Chapter Text
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Read while listening to Whitepine OST for best experience
I used to like spring.
I used to find it fascinating how life could bloom even from the coldest winters.
I made a song about it, once. I composed it at midnight, when the house was in a deep slumber.
Those days felt simple.
They felt freeing.
Now, spring brings me dread. The flowers are too bright, too daunting. They were smiling on his coffin, telling me everything was going to be alright.
They were smiling at me.
They were smiling at me.
They were waving their pretty petals, showing off how beautiful they were in the fresh morning breeze.
The same breeze that stung my face and bit at my hands.
It stung me like I did something personal to it.
It’s stinging me now, as I get on the train, lugging my mother’s baggage and mine, mumbling at mother to mind her step.
The door to the train is closed. The cold wind is gone. It can’t hurt me anymore. Nothing can hurt me anymore.
The coffin is gone.
The flowers are gone.
The wind is gone.
It’s all gone.
I can’t get hurt-
“You should read a book, Ivory,” mother says softly.
We are sitting in the train, in our own little room. The luggages are above us, resting in their own little metal cots.
I look at my mother. She has pale, almost white hair, pale eyes, pale skin - Like me. Or rather, me like her.
She wears a modest dress. She’s always modest. She likes to be modest.
I have a dress too. Mother asks me to be modest. She asks me to read a book. I can read a book. Books take me away from reality.
With slow hands, I pick up the book I brought with me, knowing I’ll finish it before I even step foot in the airport. I don’t mind, though. Some things finish earlier than you expect them to.
I open the book and read the first few lines, already immersed in the story. I’ve read online that if a book snatches your interest by just the first sentence, it’s bound to be a five star read.
I don’t think a book can bind five stars, though. I’ll have to search that up too, later.
People are different, the book says.
None are the same. Everyone has their own life - their own personalities. So why won’t you let me live mine? Why won’t you let me express myself like the flowers in spring-
I shut the book.
Spring brings me dread.
I dislike flowers.
They looked too happy on his coffin.
౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡
Yanaka is a quiet, urban district in Northeast Tokyo, the population consisting of mostly elderly people, passionate artists, and the occasional young teens interested in the district’s aesthetic.
Mother and I travelled a long time to get here.
The trip was quiet between us.
Was mother always this quiet?
I asked her once why we didn’t just move to the countryside of England. She told me it was too close to home. She told me she needed to get away, and Japan seemed far enough for her.
I still don’t understand what she needs to get away from. I’m concerned if something is chasing us.
For good measure, I glance behind me.
No one.
Nothing is chasing us.
It’s okay mother, you don’t need to be afraid. Nothing is coming after us, we’re safe here. Yanaka is quiet and peaceful, just how you like it. You’ll live well here.
I promise.
౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡
I would’ve gone to university in another lifetime. Not in this one.
There’s too much to take care of, too much to do. I don’t have time for university. It’s not a priority for me. Besides, I don’t have the required results for university here, and education has always been difficult for me.
Instead of thinking about what I could’ve had, I help mother unpack the house. It is quiet between us.
It is always quiet between us now.
I don’t think mother likes me.
Not anymore.
Not after father collapsed in her arms, body lifeless before he even fell against her.
Maybe she blames me.
I don’t know why, but I don’t mind. She can blame me if it helps her. She’s gone through a lot.
We don’t have much in our little four room apartment on the second floor of an old building near the train station. The apartment doesn't seem very stable, I can smell the scent of hot ramen wafting through the floorboards from the restaurant downstairs.
It’s okay. It’s not the restaurant’s fault. We shouldn’t complain. We chose to live here.
I can cover the smell with carpets. Perhaps mother would appreciate that.
I brush dust off the bottom of my dress and I grab a notepad, writing neatly even handwriting what I need to buy. I’ll find nearby second hand stores to see if they sell carpets for a cheap price.
I don’t want to use too much money.
I can sense mother looking at me. I glance up. Will she scold me?
She has soft eyes, a soft expression. She looks like she wants to cry. Maybe she wants to collapse on the floor and sob until the energy is drained from her body.
Perhaps she should cry.
Perhaps this is what she needs.
“What are you doing?” she asks in a quiet voice.
“Shopping list,” I reply in the same tone.
She smiles. It’s a soft, sad smile. “Thank you, Ivory.”
Perhaps she doesn’t hate me.
“Where will you find the money?”
I hesitate, “I… I don’t- I don’t know.”
She sits next to me, taking the notepad and pen from my hands, tossing them aside before taking my hands in hers. My skin is pale like hers. My eyes and hair and lips are pale like hers. The only difference between us is her age and my burn marks.
“You can use my money,” she murmurs.
I straighten, “W-why?”
“Because you’re helping me.”
“I’m sorry.”
She chuckles. Why is she laughing when she looks so sad?
“You don’t need to apologize, Ivory. Use my card to buy whatever we need, and go buy yourself a small snack, too.”
౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡
The train station is quiet.
Yanaka is a quiet place.
Not many people seem to want to travel today, in this rainy weather. I don’t blame them.
I like the rain, though. I like the pitter-patter sounds when the drops land against my umbrella. It reminds me of music, in some way; unexpecting, rhythmic, beautiful.
It brings me a peace that Spring no longer can.
I wonder if there are others who like the rain. There must be.
My train arrives in eight minutes. I hold my mother’s card tightly in my pocket, afraid that it might fall out. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if it did.
I stare out at the horizon, taking in the view of the small district of Tokyo.
Yanaka is a quiet place.
It is a quiet place.
It is a quiet place for me to rest.
I prefer landscape views. I prefer staring into forests to uncover their secrets. I prefer tall mountains and swirling rivers and open fields, but Yanaka is pretty, too. I like the short buildings and many wires and paper lanterns hanging low by front doors. It is a forest of its own, in a way.
Perhaps I could compose a song about it.
If only I had a piano.
I cannot afford a piano.
I cannot play my songs. They are only distant tunes in the wind, now.
I hear a rattle, then an annoyed huff, then a loud metal clang.
I crane my neck to the side, only to see a lonely, red vending machine at the end of the platform, its only company a black haired girl with purple, glittery streaks.
Curiosity, who has killed many cats in its life, gets the better of me.
I walk towards her.
I’m walking towards her.
A soft, distant tune starts playing in the back of my head.
When I’m closer, I notice the dilemma. Her specifically chosen cherry soda is stuck in the vending machine, taunting the girl as it looks like it’s about to fall, but never does.
“This is a waste of time,” she mutters under her breath, giving up on the cherry soda.
Too scared to say a word, I step around her and study the vending machine, then in one smooth move, I slam my shoulder against the side of it.
The cherry soda falls.
I rub my arm, wincing at the pain. It’s okay, though. It’s my fault for slamming into a wall of metal so forcefully.
The girl stares at me. I stare at her back, noticing her features for the first time.
She looks like one of my songs: Mountain Ash, I think it’s called. She looks like its swift and delicate but confident notes. She looks like the song playing the same notes over and over again, repetitive but infinitely beautiful, with slight changes after every second line and every eighth bar.
She looks like the beauty of a landscape one could stare at for hours, noticing new details after every few blinks.
Yanaka is a quiet place with beautiful human beings.
Silently, I hand her the cherry soda.
She takes it. Her nails are painted iridescent purple.
“Arigatou gozaimasu,” she says in Japanese, giving a small bow, though I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know why she’s bowing.
I give a small bow back.
I hear the whistle of a train. My train. I hesitate, opening my mouth to say something to her, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if she can speak English.
I feel guilt pouring down my mind and throat and heart like thick, suffocating oil.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur quietly, then pick up my skirts and run for the train, catching it right before the doors shut.
I take a seat next to a slumbering elderly man, holding my mother’s card in my dress pocket so tightly that it leaves a mark on my fingers. I don’t notice the ache, staring out the window, at the bright red vending machine, at the girl.
The girl is sipping her cherry soda.
The girl finds me with her eyes.
She gives me a small wave.
The train departs before I can wave back.