Aito was an energetic eight-year-old, his contagious smile lighting up the kitchen like the morning sun. He sat at the table, a colorful array of crayons scattered around him, deeply engrossed in his drawing. Each stroke of his crayon brought his imagination to life on the paper before him, but it was the invisible world swirling around him that truly brought wonder to his eyes.
Floating just beyond the reach of reality were the Spirits. They were hand-sized, transparent creatures that danced in the air like playful motes of light, shimmering with ethereal colors. Only Aito could see them, and they seemed to delight in his presence, flitting through the living room with glee.
Across the table, Aito's father, a devoted family man in his thirties, sat reading the morning newspaper. The soft rustle of the pages and the distant sounds of a television filled the background, creating a comforting atmosphere. Aito's attention, was often captured by the Spirits, especially Squiggles, a light blue, snake-shaped Spirit that loved to perch atop Aito's head, ruffling his hair and adding to his playful chaos.
The living room was a whirlwind of activity as the Spirits weaved through the table and walls, sprinkling a touch of magic into the mundane. Aito couldn't help but giggle when one of them popped up from beneath the table that sent bolts of laughter through him.
His father lowered the newspaper, quirking a brow at the joyful boy. Aito looked up, his face breaking into a wide smile, an exchange of warmth and understanding passing between them. It was a moment rich with love, bridging the gap between a father and son. Aito's father couldn't help but smile back, his heart swelling with affection for his spirited son.
Across the kitchen, Aito's mother, a busybody news reporter in her late twenties, navigated the space with a focused energy as she prepared breakfast. Amid the clattering of pots and pans, she occasionally glanced over, catching the eyes of her husband, the two sharing a smile. In those moments, with the Spirits swirling and laughter filling the air, life felt enchantingly perfect for Aito.
***
Sorako, a curious child of ten with striking heterochromia-her left eye a vivid blue, while the right gleamed a rich green-peered cautiously from behind the sturdy pillar of the shrine. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the stone path with patches of light, but her focus was entirely on her mother. Her tanned skin and long dark red hair flowed freely in the gentle breeze.
Her mother, a graceful figure clad in a traditional Shrine Maiden uniform, moved fluidly as she performed a dance ritual. Each sway of her body, each intricate movement, was accompanied by a soft, melodic song that echoed gently around the shrine. Sorako watched with wide, mesmerized eyes, her heart swelling with pride and admiration.
So entranced was she that she hardly noticed when a heavy hand rested softly on her head. Startled, Sorako looked up to see her father, a serious man in his early thirties, wearing a frown that seemed permanently etched upon his features. His strict demeanor was a stark contrast to her mother's warmth, and Sorako felt a small pout form on her lips, born from disappointment.
"Come on, Sorako, let us not bother your mother." he said, shaking his head with a hint of disapproval. His grip tightened around her small hand as he began to lead her away from the captivating spectacle at the shrine.
With one last glance over her shoulder, Sorako saw her mother still dancing, her movements weaving a tapestry of beauty and tradition that felt like magic. The song began to fade as they walked further away, and a small part of Sorako wished she could have stayed, lost in the rhythm and song of the ritual.
***
Aito's mother and father stood rigidly by the front door, their voices rising and falling in a heated exchange. The late afternoon sun spilled through the glass, illuminating the suitcases piled next to them-two dark, weathered bags that spoke of distant journeys and uncertain returns.
"He's not normal!" His mother bellowed out, "There's something wrong with him!" She continued.
"Now, now, dear - Aito's still a young boy." His father countered, trying to calm his wife down, but having an adverse affect.
They continued to argue back and forth in front of Aito and his grandmother.
Aito's grandmother, a gentle spirit of sixty-eight, observed the scene from a short distance. Her silver hair framed her face like a halo, and there was understanding in her eyes as she watched her children argue. Aito, an eleven-year-old boy with a smile that had grown infrequent, found refuge behind her. The comforting presence of his grandmother offered him a mentary shield against the turmoil unfolding before him. Curiosity got the better of him as he peeked out, his little head poking from behind her skirt.
Aito's mother shook her head, frustration etched across her features as she gestured toward her son, dismay radiating from her. Aito's father, sensing the weight of the moment, cast his gaze downward. His expression morphed into a sad smile, a silent resignation to the storm brewing in their family. He then turned his attention to Aito's Grandma, searching her face for the understanding and reassurance his wife seemed unable to provide.
With a knowing nod, Aito's Grandma shifted her focus to Aito, her heart aching for the boy caught in the middle of this family discord. Aito's father took a step closer, crouching down to meet his son at eye level. The warmth of his hand on Aito's head was fleeting, a touch filled with love yet heavy with the gravity of the moment. He straightened up, a deep breath escaping him as he turned to face the door again, leaving Aito to wrestle with the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Aito's heart felt heavy as he stood in the dimly lit hallway, watching his mother. She picked up her suitcase, the fabric worn but still vibrant, and with a deep breath, turned to open the door. The quiet creaks of the hinges seemed to echo his own sense of loss. Aito wanted to call out, to reach for her, but the words felt lodged in his throat.
As the door swung open, Aito's mother walked through it, her back resolute, not casting a glance back at him. Aito's father followed after her, his presence less like a comfort and more like a shadow, closing the door with a soft, final thud.
In that moment, the world felt still, and Aito's gaze dropped to the floor, the wooden planks suddenly far more interesting than anything else. He felt the first waves of tears begin to form, the salty warmth welling up in his eyes. Aito sniffled, stifling a sob that threatened to escape.
"Come here, sweetheart." came the gentle voice of Aito's Grandma, warm and nurturing. She reached out and took Aito's trembling hand, her grip steady and reassuring. He looked up into her kind eyes, and he felt an unexpected comfort in the smile she offered him, even as tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
Just then, a sudden movement caught his attention. From the tangled mess of his hair, Squiggles, his small, whimsical friend, popped out, his bright colors a contrast to Aito's gloom. Squiggles, with its playful demeanor, had a way of lightening the atmosphere, as if sensing that Aito needed a sprinkle of joy in this moment of sadness.
Aito couldn't help but smile through his tears as Squiggles danced around him, and in that brief instant, he felt a flicker of hope amidst the heartache. Perhaps, he thought, even with the door closed behind his mother, there were still moments of brightness to be found.
***
Sorako stood alone in the pouring rain, a quiet and lonely figure amid the storm. The relentless downpour soaked her clothes, but she hardly noticed; her hair hung damp and unruly, shadowing her eyes. With a lifeless stare, she gazed at the shrine in front of her, where flickering candles struggled against the wind, their flames fighting for existence. Her eyes were red and puffy, remnants of tears shed in silence. Her left eye now held the shadow of a Koi fish swimming inside the iris.
Her mother wasn't there, and the absence weighed heavily on her heart. Perched delicately on her shoulder was Koi, a small, translucent fish, shimmering like a ghostly apparition. Its form, shaped like a Koi carp, glimmered in the dim light, a quiet companion in her solitude. Koi had always been there, a comforting presence in moments of distress, though it felt strangely at odds with the dark clouds surrounding them.
Inside the house, Sorako's father watched from the window. He stood with arms crossed, his expression grim as he observed his daughter, a small figure dwarfed by the storm. He shook his head, disappointment etched across his features, before turning away to leave her to her solitude. The distance between them stretched like the chasm of the rain-soaked path, filled with unspoken words and unacknowledged pain.
***
Aito's grandmother's gravestone stood tall amidst the rows of weathered markers, a silent sentinel in a landscape thick with sorrow. The inscription etched into the cold stone read, 'The kindest soul to have blessed this world,' a phrase that resonated deeply in the hearts of those who knew her.
Aito's mother and father lingered by the grave, their funeral attire stark against the muted backdrop of the cemetery. Aito's mother clutched a handkerchief, tears streaming down her cheeks, while Aito's father draped an arm around her shoulders, his hand moving in gentle circles as he offered what little comfort he could.
But Aito, standing a few paces away, felt like a ghost-an outsider even in his own family. At fifteen, he was already familiar with the weight of solitude, a heavy cloak that marked him as different. Clutching a delicate wreath in his hands, he watched his parents, a painful knot forming in his chest as they turned away without so much as a glance in his direction.
As they walked off, the distance between Aito and his family seemed to widen, echoing a deeper divide he could never quite bridge. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, the wreath grazing his side as he approached his grandmother's gravestone. Kneeling, he placed the wreath gently at its base, his fingers lingering on the cool surface of the stone.
His hair fell into his eyes, obscuring the tears that began to spill freely down his cheeks. Trembling, he rested his head against the gravestone. The chill of the stone seeped into him, a harsh reminder of the loss he felt so acutely.
"Aargh!" Aito cried out, his voice breaking the stillness of the cemetery, a raw outpouring of grief that seemed to echo endlessly around him. In that moment, it was just him and the memory of his grandmother, a connection that felt so painfully tangible yet impossible to hold onto.
***
A 17-year old Sorako stood at the edge of the island, a solitary figure silhouetted against the twilight sky. The vibrant city below sprawled out like a cascade of stars fallen to earth, its lights flickering in a dance of color and life. She felt the warmth of the glow wash over her, illuminating the features of her face with the softest of touches, while a gentle breeze played with her hair.
At her side floated Koi, a curious presence that mirrored her feelings of isolation. The little creature glided through the air, its iridescent scales catching the light and reflecting it in a myriad of colors. It circled Sorako playfully. She looked down at the city, mesmerized by the shimmering streets and bustling inhabitants, a stark contrast to her quiet existence on the island.
"Just look at them." She murmured, her voice barely rising above the faint sounds of the distant city. "They all seem so... alive."
Koi twirled in response, its movements lively and carefree. But as Sorako gazed into the distance, a sense of longing tugged at her heart. The city held promise, stories, and connections that felt eternally out of reach.
"I wish I could be part of that world," she confessed, her eyes reflecting both the brilliance of the city and the shadows of her solitude. Koi floated closer, nudging her gently as if to offer comfort and companionship in her quiet reverie.
Together, they watched the city sparkle below, each light a heartbeat of life that echoed Sorako's quiet dreams, lingering yet ever so distant.