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Thirteen and a Half Hour Girl
Summary: A story about Chihiro and Renji.
Chihiro woke up sluggishly in the morning, her small hands spread out against the pillow, violet hair violently splayed against the sunlight. She winced, shading her eyes, struggling to fight for her memories. Slowly, they dredged up from a murky, sticky darkness. Her twin sister, her senpai, the town of Otowa—
And a name.
“Ren . . . ji.”
“So you’re awake,” somebody said, and she looked up to see a boy in a pink apron, with kind eyes, carrying a silver platter. The smells of breakfast wafted to her nose, and her stomach let out an involuntary gurgle, even as she abruptly pressed herself against her bed.
Her memories floated to her head now, shards of fallen broken glass that made a sparkling sound. She had lost her memories—and, unfortunately, an eye—in an accident—though the accident itself—and Renji.
“You slept for a really long time,” the boy said with a slight smile. “Ah, you must be hungry. Here, this morning’s breakfast.” The buttered bread looked warm and comfortable, and the arrangement so nicely done. Chihiro waited until the boy had turned his back on her to open the curtains before looking around the room. It was a small, different room, with books assorted on the shelves, and two little stuffed chickens sitting on the desk, where a pink book laid open.
“I think you even slept twelve hours,” the boy said, looking at the clock. The room was full of clocks—ticking clocks, digital clocks, and even a grandfather clock, sitting on the other side, ungrateful against the pink wallpaper. There was something creeping into his tone, which said he knew for a fact how long she slept.
“Excuse me,” she said in a small voice. “May I ask you a strange question?”
The boy’s smile grew stilted, and a moment of weakness filtered into his defenses, something so vulnerable that Chihiro felt like crying. “Ah!” he said. “Ah!” he repeated, even louder. “Ah, I’m Renji. Asou Renji.”
Absently, he rubbed the bandage around his head, tied in a slant for a wound on the right side of his forehead.
“Good morning, Chihiro.”
--
It was strange to see her own handwriting, though she didn’t recall any words. Hesitantly, and with a slight blush on her face, she read about Renji, and their troubles. Some pages had been crumbled and torn, but reading the last page, she understood their hardships.
But it was still very strange, to see herself with a boy she did not remember. But the smile on his face had been so bright, she could not bear to see him look wounded again.
Her heart clenched at the thought.
“Good morning,” she said, arriving downstairs. Renji was casually dressed now, typing on his laptop downstairs (though she could only presume it was his). Yesterday’s her must have loved him very much, but she felt vaguely uneasy. This boy was scary and strange.
As if reading her thoughts, Renji smiled a little brighter. “Do you want to stay in today, Chihiro?” he asked, kindly. “It’s too sunny outside to travel much.”
“It is very sunny,” she agreed in a timid voice, sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch, a little far from him to be natural. Renji watched her for another moment, and began to type again, the clicking filling up the room. It seemed to be in tune to the clock, and she looked at it the clock intently. Every minute meant another wound to her heart, another memory lost, another piece of yesterday’s her missing.
“Don’t look at the clock too much,” Renji said. “Why don’t you water the plants?”
“Eh?” How did he know her more than she knew herself? Uneasily, she shifted her view outside, only to see the bright blue sky. She inched closer to the window, staring at the cobblestone streets, and then at the sky again. Wisps of clouds occasionally clouded the view, but disappeared slowly under the gaze.
“Is there something interesting outside?”
“The sky is very blue,” she said, “It is blue enough to make me want to cry.”
--
The next time she flipped through her diary, she noticed some strange splotches at the upper corner. Curiously, she tried to rub it off, but only a strange smell was left behind. It wasn’t a familiar smell, but something stagnant, and somewhat mysterious, as if the stain would not leave.
--
--
She dreamed of a black feather.
--
“Are you ready?” Renji asked, appearing at her doorway, dressed warmly.
Chihiro glanced up from her own novel. It was an interesting novel, about a girl who was the only one in the world, and whenever she read it, it resonated deeply within herself. Her fingers tingled as she closed the book and curiously looked at him.
“To the carnival,” he said nervously, scratching his face. “Ah! But if you don’t feel like going, then—“
“Carnival?”
“Ah, the carnival that came to town. I told you yester—“ And he seemed to realize what he was saying, so he shut his mouth quickly. “Do you want to go?” he asked instead.
She stared at her little pink diary.
--
--
--
There were three stuffed chickens on her desk in the morning, and her breakfast was toast with jam, though Renji promised a special breakfast for her tomorrow. But she did not understand why he would go through such troubles, especially if she was such a burden and would forget the next day.
Sometimes, she felt like disappearing—not dying, but disappearing—so she would no longer have to trouble so many people, with her disappearing memory. She would finally chase after them into the abyss, the frightening abyss where she would slowly even see through her own hand. But whenever she considered the option, her body would flinch.
“Muscle memory, maybe?” Renji said, over dinner. She nibbled at the salmon.
“Muscle . . . memory?”
“When the mind doesn’t remember, sometimes the body does,” he said. He smiled, in his sweet way. “I think maybe you have something like that, too. Because, uh, how should I say this . . . “ He scratched his cheek. “You told me something like that, a long time ago. But I think you’re stronger now.”
It felt like she was still a slip of a child, playing tug-a-war with her sister over a boy. Lost, she nibbled at her rice instead. “I don’t think I’m stronger,” she said quietly.
“You said that, too,” he said, “Only a few days ago.”
She felt weak, suddenly. She wished she could remember it, her own words that she had told him.
--
When it was still light, and Renji was working on a document, she took a towel and wetted it underneath the cold tap. Then she pressed it against her diary and scrubbed at the corner. But it only seemed to make the stain worse.
--
--
“Do I have a favorite book?” she asked him quietly. The library was large, filled with books upon books upon books, stuffing it to the breaking point. The fresh smell made her legs tremble with excitement, and she eagerly looked upon Renji, who looked smart in his school uniform.
“You liked this fairy tale,” he said, holding his bag underneath his arm. “Let’s see—ah!” The bag dropped. She reached down to pick it up for him, but her head only bumped into his.
“Ah!”
“Ah!”
They leapt back, shy once more. Renji flushed, holding onto his head, and Chihiro trembled. “I-I’m sorry,” she hastily said. “How—how is your wound?”
“This?” Renji touched the bandage that wrapped around his head firmly. “It’s fine. It’s old,” he assured her, too quickly, “It’s just won’t close. It’s a little troublesome.”
“Maybe I should see it, sometime . . . “
“No,” he said, “No, it’s fine. Thank you, Chihiro.” He turned back to the bookshelf, finger listlessly treading upon well-worn titles. She curiously looked at him, but he seemed happy to have found the book.
“What is this about?” she asked, opening it slowly. The illustrations were old, and she almost gasped when she saw the beautiful picture of a swan rising from the lake.
“It’s about a girl,” Renji said, and there was a storyteller tone in his voice that she could only listen, staring at the tragic picture. “Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman, and they were happy together, and had eleven boys and one girl. However, the mother died, leaving the man to remarry a witch, who turned the boys into swans, and they carried off the girl before she, too, was turned. But if she could keep silent and sew shirts out of nettles, she could turn her brothers back. And, then, ah . . . “
“Ah?”
“. . . She met a king,” he said, “and they were happy together. But she was accused of being a witch and was about to be burned, when her brothers showed up, and she threw the shirts over them. But she did not finish the last one, so her youngest brother had a wing for an arm.”
“You’re mean,” she said.
“M-Mean?”
“You spoiled it.”
“I’m sorry . . . “
She sniffed. “That’s sad,” she said. “This is a sad story.”
“Yeah,” Renji said, bending closer to the book, until she could smell him—the scent of warmth and assurance, awkwardness but kindness. “The girl couldn’t say anything for so long, even so close to her death.”
“But a lot of other people suffered,” she said, “like the king, who couldn’t hear her voice. And her brothers, who were swans. And the youngest one—with the wing—for—an arm—“ A teardrop slid down her face.
“Chihiro . . . “
--
[How are you today, Chihiro?]
[Sister . . . I am doing very well with Renji-kun. How are you?]
[We won our last basketball game.]
Chihiro looked at her cell phone, dressed in her pajamas, and wondered why she could not even remember that her twin sister played basketball. She looked at the little pink diary, whose mysterious stain seemed to spread until it covered half the book, though Renji said it was only a small stain in the corner.
--
--
--
She dreamed of the boy with an arm, and he was crying.
--
“I’m not sure if I was alive before today,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Renji looked up from his cooking. Her moldly sandwiches sat in front of her, a pathetic attempt that she could only half-recall making. Now he was fixing them a real lunch, something that smelled warm, and sizzled in the pan.
“Because,” she said, suddenly. “Because I don’t remember. Is it more than just yesterday’s me?”
“Chihiro . . . “
“Because if I sleep too long, I wake up and I’m little again,” she said, looking at the horrendous sandwiches. “And I don’t know anything—I don’t even remember you, Renji-kun—“
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t want this! I don’t want this!” And a sudden feeling of anger and childishness washed over her. “Why do I have to be like this? Why am I missing my eye? Why can’t I be normal?” Impulsively, she gripped her diary tightly, until it felt like it was cutting into her hand. “Why--?”
And then her memory went blank.
--
--
--
There were four chicken stuffed animals on her desk.
--
--
She dreamed of the boy with a wing for an arm again, and he limped behind her, with no malicious intentions, but face shaded in sadness, tears dropping down his face.
--
--
--
“It’s nice to meet you again, Chi-hi-ro,” Kuze said, holding up a hand.
--
--
--
--
Unraveled, bloody bandages lay at the bottom of the wastebasket in the bathroom.
--
--
--
--
--
She was running. Her thin legs could barely support her, and her heart beat so quickly that it felt like it was in her throat. The sky was blue, a bright blue sky with the rims of orange slightly dampening around the edges, but that, too, made her feel like crying. She ran through the school, her footsteps echoing behind her, as if someone was chasing her.
She could not remember why she was running.
Breath burning, she ran up the dark stairways until it felt like she would explode, and then she opened the door. The wave of fresh air embraced her, and she exhaled her poisonous breath, letting it fall and sift softly to the ground.
“Chihiro.”
“Eh?” She stood up, and looked at Himura, who stood at the edge of the building. He had been staring at the sky, and now reflectively looked back upon her kindly.
“It’s unusual to see you without Renji.”
“Ah . . . “ She grasped for her diary, but it dropped from her hands, collapsing onto the floor.
“The sky’s beautiful today.”
“Yes,” she said timidly. “It’s so bright that it makes me want to cry.”
“What kind of skies make you want to cry?”
“All kinds,” Chihiro said, “Blue skies, red skies, orange skies, violet skies . . . “
“Then maybe it’s not the sky at all that makes you want to cry.”
“Eh?”
“Do you have a wish, Chihiro?” His quiet, somber voice rang into her ears. She looked down at her diary, and picked it up again. Her breathing seemed to have calmed, because the presence of Himura. The stain seemed to have spread onto the entire diary, and under certain snatches of light, seemed to spread her own hands.
“I want . . . I want to wash away this stain,” she said.
“That’s not the cause,” he said. “That is only an effect. Chihiro, what is your wish?”
Her wish? She used to think it was to fix her memory, but her body twitched again, as if saying that she had also thought of this, a long time ago, and it was not the answer. Her wish? Turning the diary in her hands, she hesitantly stepped forward closer to the building. The sky reflected over the entire city, and it wavered under the light.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I want to fly.”
“It’s a common wish,” he said, the light hitting a particular angle of his glasses, so she could no longer see his eyes. “But it’s not your wish.”
“Not mine . . . “
“Because,” he said, “if you flew, then there is someone who would try to follow you.”
“Someone?”
“Someone who will fall instead of fly.” He placed his hand on her head. “You have skills that nobody else has.”
“Me? But . . . I . . . “
The sudden image of the broken boy came to her mind, with a wing for an arm, unable to fly, unable to walk. He limped along behind her, crying silently. He stretched out an arm, but fell, black feathers flying into her face. She trembled violently, and tried to reach to the strange boy.
“Don’t disappear,” Himura said. “Or you’ll fly away, leaving us behind.”
Her fingers weaved into the boy’s hair and she embraced him, his warmth, his feathery arm, and she could see his face, for once. Renji drifted in and out of sleep, trying to grasp her, but fingers failing to fully take her. He had been trying to fly, but his wing was useless. He shuddered violently, feathers spread out like a pillow beneath them, and the blood trickled down his face, from a small cut on his right forehead.
“Ah!” Chihiro leapt up. “Th-Thank you! Please excuse me, I have to go—“
And this time, when she ran, she knew where she was running.
--
“Chihiro,” Renji said, with a smile. “You’re back in time for dinner.” He sheepishly laughed. “I was a little worried if you would come back or not . . . “
“Liar.”
“Eh?” He put down the pot, and removed one charred, pink oven glove.
“You were really worried, weren’t you.” She bit her bottom lip.
“Ah,” he said, looking down at their soup. “I’m not a very good liar, am I . . . “
“I won’t leave,” she said, brokenly, taking his hands (hands, not wings) into her own. “I don’t understand. Why would you be worried?”
“This seems silly,” he said shyly, “but you sometimes seemed so distant from me. Like you’d fly away, somewhere, maybe . . . “
“I won’t,” she said. “I won’t.” And she reached up to touch his forehead, where a small, nearly invisible cut still remained. “I threw my diary at you, didn’t I?”
“Eh?” He seemed startled. “A-ah, but it was a very long time ago,” he said. “And you didn’t write in your diary that day, because you’d forgotten about your memories . . . “
“No,” she said. “I’m still Chihiro, and I know, even if my mind forgets.” She smiled a little. “I think you told me that, Renji.”
“Eh?” The surprise in his eyes was visible. “How do you remember—“
She impulsively pressed herself forward for a quick, chaste kiss, drawing back with her face flushed. And he seemed to be blushing just as much, even when he kissed her again.
--
The stain on her diary disappeared.
--
In the morning, she woke up with the sunlight in her eyes. Her hair spread out against the pillow, and she rubbed her eye in confusion. There was a soft clutter, and the door opened softly to show a boy coming into the room. He held a silver platter with a pancake and a high glass of orange juice, artistically decorated, with a flower in a vase.
“You slept for thirteen hours,” he said gently. Awkwardly, he looked at a clock, placing the platter on the table. Then he opened the curtains.
“Are you Renji?” she asked, sleepily.
“. . . Chihiro?”
“I don’t remember,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “I just know—I hear that name. Renji. You must be . . . Renji.”
“You remembered?” He blinked, wiping his hands on his frilly pink apron. “How—“
“It must be a muscle memory,” she said, sitting up on her bed. And then she smiled. “You’re a part of me, Renji. I . . . love you.”
And this, she remembered.
Chihiro woke up sluggishly in the morning, her small hands spread out against the pillow, violet hair violently splayed against the sunlight. She winced, shading her eyes, struggling to fight for her memories. Slowly, they dredged up from a murky, sticky darkness. Her twin sister, her senpai, the town of Otowa—
And a name.
“Ren . . . ji.”
“So you’re awake,” somebody said, and she looked up to see a boy in a pink apron, with kind eyes, carrying a silver platter. The smells of breakfast wafted to her nose, and her stomach let out an involuntary gurgle, even as she abruptly pressed herself against her bed.
Her memories floated to her head now, shards of fallen broken glass that made a sparkling sound. She had lost her memories—and, unfortunately, an eye—in an accident—though the accident itself—and Renji.
“You slept for a really long time,” the boy said with a slight smile. “Ah, you must be hungry. Here, this morning’s breakfast.” The buttered bread looked warm and comfortable, and the arrangement so nicely done. Chihiro waited until the boy had turned his back on her to open the curtains before looking around the room. It was a small, different room, with books assorted on the shelves, and two little stuffed chickens sitting on the desk, where a pink book laid open.
“I think you even slept twelve hours,” the boy said, looking at the clock. The room was full of clocks—ticking clocks, digital clocks, and even a grandfather clock, sitting on the other side, ungrateful against the pink wallpaper. There was something creeping into his tone, which said he knew for a fact how long she slept.
“Excuse me,” she said in a small voice. “May I ask you a strange question?”
The boy’s smile grew stilted, and a moment of weakness filtered into his defenses, something so vulnerable that Chihiro felt like crying. “Ah!” he said. “Ah!” he repeated, even louder. “Ah, I’m Renji. Asou Renji.”
Absently, he rubbed the bandage around his head, tied in a slant for a wound on the right side of his forehead.
“Good morning, Chihiro.”
--
It was strange to see her own handwriting, though she didn’t recall any words. Hesitantly, and with a slight blush on her face, she read about Renji, and their troubles. Some pages had been crumbled and torn, but reading the last page, she understood their hardships.
But it was still very strange, to see herself with a boy she did not remember. But the smile on his face had been so bright, she could not bear to see him look wounded again.
Her heart clenched at the thought.
“Good morning,” she said, arriving downstairs. Renji was casually dressed now, typing on his laptop downstairs (though she could only presume it was his). Yesterday’s her must have loved him very much, but she felt vaguely uneasy. This boy was scary and strange.
As if reading her thoughts, Renji smiled a little brighter. “Do you want to stay in today, Chihiro?” he asked, kindly. “It’s too sunny outside to travel much.”
“It is very sunny,” she agreed in a timid voice, sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch, a little far from him to be natural. Renji watched her for another moment, and began to type again, the clicking filling up the room. It seemed to be in tune to the clock, and she looked at it the clock intently. Every minute meant another wound to her heart, another memory lost, another piece of yesterday’s her missing.
“Don’t look at the clock too much,” Renji said. “Why don’t you water the plants?”
“Eh?” How did he know her more than she knew herself? Uneasily, she shifted her view outside, only to see the bright blue sky. She inched closer to the window, staring at the cobblestone streets, and then at the sky again. Wisps of clouds occasionally clouded the view, but disappeared slowly under the gaze.
“Is there something interesting outside?”
“The sky is very blue,” she said, “It is blue enough to make me want to cry.”
--
The next time she flipped through her diary, she noticed some strange splotches at the upper corner. Curiously, she tried to rub it off, but only a strange smell was left behind. It wasn’t a familiar smell, but something stagnant, and somewhat mysterious, as if the stain would not leave.
--
--
She dreamed of a black feather.
--
“Are you ready?” Renji asked, appearing at her doorway, dressed warmly.
Chihiro glanced up from her own novel. It was an interesting novel, about a girl who was the only one in the world, and whenever she read it, it resonated deeply within herself. Her fingers tingled as she closed the book and curiously looked at him.
“To the carnival,” he said nervously, scratching his face. “Ah! But if you don’t feel like going, then—“
“Carnival?”
“Ah, the carnival that came to town. I told you yester—“ And he seemed to realize what he was saying, so he shut his mouth quickly. “Do you want to go?” he asked instead.
She stared at her little pink diary.
--
--
--
There were three stuffed chickens on her desk in the morning, and her breakfast was toast with jam, though Renji promised a special breakfast for her tomorrow. But she did not understand why he would go through such troubles, especially if she was such a burden and would forget the next day.
Sometimes, she felt like disappearing—not dying, but disappearing—so she would no longer have to trouble so many people, with her disappearing memory. She would finally chase after them into the abyss, the frightening abyss where she would slowly even see through her own hand. But whenever she considered the option, her body would flinch.
“Muscle memory, maybe?” Renji said, over dinner. She nibbled at the salmon.
“Muscle . . . memory?”
“When the mind doesn’t remember, sometimes the body does,” he said. He smiled, in his sweet way. “I think maybe you have something like that, too. Because, uh, how should I say this . . . “ He scratched his cheek. “You told me something like that, a long time ago. But I think you’re stronger now.”
It felt like she was still a slip of a child, playing tug-a-war with her sister over a boy. Lost, she nibbled at her rice instead. “I don’t think I’m stronger,” she said quietly.
“You said that, too,” he said, “Only a few days ago.”
She felt weak, suddenly. She wished she could remember it, her own words that she had told him.
--
When it was still light, and Renji was working on a document, she took a towel and wetted it underneath the cold tap. Then she pressed it against her diary and scrubbed at the corner. But it only seemed to make the stain worse.
--
--
“Do I have a favorite book?” she asked him quietly. The library was large, filled with books upon books upon books, stuffing it to the breaking point. The fresh smell made her legs tremble with excitement, and she eagerly looked upon Renji, who looked smart in his school uniform.
“You liked this fairy tale,” he said, holding his bag underneath his arm. “Let’s see—ah!” The bag dropped. She reached down to pick it up for him, but her head only bumped into his.
“Ah!”
“Ah!”
They leapt back, shy once more. Renji flushed, holding onto his head, and Chihiro trembled. “I-I’m sorry,” she hastily said. “How—how is your wound?”
“This?” Renji touched the bandage that wrapped around his head firmly. “It’s fine. It’s old,” he assured her, too quickly, “It’s just won’t close. It’s a little troublesome.”
“Maybe I should see it, sometime . . . “
“No,” he said, “No, it’s fine. Thank you, Chihiro.” He turned back to the bookshelf, finger listlessly treading upon well-worn titles. She curiously looked at him, but he seemed happy to have found the book.
“What is this about?” she asked, opening it slowly. The illustrations were old, and she almost gasped when she saw the beautiful picture of a swan rising from the lake.
“It’s about a girl,” Renji said, and there was a storyteller tone in his voice that she could only listen, staring at the tragic picture. “Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman, and they were happy together, and had eleven boys and one girl. However, the mother died, leaving the man to remarry a witch, who turned the boys into swans, and they carried off the girl before she, too, was turned. But if she could keep silent and sew shirts out of nettles, she could turn her brothers back. And, then, ah . . . “
“Ah?”
“. . . She met a king,” he said, “and they were happy together. But she was accused of being a witch and was about to be burned, when her brothers showed up, and she threw the shirts over them. But she did not finish the last one, so her youngest brother had a wing for an arm.”
“You’re mean,” she said.
“M-Mean?”
“You spoiled it.”
“I’m sorry . . . “
She sniffed. “That’s sad,” she said. “This is a sad story.”
“Yeah,” Renji said, bending closer to the book, until she could smell him—the scent of warmth and assurance, awkwardness but kindness. “The girl couldn’t say anything for so long, even so close to her death.”
“But a lot of other people suffered,” she said, “like the king, who couldn’t hear her voice. And her brothers, who were swans. And the youngest one—with the wing—for—an arm—“ A teardrop slid down her face.
“Chihiro . . . “
--
[How are you today, Chihiro?]
[Sister . . . I am doing very well with Renji-kun. How are you?]
[We won our last basketball game.]
Chihiro looked at her cell phone, dressed in her pajamas, and wondered why she could not even remember that her twin sister played basketball. She looked at the little pink diary, whose mysterious stain seemed to spread until it covered half the book, though Renji said it was only a small stain in the corner.
--
--
--
She dreamed of the boy with an arm, and he was crying.
--
“I’m not sure if I was alive before today,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Renji looked up from his cooking. Her moldly sandwiches sat in front of her, a pathetic attempt that she could only half-recall making. Now he was fixing them a real lunch, something that smelled warm, and sizzled in the pan.
“Because,” she said, suddenly. “Because I don’t remember. Is it more than just yesterday’s me?”
“Chihiro . . . “
“Because if I sleep too long, I wake up and I’m little again,” she said, looking at the horrendous sandwiches. “And I don’t know anything—I don’t even remember you, Renji-kun—“
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t want this! I don’t want this!” And a sudden feeling of anger and childishness washed over her. “Why do I have to be like this? Why am I missing my eye? Why can’t I be normal?” Impulsively, she gripped her diary tightly, until it felt like it was cutting into her hand. “Why--?”
And then her memory went blank.
--
--
--
There were four chicken stuffed animals on her desk.
--
--
She dreamed of the boy with a wing for an arm again, and he limped behind her, with no malicious intentions, but face shaded in sadness, tears dropping down his face.
--
--
--
“It’s nice to meet you again, Chi-hi-ro,” Kuze said, holding up a hand.
--
--
--
--
Unraveled, bloody bandages lay at the bottom of the wastebasket in the bathroom.
--
--
--
--
--
She was running. Her thin legs could barely support her, and her heart beat so quickly that it felt like it was in her throat. The sky was blue, a bright blue sky with the rims of orange slightly dampening around the edges, but that, too, made her feel like crying. She ran through the school, her footsteps echoing behind her, as if someone was chasing her.
She could not remember why she was running.
Breath burning, she ran up the dark stairways until it felt like she would explode, and then she opened the door. The wave of fresh air embraced her, and she exhaled her poisonous breath, letting it fall and sift softly to the ground.
“Chihiro.”
“Eh?” She stood up, and looked at Himura, who stood at the edge of the building. He had been staring at the sky, and now reflectively looked back upon her kindly.
“It’s unusual to see you without Renji.”
“Ah . . . “ She grasped for her diary, but it dropped from her hands, collapsing onto the floor.
“The sky’s beautiful today.”
“Yes,” she said timidly. “It’s so bright that it makes me want to cry.”
“What kind of skies make you want to cry?”
“All kinds,” Chihiro said, “Blue skies, red skies, orange skies, violet skies . . . “
“Then maybe it’s not the sky at all that makes you want to cry.”
“Eh?”
“Do you have a wish, Chihiro?” His quiet, somber voice rang into her ears. She looked down at her diary, and picked it up again. Her breathing seemed to have calmed, because the presence of Himura. The stain seemed to have spread onto the entire diary, and under certain snatches of light, seemed to spread her own hands.
“I want . . . I want to wash away this stain,” she said.
“That’s not the cause,” he said. “That is only an effect. Chihiro, what is your wish?”
Her wish? She used to think it was to fix her memory, but her body twitched again, as if saying that she had also thought of this, a long time ago, and it was not the answer. Her wish? Turning the diary in her hands, she hesitantly stepped forward closer to the building. The sky reflected over the entire city, and it wavered under the light.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I want to fly.”
“It’s a common wish,” he said, the light hitting a particular angle of his glasses, so she could no longer see his eyes. “But it’s not your wish.”
“Not mine . . . “
“Because,” he said, “if you flew, then there is someone who would try to follow you.”
“Someone?”
“Someone who will fall instead of fly.” He placed his hand on her head. “You have skills that nobody else has.”
“Me? But . . . I . . . “
The sudden image of the broken boy came to her mind, with a wing for an arm, unable to fly, unable to walk. He limped along behind her, crying silently. He stretched out an arm, but fell, black feathers flying into her face. She trembled violently, and tried to reach to the strange boy.
“Don’t disappear,” Himura said. “Or you’ll fly away, leaving us behind.”
Her fingers weaved into the boy’s hair and she embraced him, his warmth, his feathery arm, and she could see his face, for once. Renji drifted in and out of sleep, trying to grasp her, but fingers failing to fully take her. He had been trying to fly, but his wing was useless. He shuddered violently, feathers spread out like a pillow beneath them, and the blood trickled down his face, from a small cut on his right forehead.
“Ah!” Chihiro leapt up. “Th-Thank you! Please excuse me, I have to go—“
And this time, when she ran, she knew where she was running.
--
“Chihiro,” Renji said, with a smile. “You’re back in time for dinner.” He sheepishly laughed. “I was a little worried if you would come back or not . . . “
“Liar.”
“Eh?” He put down the pot, and removed one charred, pink oven glove.
“You were really worried, weren’t you.” She bit her bottom lip.
“Ah,” he said, looking down at their soup. “I’m not a very good liar, am I . . . “
“I won’t leave,” she said, brokenly, taking his hands (hands, not wings) into her own. “I don’t understand. Why would you be worried?”
“This seems silly,” he said shyly, “but you sometimes seemed so distant from me. Like you’d fly away, somewhere, maybe . . . “
“I won’t,” she said. “I won’t.” And she reached up to touch his forehead, where a small, nearly invisible cut still remained. “I threw my diary at you, didn’t I?”
“Eh?” He seemed startled. “A-ah, but it was a very long time ago,” he said. “And you didn’t write in your diary that day, because you’d forgotten about your memories . . . “
“No,” she said. “I’m still Chihiro, and I know, even if my mind forgets.” She smiled a little. “I think you told me that, Renji.”
“Eh?” The surprise in his eyes was visible. “How do you remember—“
She impulsively pressed herself forward for a quick, chaste kiss, drawing back with her face flushed. And he seemed to be blushing just as much, even when he kissed her again.
--
The stain on her diary disappeared.
--
In the morning, she woke up with the sunlight in her eyes. Her hair spread out against the pillow, and she rubbed her eye in confusion. There was a soft clutter, and the door opened softly to show a boy coming into the room. He held a silver platter with a pancake and a high glass of orange juice, artistically decorated, with a flower in a vase.
“You slept for thirteen hours,” he said gently. Awkwardly, he looked at a clock, placing the platter on the table. Then he opened the curtains.
“Are you Renji?” she asked, sleepily.
“. . . Chihiro?”
“I don’t remember,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “I just know—I hear that name. Renji. You must be . . . Renji.”
“You remembered?” He blinked, wiping his hands on his frilly pink apron. “How—“
“It must be a muscle memory,” she said, sitting up on her bed. And then she smiled. “You’re a part of me, Renji. I . . . love you.”
And this, she remembered.