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If you could make a wish, one last time, what would it be?
Toph had listened to those exact string of words her whole life. She'd spend a silent minute, staring out into the blue. Then she'd open her mouth ever so slightly before closing it shut once more. It was as though the wish caught in her throat. And maybe it had. But here in Kaizuka, Japan, it was hard to mutter words that held no truth.
Morning cicadas chirped and the waves of a nearby river echoed a desperate sound that was too faint. Only the people who'd stare blankly out the window could make out such distinct noise, Toph was one of them.
It was a silly question after all. Hypothetical—she'd interject. However, as the sun grew higher in the sky, she couldn't help but ponder.
Her final wish? Such a childish question. It was a question you'd hear during awkward conversations to try and keep it running. But perhaps the simplicity of it all was enough, and Toph had only realized that people had forgotten about the charm behind asking someone about their favourite color.
Toph's favorite color was blue. She didn't know what it looked like, and she hadn't been able to take in the pleasure of seeing it. Was it her favorite color despite the circumstances? Absolutely. But soon, her days had faded into nothing but blue.
And one day, something broke. Maybe it was the conversation she had with the town's local doctor, or maybe it was from the fact she'd have to spend the rest of her counted days within a building no one wished to end up in.
It was blue, the doctor told her. The roof, the decorations, the sliding doors. And the rest were made from creaking wood that sent either a wave of nostalgia, or dread for the days many patients waited for. Toph wished for rest, and yet like a cruel joke, she instead got tuberculosis.
Twenty-two years of life, pending for a moment she'll forever remain twenty-two. Toph waited for that day to come. The moment in which her heart would rest after two decades of keeping her frail and sickly body alive. It had done it's job, and Toph was grateful for the ache it had endured.
"A thousand paper cranes."
The muffled laughter of children rung within the corridors. In this sanitarium, whether young or old, everyone carried an illness that no one had been prepared for. It was more than cruel to see young children believe that they'll ever live to see beyond this small compound.
A land for the sickly, and a land for the abandoned.
Most families—after finding out that their children had tuberculosis—would drive the kids and drop them off as if it was a simple trip to their aunts home, it wasn't. Toph had no family, and after her diagnosis, she'd carefully pack an almost empty baggage before voluntarily entering the building with a heart that was too light and relieved.
When she had first entered a few months ago, she heard the same words from the children's room. A thousand paper cranes.
It is said that when one folds a thousand paper cranes, a wish of theirs would be granted. And the children had many wishes they wanted to come true.
Toph's steps pattered against the creaking floorboards. She turned towards the room where the children sat with a nurse who could only do so much. Both children and elders learnt how to do oragami. It was the last piece of folded hope they could cling to.
She quietly sat inside the room. No patient went unnoticed, but in a room filled with bittersweet laughter, it was hard to keep count on the amount of smiles that would soon falter underneath white cloth.
But in that still moment, Toph wanted to believe that they still had a chance.
Her quiet thoughts soon wavered at the soft giggles emitting from the crowd. The youngest patient, Kibou, held a paper crane with all the energy she could muster. It quivered against her frail touch but her energetic voice still managed to coax the crowd into cheers and laughter. It was the final crane they needed to reach a thousand. And Kibou could only shudder in excitement as she closed her eyes and made a wish inside her head.
"What did you wish for?" A young boy beside her perked in curiosity. But Kibou knew that wishes were only granted if they were kept a secret.
"You'll find out soon enough," she giggled. And then a sudden cough overcame her system. Her small frame couldn't handle even the smallest of reactions, and that had been the unfortunate part.
Toph straightened her back. She stood with familiar ease before treading through the small garden of the sanitarium. And though it was a place for the sickly, the environment itself was far from unappealing. Her nostrils filled with the scent of camellia and the blown seeds from this year's season of dandelions. Most people were always drawn towards the garden. It had been a silent escape from the loud and static noise after the war.
Years ago from when the second World War had come to an end, many young soldiers and refugees came and went here in Osaka. Sooner or later, as the country slowly settled to recover, a new threat had invaded the bodies of the already frail population of Japan.
"Zuko..." Toph's voice softened as she settled besides a gentleman roughed out by time. He was a young soldier forced to fight during the war. At the age of twenty-six, he had already seen enough of the inhumane reality life had given. He was no older than sixteen when the war forcefully recruited young boys as shield against their country's incompetence.
"Toph, you haven't eaten lunch yet." His gruff expression remained, and with calloused fingers he reached towards the hem of her yukata. Albeit war had toughened his surface, his heart never failed to soften for the people he swore to protect.
Tenuous peace had settled over the past few days. Toph had spent it committing herself to mundane tasks fit for her body's limit. In particular, she had enjoyed helping out with their small community garden near the river. Once again, no relatives had sent any letter to ask about her condition. In fact, she would've been more concerned if there was.
Kibou's legs swayed like leaves on a chilly afternoon. She sat on Toph's lap in search for warmth that her tuberculosis had deprived her from. An orphan with no place to call home. Most of the elders from the sanitarium winced whenever she exclaimed that the sanitarium was her home. It shouldn't be.
In the most vulgar tone, an old woman spat that the sanitarium was hell disguised as mercy. For a country that had not been prepared, many lives were compromised. And all they could promise was a final resting place away from the loud cities.
Toph's fingers raked through Kibou's waist length hair, it was as smooth as silk and according to Kibou, as black as coal.
The day the child was left here, outside in the shivering cold of winter, everyone had cursed vile words towards the family who'd subjected their child to this kind of ruthlessness. And from that day onward, the patients had sworn to protect the young girl from ever going through that same rough road ever again.
"Bāchan is helping me make more paper cranes," Kibou whispered. Her voice reeked of childish naivety as she clutched onto the hem of her small yukata.
Toph's tongue poked slightly from the side of her mouth. It was a tiny surprise—a gesture for effort. She had spent over an hour trying to braid Kibou's hair beautifully. Her blindness was an obstacle, and to add to that would be her terrible skills with styling hair. Although her old roomate Katara had taught her a few techniques to help with keeping hair tame. One of which was braiding—Toph sucked at it.
A low chuckle then breathed from where the shoji stood in place. Toph turned towards the sound and was greeted by the sight of Zuko who seemed more than amuse to see her struggle over something so miniscule.
Zuko sat beside them. He pulled Kibou onto his lap and Toph could only sit still as he managed to braid her hair perfectly while making it look effortless. Zuko grinned, he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Show off..." Toph scoffed. And to her surprise, she had managed to pull a hearty laugh from the stoic man.
Kibou eyed the two of them in suspicion. One of the elders called for her name from the other side of the garden. The two women giggled as though youth never left their hearts. It was a clear jab towards Zuko and Toph's relationship. Were they lovers? Far from it, but everyone else wanted them to confront these feelings before everything was too late.
But Toph believed that there was no place for romance in a place built for rehabilitation. Zuko thought the same at first, and yet the idea never left his mind. To love someone amidst everything? That was the one rule no one dared to break. Loving despite knowing that time was ticking. The chances of claiming a happily ever after was infinitesimal.
That was the worst part. Because Toph never expected that the family she had founded would say goodbye so soon.
It was a gloomy evening. Silence had plagued the entire halls because everyone knew what came next. Indifferent nurses covered from head-to-toe had entered the premises with only one duty. And that was to ensure comfort.
Down to the left of the corridor sat a room dedicated for the youngest member of their little family. Kibou coughed and coughed. Patients had been restricted from entering, asides from Bāchan, Toph, and Zuko.
Her frail body had gotten smaller. Despite the food that nourished her body, none of it was enough. The shape of her collarbones had protruded against the soft cotton fabric of her blue yukata. The nurses had done what they could.
Kibou's bedsheets had been replaced to newer ones and beside her sat Bāchan who could only wipe away the tense knitting of her brows. Poor child, the old woman repeated in her head.
Bāchan whose name was Kira. But she wore that title with pride from the little girl who'd bring the brightest colors in her life.
It was an ostensibly cold evening. Zuko's grip had tightened and flexed again and again. His grip bordered the line of pain as though the bleeding of his palms could numb the ache of his heart.
Toph's face was stoic. It was her anchor against the inner turmoil running through her head. Her face soon scrunched into something resembling the hurt that burdened her shoulders during the war. It was never her plan to end up in Japan, but her home town in China had been too suffocating. Maybe she had grown numb, maybe she had grown to accept that life was unkind. Tuberculosis didn't steal anything from her life—but Toph had been wrong. It stole Kibou.
That very morning, a small body covered in white cloth had exited the sanatorium. Everyone knew who it was, and everyone mourned for who she should've been. Her wish? Granted in the most bittersweet of ways. Her silent whisper had been rest. In that very moment when her eyes shuddered close, she made a silent wish to the paper crane. And that wish had been for a family she could hold close to her heart before finally saying goodbye.
By evening, Toph had been isolated. She was as stubborn as a mule. No meals, not a single one. Her seat at the table remained empty and cold because everyone waited despite the uncertainty of her presence. Mizuki made sure to check up on her every chance she had.
A few weeks passed and Toph's face still held the weight of Kibou's goodbye. She still clinged to the memory of the child. However, she knew that mourning any longer could render her heart blind. She still wanted to live, she wanted to survive—not for herself, but for Kibou.
And so, despite the ache in her fingers, Toph knew that there was no stopping until she reached a thousand paper cranes. In honor of Kubou, and in honor of the family they should've been.
Toph forced herself to sit up to go outside. Had she been so selfish that she failed to recognize the hurt of others—the hurt of Zuko who'd been like a father-figure to Kibou? But perhaps a few moments of selfishness was enough to ease her heart, for if she had knocked on his door too early, she would've folded into nothing but a tear-stained mess.
She knocked on Zuko's door—once or twice—but no one came. It was odd. Toph had memorized the sequence of his response. First he would cough to signal his presence, then with another feigned cough he'd walk towards the door and open it like a gentleman.
Weary steps halted right on her left. Kira let out an awkward cough before coaxing Toph to sit down.
"Zuko left that night..." Kira trailed off. "When Kibou had passed away—he couldn't bear it. He thought about you and remembered that you'll both have to see each other underneath white cloth..."
Toph nodded. She had locked eyes with the ground as though it could stop the tears that stung her eyes.
"Here... Let him explain himself more clearly." Kira handed her a neatly folded letter. It crumpled slightly once Toph reached for it, her storm slowly letting loose. She didn't open it, she didn't cry. Not now—what would Kibou think of her?
Days turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months, and soon? Several years had already passed. Toph lived, she survived. But the guilt constantly lingered like a bitter aftertaste, she should've survived with Kibou and Zuko by her side. Toph never expected a cure, but here she was.
At the age of sixty, Toph was healthier as one can be for that age. She stood at the edge of a grave near the shores. In a small island far from Osaka stood another sanitarium.The sanitarium had been abandoned a few years back, patients moved places and some had passed. She took a quiet seat besides a grave.
Her fingers gently plucked through weeds and stray plants. Toph's lips curved into a soft smile when she felt his carved name brush under the tips of her fingers. Her weary eyes lit up. "There you are."
"You said goodbye too soon…"
She exhaled, it was ragged and shaky. Like she was holding back a taut spring of emotions.
"You never gave me the chance to tell you how much you annoy me. But don't think you're safe now… I know you're listening." Toph's voice had a raspy edge to it. Worn thin by time and age. Like an old record, and yet it was still full of character and life despite the weight she silently carried on her chest. With careful fingers she pulls out a worn letter written in Braille before opening it despite the decades that passed.
Dear Toph,
I know how confused you might be. I didn't want to leave, but believe me—I had been too selfish. I couldn't bear to imagine seeing you in that same state as Kibou. Her passing had stabbed a thousand wounds inside my system, and I know that you're hurting just as much—if not more. My family had willingly moved me here and I accepted because you deserved better than the life a man like me could only offer. I'll only hurt you, and you haven't been hurt enough. My days are as a fleeting as time, but you? You're stronger than the rest of us, and I believe you'll get out of this tunnel more resilient than ever. I love you, I always have.