Chapter 5: The Day she didnt come.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, still drawn, always drawn, but the gaps let in enough to work by. I was on my knees, scrubbing the low table with a damp cloth, when the knock came.
Three soft taps. Not urgent.
On my heels, I sat back. Hinata was the first person that came to mind, but she typically leaves the basket outside and doesn't knock. My second idea was that perhaps Reika had come to inquire about the rent.
I stood. Wiped my hands on my apron. Opened the door.
Hinata stood on the step.
The morning was behind her, turning the edges of her hair into something almost golden. She wore the same faded yukata and the same frayed persimmon ribbon around her wrist. No basket today. No food. Just her.
"You're busy?" she asked.
She tilted her head toward the cloth in my hand, the bucket of water by the door.
"A little," I said.
"Can I help?"
I should have said no. She was a child. She had her own chores, her own house, her own reasons for being elsewhere. But the word didn't come.
"Sure," I said. I stepped aside.
She walked in like she owned the place.
Hinata helped.
Or rather, Hinata tried to help.
She took the cloth from me and began wiping the low table again, the same table I had just finished. Her strokes were enthusiastic but imprecise. She missed a spot here, smeared dust there, and somehow managed to knock over the small jar of salt I kept near the edge.
Salt scattered across the wood.
"Oh," she said.
"It's fine," I said.
I found another cloth. She found a dustpan. We both knelt down, side by side, sweeping salt into a small pile. Our shoulders touched. She smelled of soot and something sweet.
"You're not very good at this," I said.
"I'm learning," she said.
"You've been cleaning my house for weeks."
"And I'm still learning."
I looked at her. She looked at the salt. Her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth, the same concentration habit I had seen a hundred times.
I smiled. I didn't mean to.
She moved on to the windowsill next. The herbs the village girl had left were still there, dried now, tied in a small bundle. Hinata picked them up, sniffed them, then set them down in a different order. Then picked them up again. Then set them down somewhere else.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Arranging," she said.
"They were fine where they were."
"Now they're better."
I didn't see the difference. But I didn't move them back.
She found a loose thread on her sleeve and spent a full minute pulling at it, unraveling a small section of the hem. When she noticed me watching, she stopped and tucked the loose thread back inside.
"That's not helping," I said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"The thread."
I waited. She didn't elaborate.
I smiled again. I couldn't help it.
By the time the table was wiped, the salt was swept, the herbs were arranged, and the thread was forgotten, the morning had stretched toward mid-day. The rice pot sat unrinsed. The floor still needed sweeping. The laundry was folded in a pile by the door because Hinata had unfolded it and refolded it in a different shape, then decided the first shape was better, but now she wasn't sure.
She created more work than she solved.
But I let her stay.
I let her stay because the room felt less empty with her in it. Because her small, inefficient hands reminded me that not everything had to be done perfectly. Because when she looked up at me, her dark eyes calm and unbothered, I forgot, just for a moment, about the bonfire. The children. The letter from Kiri. The shadow that had passed my window.
And I smiled.
"You're smiling," Hinata said. She was sitting on the floor now, legs crossed.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Is that bad?"
She thought about it. She rubbed her head with her hand.
"No," she said. "It's good. You don't do it enough."
I sat down across from her. The room was quiet. The morning light had shifted, growing warmer, falling in a different pattern across the floor.
"Neither do you," I said.
Hinata looked up. Her face was still, unreadable. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted. Not a wide smile. Just a small one. The kind that comes from somewhere quiet.
"I'm practicing," she said.
And for a little while, the village felt almost like a home.
***
I needed groceries.
That was the excuse, anyway. The truth was simpler: the morning had been quiet, the house felt too small, and Hinata was still sitting on the floor. I didn't want her to leave. I also didn't want to sit in silence with nothing but my own thoughts.
"I'm going to the market," I said. "Do you want to come?"
Hinata looked up. She didn't answer right away, just tilted her head, the way she did when she was deciding whether something was worth her time.
"Will you buy food?" she asked.
"That's what groceries are."
"Will you buy something good?"
"I don't know. What's good?"
She stood up. Brushed off her yukata. The ribbon swung from her wrist.
"I'll show you," she said.
The path to the market wound through the heart of the village. Low rooftops. Pale walls. A few chickens scratching in the dirt.
Hinata walked beside me. She was quiet for a while, watching the clouds.
"What's your favorite food?" she asked.
I thought about it. "Tamagoyaki," I said. "My mother used to make it with a little sugar. Sweet, but not too sweet."
Hinata nodded seriously. "That's a breakfast food."
"It can be eaten any time."
"No," she said, as if correcting a small but important error. "Tamagoyaki is breakfast. After noon, it's not the same."
"I didn't know there were rules."
"There aren't rules," she said. "There's just right and wrong."
I laughed. She didn't.
We passed the well. A woman was drawing water, the same woman who had hung laundry the week before. She nodded at me. I nodded back. Hinata didn't acknowledge her at all.
"What about you?" I asked. "What's your favorite?"
"Watermelon."
"That's a fruit."
Hinata stopped walking. She turned to look at me, her expression deeply skeptical.
"Watermelon is a vegetable," she said.
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. It grows on a vine. Vegetables grow on vines. Fruit grows on trees."
"That's not…" I started, then stopped. "Tomatoes grow on vines. Are tomatoes vegetables?"
"Yes."
"They're fruit."
"No, they're not. They're in salads."
"So are apples..."
Hinata stared at me. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"That's stupid," she said.
"Apples in a salad?"
"Putting a fruit in a salad on purpose. That's stupid."
She turned and kept walking. I followed, grinning.
The market was nearly empty, just the rice vendor and a woman selling pickles. I bought vegetables, a small bag of rice, a block of tofu wrapped in a damp cloth. Hinata watched every transaction with the intensity of someone auditing a ledger.
"That's too much for tofu," she said, after the vendor turned away.
"It's fine."
"It's too much. Last week it was less."
"Prices change."
"Prices shouldn't change that much."
She crossed her arms. For a moment, she looked exactly like a tiny, disapproving grandmother. I had to look away to keep from laughing.
We walked back a different way, along the edge of a field. The grass was tall, bent by the wind. Hinata stopped to pick a stem and stuck it between her teeth.
"That cloud," she said, pointing. "What does it look like to you?"
I followed her finger. A white shape, low and stretched out, catching the afternoon light.
"A boat," I said. "A little one."
Hinata squinted. "No."
"What does it look like to you?"
"A cat. Sleeping."
"I don't see a cat."
"It's on its side. There's the tail. There's the ear."
I looked again. I still didn't see it.
"Maybe you're not good at clouds," she said.
"Maybe you're seeing things that aren't there."
She pulled the grass stem from her mouth and smiled, a real smile, wide and unguarded.
"That's the best way to see things," she said.
We arrived at the store. The sun had moved, and the shadows were longer. Hinata was standing in front of the store.
"Are you coming in?" I asked.
"In a minute. I'm watching the clouds."
I went inside, she followed a few minutes later.
The shop was small, barely more than a closet with a counter. Shelves lined the walls, holding things the village didn't make for itself: salt, sugar, a few tins of tea, matches, cheap toys from a city no one here seemed to miss.
Hinata pulled me by the sleeve.
"Look," she said.
She pointed to a bin near the floor. A tangle of colorful balls, rubber, bouncy, the kind you could buy anywhere. Pink, blue, green, a yellow one with a faded stripe. Hinata crouched down and picked up the pink one, holding it in both palms.
"It's round," she said.
"Most balls are."
"This one is very round."
She turned it over. Squeezed it. Held it to her ear as if listening for something inside.
I bought it. Fifty yen. The woman behind the counter smiled with half her mouth.
Hinata held it the whole time, even while I paid.
Then I saw the pendant.
It hung from a small hook near the register, swaying slightly in the draft from the door. Nothing expensive. Just a thin cord and a tiny charm, a crescent moon, pale silver, no bigger than my thumbnail. Simple. Pretty in the way small things are pretty.
I didn't know why I reached for it.
"I'll take this too," I said.
The woman nodded. She didn't tell me the price. Maybe there wasn't one. She just unhooked the cord and placed it in my palm.
Hinata looked up. Her eyes went wide.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A moon," I said. "For you."
"For me?"
I knelt down. She stood very still, the pink ball clutched to her chest. I lifted the cord and slipped it over her head, then reached around to fasten the clasp. Her hair smelled of soot and sweet. Her neck was thin, too thin, I noticed, the way I always noticed.
"There," I said. The moon rested just below her collarbone.
Hinata looked down. She touched the charm with her fingertip, tracing the curve.
"It's a smile," she said.
"It's a moon."
"It's a smile moon."
She didn't say thank you. She didn't need to. Her face said everything, the quiet delight, the small wonder, the way she held the pink ball in one hand and the moon in the other, as if both were equally precious.
I watched her.
And for a moment, just a breath, just a flicker, I saw another child. Smaller. Newer. A different ribbon, a different room, a different life that had ended before I was ready.
My daughter.
The memory rose like cold water.
I pushed it away.
I stood up. Smiled. Took Hinata's hand.
"Let's go," I said. "We still need the watermelon."
She didn't ask what had happened to my face. She just nodded and followed me out into the sun.
***
We bought it at the last stall, a deep green melon, striped like a tiger, heavy in my arms. The vendor thumped it with his knuckle and nodded, satisfied. I paid. Hinata watched the transaction with the same intense scrutiny she had brought to the tofu.
"That's a good one," she said.
"You can tell?"
"The sound. It has to sound like a drum. Not a rock. A drum."
I shifted the melon to my hip. "You're an expert on watermelons?"
"I'm an expert on everything," she said.
I laughed.
We carried it home together. I held the melon; she carried the bag of vegetables, the pink ball tucked under her arm. The moon charm swung against her chest.
Back in my kitchen, we set everything on the low table. I fetched a knife. A cutting board. A cloth to wipe the seeds.
Hinata climbed onto her stool and watched.
"Cut it open," she said.
"I'm getting there."
"Slowly. You're doing it slowly."
I cut.
The knife sank through the rind with a satisfying crack, and the melon split open, bright red flesh, black seeds glistening, the smell of summer flooding the room. Hinata made a small sound, something between a gasp and a laugh.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"It's watermelon."
"It's beautiful."
We ate slices standing over the table, juice dripping down our chins. I had cut it into wedges, the way my mother used to. Hinata held her slice with both hands, biting into it like a small animal, seeds sticking to her cheeks.
"You're making a mess," I said.
"You're making a mess too."
She was right. My hands were sticky. My sleeve was wet. A seed had landed on the floor, then another.
I picked up a seed and flicked it at her.
She froze. Looked down at the seed on her yukata. Looked up at me.
"You threw a seed," she said.
"Yes."
"At me."
"Yes."
She grinned. Then she picked up a seed from her slice and threw it back.
It hit my forehead.
We both stared at each other. Then Hinata laughed, a real laugh, bright and unguarded. I started laughing too. Then we were both laughing, throwing seeds across the table, missing more often than not, the kitchen filling with the sound of us.
A seed landed in my tea. Another stuck to the wall.
"This is terrible," I said, still laughing.
"This is the best," she said.
We cleaned up afterward. Not well, there were seeds in corners we would find for days but together. Hinata wiped the table while I rinsed the rinds. The moon charm caught the light. The pink ball sat on the windowsill, watching us.
"You're happy," Hinata said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I said. "I think I am."
She nodded, satisfied, and went back to wiping.
Outside, the afternoon was fading toward evening. The shadows stretched long across the garden. The air smelled of watermelon and dust and something sweet I couldn't name.
I should have noticed the quiet.
But Hinata was humming, a small tune, tuneless, happy.
***
The afternoon sunlight came through the gap in the curtains, warm, gold, the kind of light that made you want to close your eyes. The watermelon was gone. The seeds had been swept into a small pile by the door. The kitchen smelled of summer and sugar.
Hinata sat on the floor, the pink ball in her lap, the moon charm resting against her chest. She had been quiet for a while. Her eyelids kept dipping, then opening, then dipping again.
"You're tired," I said.
"I'm not."
"You yawned."
"I yawn because the air is thin."
"The air is fine."
"The air is thin," she insisted, but her voice was soft, fading.
She set the pink ball aside. She crawled over to where I sat, my back against the wall, my legs stretched out and without asking, without hesitation, she curled up beside me. Her head found my lap. Her body folded into a small curve, knees tucked, hands pressed together beneath her cheek.
I froze for a moment.
Then I let my hand rest on her hair.
She smelled of watermelon and dust. The soot was still there, underneath, and the wild herbs. Her hair was soft, softer than I expected and I found myself stroking it without thinking, my fingers tracing slow lines from her forehead to the nape of her neck.
The room was quiet.
The light shifted.
And for a moment, just a moment, I was somewhere else.
A different room. Different light. A smaller head in my lap, a smaller body curled against me. My daughter. The weight of her, the warmth of her, the way she would sigh in her sleep and press her face into my thigh.
The memory rose like it always did. Sharp. Uninvited.
I closed my eyes.
Not now, I thought. Not here.
I opened them. Hinata was still there. Still breathing.
I kept stroking her hair.
She began to mumble in her sleep.
At first it was meaningless, soft sounds, half-words, the kind of noise children made when they were drifting between dreams. I didn't pay attention. I was too busy watching the light move across the floor.
Then the words came.
"Ring a ring o' roses..."
My hand stopped.
"Pocket full of ashes..."
I looked down. Hinata's lips were moving, but her eyes were closed. Her face was peaceful. She wasn't awake.
"Ashes... ashes..."
Her voice trailed off. The words became too soft, too unclear. I leaned closer, holding my breath.
"...Mama..."
Or maybe it wasn't Mama. Maybe it was something else. A murmur. A sigh. The wind outside the window.
I wasn't certain.
The singing stopped.
Hinata's lips stilled. Her breathing deepened. The room became quiet again, the ordinary quiet of an afternoon, of a child sleeping, of sunlight on wooden floors.
I sat there for a long time, my hand frozen in her hair.
Ring a ring o' roses.
Pocket full of ashes.
Not posies.
Ashes.
I thought of the bonfire. The scorched earth. The ash on the bushes.
I thought of the children dancing without sound.
I thought of the letter from Kiri, still folded on the table.
Hinata sighed in her sleep and turned her face deeper into my lap. The moon charm glinted. The ribbon hung loose around her wrist.
I began to stroke her hair again, slowly, mechanically.
The light moved across the floor.
And I did not close my eyes again.
Hinata woke slowly, a flutter of eyelids, a small stretch, the gradual return of awareness. She blinked up at me from my lap, her dark eyes unfocused.
"Did I sleep?" she asked.
"For a little while."
She sat up, rubbing her cheek. A red mark from the fold of my yukata was pressed into her skin. She didn't seem to notice.
"What were you singing earlier?" I asked. I kept my voice light. Casual.
"Singing?"
"While you were asleep. You were mumbling something."
Hinata tilted her head. Her brow furrowed, genuine confusion, or something that looked like it.
"I don't remember," she said.
"A song. About roses. And ashes."
She shook her head. "I don't know that song."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She stood up, brushed off her yukata. The moon charm swung. "I don't sing in my sleep."
"Everyone talks in their sleep sometimes."
"I don't."
She said it with such certainty that I almost believed her. Almost.
I laughed it off. "Forget it, then. Probably nothing."
Hinata nodded. She picked up the pink ball and began bouncing it against the wall, soft, rhythmic thumps. Her face was calm. Unconcerned.
But the song stayed in my mind.
Ring a ring o' roses. Pocket full of ashes.
Not posies.
Ashes.
***
The next morning, I woke before dawn.
I made tea. I opened the door. I swept the stone path myself, for the first time in weeks.
No Hinata.
I told myself it was fine. Children got busy. Maybe she had chores. Maybe her mother needed her. Maybe she had simply decided to stay home.
I ate breakfast alone.
The rice pot felt heavier without her small hands on the paddle.
But no concern. Not yet.
Another day passed.
Still no Hinata.
I found myself looking toward the door. Not constantly — just now and then. A glance over my shoulder while I washed the dishes. A pause while I folded the laundry. The small, unconscious habit of expecting someone who wasn't there.
I hadn't realized how much I had come to enjoy her company.
The quiet of the house felt different now. Not peaceful. Empty.
I told myself she would come tomorrow.
I believed it, mostly.
Again, no Hinata.
The morning was gray, the mist slow to burn off. I sat on the step with my tea and watched the path.
Nothing.
No small figure in an oversized yukata. No frayed ribbon. No bare feet kicking dust.
The silence felt wrong.
The house felt emptier than usual, emptier than it had before she ever started coming. Because now I knew what it sounded like with her in it. The scratch of the broom. The thump of the rice paddle. The small, sideways questions.
I set down my tea.
I stood up.
I walked toward Hinata's house.
I knocked.
The door opened after a long moment.
Reika was standing there, thinner than I remembered. Her yukata hung loose, the way Hinata's did. Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped, uncombed. Her eyes were red. Her face was pale.
She looked exhausted.
She looked like she had been crying.
My stomach tightened.
"Is Hinata home?" I asked.
Reika stared at me. For a moment, she didn't seem to recognize me. Then her expression shifted, confusion first, then something else. Shock.
"You don't know?"
My stomach dropped.
"Know what?"
She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Hinata is missing."
The words hung in the air.
I couldn't breathe.
