insects that had remained hidden through the winter were slowly peeking out. The earth was dark and damp, and the sky was a pale, clear blue. It was a scene I had witnessed countless times as the seasons turned.
But as I climbed the mountain path, perhaps due to the sunlight, withered grass and dry soil were still prominent. Spring does not arrive all at once.
Eventually, a single cold-cherry tree appeared before me. I felt as though I recognized it and stopped in my tracks.
The branches were not very large, and the flowering season was almost at its end. Even so, the gentle presence of the remaining blossoms and the fluttering pale pink were striking on the colorless mountain path.
"...Ah, I remember now."
Last winter, Piccolo and I saw this tree together.
It was still bitterly cold, and the tree was in full bloom. We had talked about coming back to see it during the flowering season next year, yet for some reason, I had completely forgotten.
The peace of that moment, standing side-by-side and sharing a smile. I felt a nostalgic warmth welling up from the bottom of my chest.
That was why I wanted Piccolo to see this flower.
However, I could not bring myself to break a branch that was blooming so bravely. So, I carried only the petals dancing in the wind back to the house.
As I sat waiting in the living room, Piccolo soon returned from the garden.
"Welcome back."
Immediately, Piccolo noticed the petals scattered beneath the open window.
"What is this?"
He looked suspiciously at the patterns they made on the floor, like unseasonable snow, and picked one up.
"Cherry blossoms? Why are they in a place like this...?"
"Did you forget, Piccolo-san?"
Piccolo stood facing the window, his back dark and damp against the backlight. I love Piccolo’s back when he is lost in thought. I realized vaguely that I had never told him that.
Suddenly, Piccolo took a sharp, soft breath.
"Did you remember?"
I stood up, filled with joy. But when Piccolo turned around, he abruptly began to shed tears, one after another.
"What’s wrong?"
Surprised, I walked toward him, but Piccolo remained standing still.
"Did you hate it? Did you not want to see them?"
I was flustered, not knowing what to say.
The morning sun streaming through the window was bright and dazzling, washing out Piccolo’s expression into a relatively dim shadow.
"I’m sorry. I just wanted you to remember how happy we were."
Still holding the cherry blossom petals, Piccolo looked around the room in a daze. Those tears, those wet eyes—how beautiful they were. But in that moment, I, standing right before him, was not reflected in them.
"Don't cry, Piccolo-san..."
I felt a sadness of my own and tried, at the very least, to wipe away his tears.
But as I knew, my hand could not touch him, slipping hollowly through his cheek.
"Gohan..."
Piccolo murmured, staring at the petals as if they were precious treasures. The tears I could not wipe away fell onto the petals, shining purely.
"I made you cry again..."
I was filled with a desire to cry too, but no tears came.
I love Piccolo’s back when he is lost in thought. I love his profile during meditation. I love seeing him at the dining table. I love the way he looks when he first wakes up. I love watching Piccolo’s orderly life, which hasn't changed since I lived out my natural span and passed away six months ago.
"I’m sorry, Piccolo-san."
I reached out as if to cover his palm where the tear-soaked petals lay.
"But I am here. Even if you never notice, I will stay with you forever."
As I spoke to him in a voice that would never reach, I desperately tried to remember the warmth of that palm.