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Riku’s hand trembles as he pushes open the door to enter the small cabinet. Wooden splinters brush his fingertips as his arm loses strength, allowing his hand to glide down the uneven surface.
Slowly, he trudges toward the stairs leading up to the dock. His shoe nudges against a step, but he shows no reaction, continuing to drag himself up.
By the time he leaves the cabinet, he is barely able to keep moving. Physically, he is nothing but capable of climbing a flight of stairs. It is not the lack of energy that keeps him from moving faster.
He flicks a glance at the setting sun, and his steps falter, leaving him standing in the shadow of a palm tree. His eyes grow wide, and with renewed drive, he walks.
It is more of a stride toward the Paopu tree. The trunk is as crooked as ever — maybe even more than he remembers it being. Either way, when he is close enough, a skilled hop helps him take a seat.
Then, his shoulders slump. His lips part on a weak, exhausted breath, and his gaze drops to the hot sand below his feet. His eyelids flutter closed while his brows furrow.
After a moment, his fingers curl around the tree trunk; he digs his nails into the bark, and it crumbles, pieces falling to the ground. A shaky breath escapes him.
To make up for it, his next inhale is as deep and steady as he can manage. He opens his eyes and stares daggers at the sand. Then, he lifts his head and squints at the setting sun before adjusting to the brightness.
He retracts his hand eventually and wipes it on his pants. After that, he lifts it a little to gaze at it. He examines his palm, the back of his hand, and the backs of his fingers.
His knuckles are white, and he keeps staring at them until the paleness slowly fades, allowing blood to flow once more. He spreads his fingers fully and observes how his hand trembles.
It shakes and quivers without his permission. He curls his hand into a fist slowly until he feels pain from the tension before releasing it by relaxing.
Is it from rage?
Maybe it is despair.
Could it be fear?
Confusion is a possibility.
He shakes his head and lifts his arm to run his hand through his hair more than once, although he loses count after the fourth time. He closes his eyes and drags his hand down his face before letting it drop into his lap. Now, his fingers dig into the fabric of his pants.
He flicks a glance at the sea — its tides move slowly. It is a soothing sound, but right now, it has no effect on him.
His expression twists — he fails to remember.
What use is it to stare into the vast horizon, hoping it would whisper to him a missing name — one drifting around in the depths of his hazy memories?
The only thing that comes to him after bathing in the evening glow for hours on end is his promise; the words are seared into his memories as if he had spoken the vow yesterday.
“If heaven exists, you would be its sunset.”
The murmur escapes him involuntarily, and he winces at the weight of the quiet announcement. He leans forward and hunches over, dragging both hands over his face before resting his elbows against his thighs.
He knows of her response; he is certain there is something she replied in that moment. But it is the exact moment he cannot seem to recall, and neither do her words come to him.
What is it?
Sunset?
Dusk?
Sunrise?
Or…
For some reason, he begins searching for things in the sand. There is not much to look for, save for pebbles, leaves, or maybe a few coins. He tilts his head left, finding sunglasses half-buried in the ground.
His gaze lingers on them.
They must be Kairi’s — they are familiar to him.
His eyes wander, and he turns his head to scan the floor on his right. He flinches — the barest movement — as he spots an arm. Immediately, he lifts his head.
His gaze finds a girl, twirling a seashell in her hand. It is one with the prettiest shades of pink and yellow, but his attention drifts not even a second after taking it in.
Xion does not speak a word as she scoots closer and leans against the trunk, not meeting his gaze for a while. For a moment, he is unsure of what to say but decides on staring at the sunset again.
“The heaven’s sunset,” she eventually hums, to which his fist immediately curls tightly. His gaze is everywhere but near where she is standing, next to him.
She overheard.
The vow is sacred to him. It is something he never shared before, and there she is, repeating it, just like this. She is not aware of the lengths he would go to receive an answer.
He would kneel in the scorching sand and plead with the sky until it would whisper it to him — the name of heaven’s sunset.
His jaw clenches a tad. “Yeah. Dusk.” To this, she nods and gazes at the seashell in her hand. “The sun sets, and it rises.” His lips part as he breathes, now a little slower.
“I know,” he mumbles. “I know that better than anyone.”
She waits — but he does not utter another word. Softly, he shakes his head and exhales slowly, relaxing everything in his body. He brushes his bangs aside once more while staring forward again.
Meanwhile, she is looking at him.
In the sunset’s lighting, she looks familiar. Familiar in a way she usually is not.
The shadows her lashes cast on her face are familiar. The way her lips part is familiar. And most familiar of all is her reply.
“And what if heaven is real? Would you be my dawn?”