#ashen bsd hcs

[ashens-atelier]

Poetry

There was a time when Yosano hated poetry.

No, that's not right; “hate” is too strong of a word – and far from the truth. It would be more accurate to say that the very mention of poetry evoked an unsettling feeling in her chest.

“It... it reminds me of him,” she had once told Ranpo, back when her arm was still pierced with various drips, and when her head was still full of various nightmares. “He... he used to love poetry. He would always... read anthologies whenever he... he got the chance.”

Talking about him was hard, back then. Having to remember him was hard, too.

“You're talking about the soldier who gave you this, right?”

Ranpo had gently flicked the butterfly-shaped hairpin resting in her frail, bony hands. Yosano had nodded faintly.

“I... I can't even remember his name,” she had confessed, and by voicing those words which frightened her, she had realized it was probably the reason why she didn't want to read poetry, or even hear about it.

It reminded her that she couldn't remember how the voice which had uttered the words that broke her sounded. It reminded her that she couldn't remember what the face hanged at the end of a rope in her nightmares looked like. If it weren't for the butterfly hairpin resting in her hands, she would have doubted the guy haunting her memories had ever existed at all.

It frightened her. Her memories were like shadows dancing in a dense fog, close enough for her to feel their presence, but so elusive they always escaped her reach.

However, every once in a while, a flash would enlighten the fog, and scraps of her lost memories would finally graze her tormented mind.

“...I-I... I think I used to call him 'Shun', though.”

Ranpo hadn't replied.

They never talked about poetry ever since.

*~*~*

Years later, after overcoming her trauma and growing up as a healthy, strong woman, Yosano took medical classes in order to get a diploma. Not that she cared about the value of that stupid scrap of paper: what she aiming for was the knowledge and qualifications that would make her able to help the agency and the people around her, all without having to rely on her skill alone.

Within her first year at school, she met Hiratsuka Raichô, one of the very few girls in her class. Despite Raichô's aloof personality, combined with her natural difficulty in speaking fluently, the two of them quickly became friends. They would often spend their free time together, either at the library or the nearby café. And it wasn't just because Raichô was a brillant student – the best of their class – and thus greatly helped Yosano with her studies. Yosano also genuinely enjoyed her company, and saw every moment spent together as a perfect occasion to improve her communication with Raichô, especially by learning the sign language with her. Raichô didn't seem to fully comprehend this friendly behavior, but never complained about it, either. Because she was rather unexpressive, it was hard to tell what she thought. But if anything, it was for sure that she appreciated Yosano just as much, if not more.

One day, however, when Yosano found her friend at the library like always, she was met with a rather rare sight: before the dark-haired girl wasn't a school textbook or one of her notebooks, but a thin pile of draft paper, and an inkpot.

“What are you doing?” Yosano couldn't help but ask, prompted by curiosity – and also a strange hunch.

Despite having noticed her arriving by her side, Raichô started as if roused from whatever she was doing. Noticing the way she frowned and darted her eyes around her nervously, Yosano quickly waved her hand in an apologetic gesture.

“Ah, sorry... I didn't mean to be nosy. It's just... rare to see you with something else than a book in your hands.”

Raichô tilted her head to the side, like she would always do when she failed to comprehend the hidden sense behind people's words. She was smart, yet had a candid side that Yosano couldn't help but be fond of.

“Haha, don't look at me like that! I'm just teasing you,” she chuckled softly.

“... Poetry.”

Yosano froze. She knew that, when she wasn't speaking in signs, Raichô usually uttered the main word of her thought before constructing a coherent sentence around it. But the word she pronounced, "poetry"; it plunged her mind into a brief, yet dreadful state of terror – so much that she barely registered the sentence that followed.

“I like... writing poetry... from time to time...” Raichô slowly uttered. Then, noticing Yosano's expression, she hesitantly called out to her: “... Akiko?”

Roused from the dark clouds of panic threatening to fog her mind, Yosano shivered.

“Ah... s-sorry. That's, uh, th-that's great! Haha...”

Raichô tilted her head again, this time with a concerned frown on her face.

“You look pale. Did I say something that upset you?” she signed.

Yosano pursed her lips. It was always when Raichô wasn't voicing out her thoughts that she revealed how sharp-witted and straight-to-the-point she was. Not that Yosano had been very good at concealing her uneasiness this time, though.

“It's... nothing,” she lied, while perfectly aware she could not fool her friend. Especially not when her voice was wavering and her hands shaking as if she had seen a ghost.

A ghost. Like the one haunting her mind. Like the one she felt standing behind her, silent but attentive.

Just like he used to be when he was alive.

“...”

“You don't like poetry?” Raichô signed again.

Before waiting for an answer, she proceeded to put away the draft papers in her bag. Yosano quickly waved her hands and shook her head.

“No, no!! It-it's not... Hold on, even if I did, why are you putting your stuff away?”

“… Bother...?”

“No, that's not bothering me. And even if it did, you don't have to stop what you were doing for me... Especially if you like it.”

It was always easier for Yosano to speak when if she put others' emotions first. Hers were trickier to phrase... at least for her.

Raichô frowned again, but obediently stood still.

“Look, I'm sorry if I disturbed you,” Yosano exclaimed, her liveliness a bit too forced. “Y-You can keep going, don't mind me!”

Since her friend only stared at her silently, Yosano felt her embarrassment turning to irritation.

“H-hey, you know what? How about I take a look at it? Just a peek, alright? You’ll see I don’t actually hate poetry. And I'm sure you're good at that stuff, anyway. You're good at almost everything!”

Oh boy, what am I even saying? This was so typical of her. Blurting out things without thinking and regretting it the second after. Ranpo often teased her about it, and as much as it irked her, she never found the way to cure that embarrassing weakness.

Raichô pensively played with a strand of her long black hair.

“Are... you... sure...?” she asked.

No, I'm not. But now that I've said that, I can't just back down... Refraining from phrasing that aloud, Yosano sat next to her friend, and shrugged in a gesture which she hoped looked casual.

“Why, of course. Do you mind?”

Raichô tilted her head once more. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, but Yosano still spotted a hint of confusion in those dark blue eyes. Eventually, she shrugged as well, and gave her the draft.

What happened after that was both the best and worst feeling experience Yosano ever went through since she got out of the hospital. Raichô's talent for poetry was unquestionable: the lines were well-crafted, the rhymes harmonious, and the content poignant. Yosano was far from being a poetry connoisseur, but something in the way the text was written stirred her like nothing had stirred her before.

“She's got the way with words, don't you think?”

Yosano shivered in the summer heat. She knew no one had spoken in the thick silence prevailing the library. And yet, she did hear a voice as clearly as if someone had been standing behind her.

“… Akiko?”

Yosano's entire body was trembling. A devouring urge to turn around and look behind her gnawed at her chest, chewed at her heart. Nevertheless, she didn't budge.

She didn't want to look. Whether what she would see was thin air or a ghostly vision, she didn't want to see it.

“… I… It's…”

Yosano tried to speak, but emotion put a choker on her throat. She felt like if she tried to force it open, something would break inside of her, and leave way for tears to flow from her burning eyes.

The feeling of something poking at her arm stirred her from her passive state of mind. Raichô had slid a paper towards her; and now that she had her attention, she pointed her finger at it.

Something was written:

You didn't have to go so far.

“…”

Yosano exhaled slowly, and pinched the bridge of her nose – a gesture that didn't completely help push back the tears, but still had the merit of helping her regain some composure, if only a bit.

“… Sorry. Even if it's beautifully written, I shouldn't be reacting like that over some text, right...?”

She tried to laugh, but the heart clearly wasn't at it.

“... But really, it’s beautiful. You got talent, like I suspected.”

Her voice died down, and silence lasted between them. Only the faint sound of crumpled paper troubled it, as Yosano’s trembling hands wrinkled the paper in her hands.

“… I bet he would have loved this poem you wrote, too…”

It was only when a paper poked her arm again that Yosano realized she had said that aloud - albeit in a breath. Raichô’s silent message read:

Are you thinking about someone?

Yosano took another deep breath, and let go of the paper. Crossing her fingers together, she nodded.

“Yes… Poetry… reminds of someone I… I used to know. Someone who’s no longer there…”

Raicho's eyes widened ever-so-slightly, as the subtle shadow of surprise veiled them.

“Loved…?” she inquired vocally.

“Huh? Ah, um…”

The nature of the full question was ambiguous, yet Yosano could guess what it was. Suddenly, her heart felt like it had turn into lead, and sunk deep into her chest. A dreadful cold seized her – the same cold that had invaded both her body and mind after his death.

“… Yes. I cared about him a lot.”

Her mouth felt doughy; the smell of blood progressively invaded her nose down to her palate as haunting memories flashed before her eyes.

“… Akiko?”

“Sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Yosano’s knuckles had turned white. She kept her head low, unable to look at anything but them.

Then, something slowly appeared in her field of vision. It was a book, with a folded note resting on the cover. Yosano confusedly glanced at the book, then at Raichô, then at the book again. When she pushed the note aside to look at the cover, emotion squeezed her throat again.

It was a poem anthology.

“The note…” Raichô’s deep, melodious voice guided Yosano’s eyes to the folded paper, like a wave gently pushed a bottle on the shore. “… Read... the note.”

After another hesitant glance to her friend, she did as instructed.

The note was written in the same elegant writing, with curves so well-traced it gave a certain charm to the words. Although, it was less the form than the content that hit directly at Yosano’s core.

The living should not disregard what the deceased loved.

Because what they loved is what made them who we loved

The living shall cherish what was dear to the deceased

Because as long as it makes us think of them

They will keep on living inside our hearts

Forever

Yosano had her gaze glued to the paper. She read the words again, and again, and again; until they became blurry.

A teardrop fell on the desk. Its flat thud abruptly broke the spell imprisoning Yosano’s mind.

“… Raichô…? You…”

Her friend tilted her head, her expression still undecipherable.

“… Keep… You can keep… the book…” A pause. “… Want… if you want.”

In a heartbeat, it became clear. The fog shrouding Yosano’s memories was still as dense as ever… Yet it felt like she was looking at it with brand new eyes. Suddenly, it didn’t appear as scary as before.

It takes more than a voice or a face to make a person. Sometimes, the little things that mattered are enough to let a memory live on.

Yosano wasn’t forgetting ‘Shun’. She would not forget about him as long as she kept on holding onto the few memories of him she could gather.

And though it didn’t allay the pain born from the memory of his death… It still took one of her many burdens off her chest. It wasn’t much, but deep within her heart, she felt that it mattered nonetheless.

“Raichô… Thank you.”

Raichô merely nodded silently, like she always did. Behind her, Yosano noticed something – like a blurry silhouette.

A silhouette whose eyes were still hidden behind horrendous scars forming the word “just”… But who was now gently smiling at her.

Just like he used to do when he was alive…

*~*~*

The following evening, Ranpo came back at a rather late hour from the police department. After yet another successful case solved, he wanted to report directly to the President, get his well-deserved praiseful words and congratulations, then go back home get some no less well-deserved good sleep.

When he entered the Agency’s office, his weary face enlightened upon spotting Yosano’s familiar face. But before he could salute her, he came to a stop.

Ranpo didn’t have his glasses on; although, he didn’t need them to put the pieces together.

The book Yosano was engrossed into – a poem anthology. The book’s overall aspect – slightly worn out, with yellowing pages. The atmosphere surrounding his friend.

Heavy like when he used to go see her at the hospital after inviting her to the Agency.

Yet alleviated by the timid smile easing her wistful expression.

Certain that she hadn’t noticed him arriving, Ranpo tiptoed to the corridor leading to the President’s room.

He was smiling as well.