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Haruka moves forward, the low drum of his heart counting his steps until he reaches the line. He shifts into position, feet apart. Then he straightens his posture, adjusting his stance.
His hand grips his bow, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under his finger tips. This is his bow. His grandmother’s bow. He watched her practice her form countless weekends at the range with this bow when he was little. She let him run his fingers over it so many times, smiled when he handled it with reverent awe. Now that she’s gone, it is not hers any more by the normal sense of the term. But he feels her presence, the controlled hand that used to hold this bow. She still owns it. And so he tries to draw his strength from hers to place his own ownership over it.
His right hand raises up. His fingers feel for the bowstring between the thick material of his gloves. He turns his head and sights the target on the far end of the range. He breathes in and raises the bow above his head, feeling the slightest tremors that his muscles make in the movement.
Even if the bow is theirs, the way they use it is not the same. Haruka remembers the way his grandmother used to keep the index finger of her bow-holding arm extended. She told him once it was so that, like how her arrow would hopefully travel straight and true, her own soul would continue on the path she wished to take. He still thinks the idea is poetic, very much a reflection of the kind of person she was.
But as he lowers the bow, spreading his arms to draw the string, he curls his finger in towards his knuckles. He keeps everything close to him. His thoughts, his feelings, his words. Even his spirit too, confined by loneliness and reticence. All of his imperfections hover over his body, weighing him down.
He sees the path. He accepts his imperfections. Then he lets his arrow go,
and he becomes free.
He breathes out. Haru slowly lowers his bow completely, turning his head from the range and resting his knuckles on his hips. The hitched breath from the audience behind him must mean he hit the target, because he honestly hadn’t bothered to look close enough. The connection to his grandmother and the release of the arrow is all that matters to him.
He returns to himself once he steps away from the line, distanced from that single clarified moment of freedom. But lately, there is no sense of being unbearably weighed down, and this time is the same. Because his spirit has found an answer.
Makoto is smiling knowingly when Haru turns around. Nagisa and Rei aren’t far behind, offering up loud exclamations of congratulations, and Rin and Gou are just beyond, exchanging amused glances.
"Here you go, Haru-chan. Good job."
Haru looks up. “I told you to drop the -chan,” he mutters as he takes the offered towel, but hides a smile in the fabric as he presses it to his face.
Yes, grandmother. I’ve found my answer.