Rain and the Broken Clock — The Time That Stopped for Cherry - I am still here

The rain fell steadily, as if tracing the outline of a morning that had lost its name. Monday morning. Minami Housing Complex, Building B, Room 403. Outside the north-facing window, the drizzle of Ameiro City blurred the streetlights into a hazy glow. Kuroki Kurenai opened the notebook she had placed on the kotatsu. A blank page. She picked up her fountain pen. The ink stain on the middle finger of her left hand looked faintly black in the dim room. The callus on the ring finger of her right hand met the barrel of the pen. The usual position. The usual feel. (I am still here.) Kurenai placed the nib on the paper. 'I am still here.' She wrote just that one sentence. She didn't say it aloud. She couldn't. When she tried to call her own name, the back of her throat froze. Like she'd swallowed a block of ice, her vocal cords stopped moving. Kuroki, Kurenai. Just four characters—her own name. Just trying to say it made something cold rise up from deep in her throat, and even her breathing threatened to stop. (I lost my name.) (A name that is never called devours its owner.) The quiet law of this city. Kurenai gripped her fountain pen again. 'I am still here.' She wrote the same sentence once more. 'I am still here.' A third time. 'I am still here.' A fourth time. On the page, the same words piled up, each slightly different in shape. The first character, "I," always came out a little crooked. The second, "am," she was used to writing. The third, "still," took on a roundness. The fourth, "he," had too much force behind it, and the ink bled into the paper's fibers. The fifth, "re," the final stroke trembled faintly. The sixth—well, after finishing, she always hesitated just a moment before lifting the nib from the paper. (I can write.) (I can still write.) Kurenai gently brushed the edge of the notebook. Three years ago, she had burned her diary along with another version of herself—a remnant. That remnant should have vanished, yet it survived only in the handwriting of the words she wrote. (The characters I write are not my characters.) (They're mixed with that girl's writing.) Kurenai stared at the words in the notebook with a face devoid of emotion. She wasn't sad. She wasn't suffering. It was just that deep in her chest, a thin film of ice seemed to have formed, and all her emotions were somewhere far away. (When you lose your name, your emotions end up like this too.) Kurenai set down her fountain pen. The scent of ink dissolved into the air of the room. —Deep in the closet, an old diary was stored. Black cover. Worn corners. A spine peeling away. Kurenai looked toward the closet. (That diary no longer runs ahead of my days.) (The rewritten diary said, 'Your name is already gone.') (Since then, the diary has been silent.) Kurenai stood up. Quietly, so as not to make a sound. For years, she had lived in this room, unnoticed by anyone. The habit of not making footsteps when she walked was ingrained in her body. She looked outside the window. The rain was still falling. Ameiro City's annual rainfall days numbered one hundred eighty-three. Of those, one hundred two were drizzles. Today's rain was a drizzle. The air was filled with fine droplets of water. (I'll go outside.) Kurenai thought. (If I go outside, the name that is never called will erode the outline of my existence.) (But even staying in this room, it's the same.) (Then I'll go outside.) Kurenai headed for the entryway. She put on her sneakers. Tied the laces. Her fingers trembled just slightly. (I'm scared.) (But just writing isn't enough anymore.) (I want to confirm that I am still here.) Kurenai opened the door. Damp air flowed in. The smell of rain. The smell of old concrete. And faintly, the smell of earth. Kurenai stepped outside. —The exterior stairwell of Minami Housing Complex, Building B. She descended slowly from the fourth floor to the first. The iron stairs, wet from the rain, were slippery. Kurenai gripped the handrail and went down step by step, as if checking each one. (The outside air is cold.) (But it's a little easier to breathe than inside the room.) She reached the first floor. Kurenai crossed the housing complex grounds and headed north. —The hook-shaped alley. The alley on the north side of Minami Housing Complex that appeared to be a dead end but actually connected to another street. On foggy nights, the exit became invisible. But now it was morning. A dim morning, hazy with drizzle. Kurenai stood at the entrance of the alley. (At the end of this alley, Yaseta Nanika is there.) (Sniffing for the scent of my name.) (Even so, I'll go in.) Kurenai stepped into the alley. The alley walls were moss-covered and dark. The rain made the ground slippery. Kurenai pressed her hand against the wall and slowly advanced deeper. —On the wall, there were teeth marks. Countless old teeth marks. Bite marks carved deep into the concrete, as if gouged out. Kurenai stopped. (These marks.) (Three years ago, the marks of when I was bitten.) Kurenai looked at her left arm. Three years ago, something had bitten her in this alley. The wound had already disappeared. But the teeth marks on the wall remained, vivid and raw. (My marks are here too.) (That time, I was also here.) Kurenai gently touched the teeth marks on the wall with her fingertip. Cold. —Then. From the depths of the alley, a sound. A laughing voice. A low, damp laugh, like the sound of rain. Kurenai raised her head. (It's him.) (Yaseta Nanika.) (Sniffing for the scent of my name.) But. Kurenai did not turn around. (I won't turn around anymore.) (I won't stop for his laughing voice.) Kurenai advanced further into the alley. The laughing voice drew closer. Mixed with the rain, a low, damp voice clung to the depths of her ears. "Nameless, nameless," "The scent of your name is still in the alley," Kurenai did not stop. (Ignore him.) (Don't listen to his words.) The laughing voice came closer still. The alley walls seemed to warp. The drizzle swirled before her eyes. "Your name is already gone," "Welcome to the herd of the alley," Kurenai pressed her lips tightly together. (No.) (I will never become part of the alley's herd.) (I am still here.) —Then. In the corner of Kurenai's vision, something white appeared. At the edge of the alley wall. At the base of a street tree. There, a single flower was blooming. A small white flower. A flower whose name she didn't know. Kurenai stopped. (A flower.) (A flower, in a place like this.) The depths of the alley got no sunlight. On rainy days, puddles formed and mud splattered. Yaseta Nanika infested the place. In such a place, a single white flower. The flower didn't call Kurenai's name—it simply swayed, draped in rain and dew. Raindrops fell quietly onto the white petals. The flower caught them and tilted its head just slightly, as if weighed down. (Beautiful.) Kurenai thought. In her chest, where emotions had stopped, she nonetheless thought so, unmistakably. (This flower has no name either.) (I have no name either.) (But this flower is blooming here.) Kurenai crouched down. She brought her face close to the flower. The smell of rain, the smell of earth, and faintly, the smell of the flower. (Even without a name, it exists.) (Even without a name, it gets wet in the rain and sways in the wind.) Kurenai gently reached out to the flower. She hesitated. (Is it all right to pick it?) (Is it all right to take this flower back to my room?) Kurenai touched the stem with her fingertip. A thin stem. Cold. But inside, water was certainly flowing through it. It was alive. Kurenai picked the flower. The stem broke with a small sound. (Sorry.) Kurenai apologized to the flower in her heart. (But I want to take you with me.) (I want to place you in my room.) Kurenai cupped the flower in both hands and stood up. The laughing voice had, at some point, become inaudible. The depths of the alley were quiet. Only the sound of rain filled the world. Kurenai held the flower to her chest and retraced her steps out of the alley. —She returned to her room. Kurenai took a glass cup from the kitchen shelf. Filled it with water. She placed the cup on the bookshelf, next to the broken clock. She put the flower in the cup. The white flower seemed to glow just slightly in the dim room. (A flower without a name.) (Me, without a name.) (Side by side.) Kurenai sat before the kotatsu and looked up at the flower on the bookshelf. The broken clock pointed to 7:01, silent. Beside it, the white flower swayed quietly. (An existence that doesn't depend on a name.) (That was so close by.) Kurenai opened her notebook. 'I am still here.' She wrote it again. But it was a little different from before. (Even without a name, I am here.) (Just as this flower blooms here.) Kurenai set down her fountain pen. And she stood up. —She went outside. Once more. This time, she walked down the housing complex corridor. Not to go shopping. No destination in mind. She just walked. (I want to breathe the outside air.) (Just being in the room suffocates me.) Kurenai opened the door of Room 403 and stepped into the corridor. The concrete corridor, wet from the rain, was still damp. The air was cold and chilly. Kurenai stepped into the corridor. —From the other end of the corridor, footsteps approached. Kurenai stopped. The door of Room 402 opened. Out came a small woman with a bright brown short bob swaying. Round dark-brown eyes. A shopping bag in one hand. Takahashi Yuuko. The neighbor, a part-time worker. Forty-five years old. She had lived next door ever since Kurenai moved into this housing complex. Yuuko saw Kurenai and paused for just a moment. And then. "Good morning," It was a natural voice. Nothing special, no sign of prying. Just as always, as if it were the most natural thing. She did not call Kurenai's name. (This person doesn't call my name.) (She never has.) (And right now, that's so incredibly welcome.) Kurenai rolled words around in the back of her throat. The first morning greeting in three years. "...Good morning," Her voice was hoarse. But it came out, unmistakably. Yuuko gave a small nod and walked toward the elevator. Kurenai watched Yuuko's back as she left. (Someone spoke to me, who has lost her name.) (Just that alone loosens something deep in my chest.) A part of her frozen emotions melted with a sound. (This person doesn't interrogate me about my strangeness.) (She leaves, keeping the same distance as always.) (That ordinariness tethers me to daily life.) Kurenai gave a small bow in return. Her first social gesture in three years. It was awkward, and she wasn't sure if she'd done it properly. But she had bowed, unmistakably. (I did it.) (I just now returned a bow to someone.) Kurenai stood frozen in the corridor, unable to move for a while. The rain quietly wet the exterior stairwell of the housing complex. —Noon. The rain had stopped. Kurenai looked up at the sky from her window. Thin light shone through a break in the clouds. (The rain has stopped.) (I'll go to the parking lot.) Kurenai put on her sneakers and left the room. —The parking lot after the rain. West side of Minami Housing Complex. Of twenty spaces, only three were occupied. A light truck, a sedan, a broken-down wagon. The asphalt was cracked, weeds growing through. Puddles had formed here and there. Kurenai stopped in the middle of the parking lot. The sky was reflected in a puddle. Gray clouds, thin light, and Kurenai's figure. (It's reflected.) (My figure is reflected.) Kurenai stared at the puddle. Last night, it hadn't reflected. What appeared in the puddle was only the outline of Na wo Kuu Onna. But now. In the puddle, the figure of a thin woman with short black hair floated faintly. (It's me.) (I'm reflected.) Kuren

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Episode 7

Name: Rain and the Broken Clock — The Time That Stopped for Cherry
Author: Novelia

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