I learned, one month ago, the exact date of my death. And since then, I've been thinking a lot; or, actually, it'd be more accurate to say I haven't been advancing much on the matter at all. I haven't talked to my family about this, and anyway they wouldn't have listened to me, or they'd have thought I was lying, or out of my mind, or something along those lines.
To my surprise, how I spent my days hadn't changed much - that's to say, not at all. I say surprised, as I'd, perhaps wrongfully, imagined that such an important information would've started a sequence of reactions inside of my brain, one that would've changed my personality, or habits, or temper, or anything that used to define me. But; no. Nothing had changed. Every night, I waited for a sense of dread to meet me, at once; to make me realize my terrible reality that, at any rate, no matter my sorrow, I would die at sixteen, without any accomplishment to leave behind. And, each time, I felt nothing, except perhaps, a higher awareness of the ugly sounds Tokyo made at night.
The first time I cried about it was, I think, two weeks after the announcement. It was a Friday afternoon, around the time the sun just passes its zenith, on a walk around Ueno. I'd skipped the classes; mostly because they were a bore (and really, what uses were they if I would die before reaching the midterms?). At any rate, there was nobody in my highschool to call a friend, much less an aquaintance; lucky for me, I suppose : it meant nobody would notice my absence.
I followed the road to Ueno park, past the teeming crowds who seemed to have nothing better to do than burn in the sunlight, until, to my delight, the landscape shifted from urban to green, luscious trees, painted golden by the sun. Entering the park, I saw it was quite empty, but not unusually so for this time of the day, and made a left turn into the wood. I entertained myself by kicking pebbles under the benches, or plucking out leaves whenever they bent low enough that they grazed my hair, or (and I admit I was quite ashamed of this), judging the elderlies I met, either for their poor sense of clothing, or a purely physical and superficial trait. My mind, that doubtless had realized, and accepted my death, before I had even acknowleged the fact, had sort of given up on trying to follow the moral believes I used to carry, and so I was more succeptible to these unhinged thoughts. At least, I could comfort myself in saying I wasn't vocal in my judgement.
There was a bright, clear azure sky above me, and so, when I noticed the first clouds creeping up on me (with their nasty gray hues), I searched for a shelter, and quickly found it. One or two minutes later, it began to rain; a light drizzle. Most of the people I observed from the comfort of my bench didn't even mind the weather. Some put on their hood, sending scornful looks skyward. Of course, nobody had brought an umbrella.
The air was damp, and it smelled a bit like petrichor, or a wet earthen-pot. I faced a wide path extending far ahead, bordered by rows of thick, ancient trees, the kind that seems to welcome bad weather like a good friend. A bed of coarse thin rocks laid underneath my legs, that I was balancing mindlessly, over and under the bench, to distract my mind. It wasn't very useful, since my head was an empty rock.
By the time I'd snapped from my reveries, there was a girl seated to my right. The narrow bench meant our shoulders were touching; or, at least, on the verge to be. We were close enough that there was no need to lean towards her to observe her features. And, sadly for her, there wasn't much to see. She had somewhat of a kind-looking face, with round cheeks, an aquilline nose, and a fair, albeit worringly pale complexion. But there was something about her crestfallen gaze, or the way her wet raven black bangs cascaded on her forehead, and wrapped tightly around her neck, that assured me I had better than talk to her. So I ignored her, for a few minutes, absentmindedly gazing at no particular point, until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Excuse me, do you have a...towel, by chance?" She said, in a low, but pleasant voice.
"Erm, no. I don't think so. Ah, wait, I'll check." I murmured, opening my bag nested between my legs, rummaging for the gym towel I'd brought in for the day (there was gym this day, but at any rate, it didn't concern me anymore). I found it folded in a messy ball, all wrinkled and full of sweat. Under no threat would I have given it to her.
"Do you have one?" She asked again.
"No...well, yes. If you're okay with it." I showed her the pitiful towel, but, as if only thinking of the practical aspect of it, and not shoddy appearance, she grabbed it with a respectiful nod.
"Oh, thank you! Really."
"Okay." I said, and we relapsed into silence. We'd talked once, and, as I was getting a little curious about the girl, I glanced at her. I found her drying a guitar case she'd put upright, leaning on the side of the bench, with such intensity I couldn't keep my eyes off, because it seemed very silly.
"Would the guitar get wet?" I murmured, thinking she hadn't caught it, but she snuck a glance at me, with an innocent expression that said : would you repeat that?
"I asked you if the guitar would get wet. I never saw cleaning a guitar case." I said. From what I saw, there were only a few raindrops on the case. Surely the guitar would be fine; it wasn't a flood inside.
"It's a bass guitar." She said, rather bitterly.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I don't know much about music." I admitted.
"Why are you sorry?"
"Well, you seemed a little hurt by my mistake. Or something like that."
"Ah." She stammered, as if remembering her tone. "I wasn't trying to be mean. But didn't you see the height? A guitar's not that tall."
I nodded to her matter-of-fact explaination, saying; "Is that so?"
"Yes."
"But would your instrument really get damaged from these drops?"
"I don't want to find out!" She laughed, as her eyes brightened.
There was another period of silence. The rain had intensified; I could hear the heavy raindrops crashing atop the shelter, and right at my feet, tiny puddles had began to form in the little crevasses scattered about the path. It made a soothing lilting noise, ploc, ploc, ploc, ploc, that I enjoyed listening to. Periodically, I heard the guitar girl (or bass, rather, but the two seemed like the same to me) grunt out of displeasure. Either she had an issue with her cleaning, or she abhored the rain for some reason. But I never checked if any of my assumptions were true.
She returned the towel to me after a few minutes, with a gentle, albeit awkward smile on.
"Thank you. I always keep one with me, you see, and it's just my luck it rained when I finally forgot. I don't know what I would've done if my bass got damaged."
"That's fine." I took the towel, shoved it in my bag, and returned to her gaze. "What's your name?" I asked. It'd usually be the last question I'd ask to a stranger, but maybe the heavy downpour made me comfortable, or I'd stopped caring altogether.
"It's Kitamura."
"I see...oh, I'm Chino."
Kitamura (I could now stop calling her the guitar girl in my head, nice!) stared at me for a while, raised another forced smile, then clung to her bass case, looking at the ground. By that point, I'd figured she would be on her way at any moment, and so, closed my eyes so that my ears could enjoy the loud rain. It was like sleeping cradled by an angel. I actually dozed off for a bit. Upon opening my eyes, I noticed how the water had gathered in larger puddles, and seemed to have helped the entire wood survive a month of drought. The rain made no change to its intensity. I only heard a fschhhh from the accumulation of all droplets crashing. Rising to stretch my back, and bending my waist to the right, I met Kitamura's gaze. She hadn't left at all, and looked more depressed than ever.
"Are you waiting for something?" I asked incredilously, sitting down on the bench.
"...For the rain to stop." She murmured.
Not answering, I reached for my pocket, and began looking up the weather on my phone, while Emi anxiously waited for my diagnostic.
"It's not stopping until three." I said. "Or so, they say."
"Ah, I see. And what time is it?"
"Almost two."
"Precisely?"
"You don't have a phone?" I asked, laughing, but soon stopped when I saw her expression twist in embarassment.
"No. I can't afford it." Kitamura said shyly.
"But you can afford a guitar?"
"It's a bass." She scowled.
"Yeah, sorry. I don't know the difference."
All of a sudden, Kitamura began to unzip her case, and rested its content of her right knee. It was an all-glossy bass guitar with a large black body, and the part where the frets are (I didn't know how to call it) seemed to be made of maple wood. The neck was shaped like the tip of a spear, with the same color, and four strings of varying thickness were attached to it from top to bottom. There were probably other super-interesting details I missed, but at any rate, to my untrained eye, the instrument looked fairly pricey. It was, that I was sure off, well-tended to.
"Is it yours?" I asked, a bit stupidly.
"Yes. And, listen to how it sounds."
Kitamura began plucking the strings with her thumb, index and middle finger. Low, heavy noises assaulted my ears, and I could barely make which note she'd played, before she switched to another one. Still; she was having fun. It showed in her playing, and the merry grin on her face.
"How is it? It's different from a guitar, right?" She said, intensely looking at me.
"Erm, yes. It is..."
Then, to show off, or perhaps because I really needed to hear and see it, she curled the fingers of her right hand, and slapped the strings with a straight thumb. A loud percussion erupted, superposed by a clear, bright note, very much audible this time. Another, more agressive sound, followed, made by Emi plucking the string from underneath, by a snappy rotation of the wrist. She combined the two to make a wild melody, from the highs to the lows, switching tempos as if she'd tamed them with practice or talent, and, always, smiling gleefully.
"Chino-san, how was it?" Kitamura asked, unable to hide a smirk. But undenyably, she had some skills, so I let her have it.
"...Well, impressive."
"...Nothing else that comes to mind?"
And I proceded to tell her, mainly because I was getting a bit bored, or comfortable with her, about the thoughts I had while she played. The longer I talked, the more her gaze sparkled.
"Yes! The way you say it, it's...it's like you really understand it!" She smiled.
"Haa? Really?" I laughed.
"Do you play music, by chance?"
"No."
"You should."
"I've no money."
"Then, you should play at my house." Kitamura casually said.
"What?"
By sheer coincidence, or fate, as some would say, the rain was gone.