S E I J I
The night is crisp, orange-black. The air smells thin with the promise of cold, and Seiji remembers his first night here. So much like this, only: the shadows bleaker, robbed of color. His thin coat bleeding warmth. Now he moves well-equipped, but with the same preternatural grace. As if he picks his every step with care. As if he is a deer in human skin, lost, wandering in search of its herd. He knows exactly where he is going, though, as he pauses outside the bakery door and breathes in.
There is a promise in the warmth of cinnamon and flame. A promise like golden light, linked hands, stone walls. If Seiji closes his eyes, he can just feel the memory brushing up against the back of his mind, but he can’t quite grasp it. He’s been struggling like this too long, the things in his head like secretive fish, vast and elusive. He breathes out, and moves through the door.
His dark eyes skim over the others. Two, of course, he knows: Amalia and Deimos are fixtures in the Hollowed Grounds. Even if he cannot recall speaking with Deimos, the man is difficult to miss. The third person, though Seiji does not recognize. Nonetheless, his slow smile is the same for each of them.
Seiji moves slowly toward the assembled materials. He should be hungry, but he hardly glances at the food. Instead, he runs the tip of one long finger along the corner of the glass frame. “Lanterns,” he says, softly, and his expression is wistful. Soft, sad somehow. Lonely despite the bakery and the friend he now blinks at with gentle eyes. “It’s time already, isn't it?"
The night is crisp, orange-black. The air smells thin with the promise of cold, and Seiji remembers his first night here. So much like this, only: the shadows bleaker, robbed of color. His thin coat bleeding warmth. Now he moves well-equipped, but with the same preternatural grace. As if he picks his every step with care. As if he is a deer in human skin, lost, wandering in search of its herd. He knows exactly where he is going, though, as he pauses outside the bakery door and breathes in.
There is a promise in the warmth of cinnamon and flame. A promise like golden light, linked hands, stone walls. If Seiji closes his eyes, he can just feel the memory brushing up against the back of his mind, but he can’t quite grasp it. He’s been struggling like this too long, the things in his head like secretive fish, vast and elusive. He breathes out, and moves through the door.
His dark eyes skim over the others. Two, of course, he knows: Amalia and Deimos are fixtures in the Hollowed Grounds. Even if he cannot recall speaking with Deimos, the man is difficult to miss. The third person, though Seiji does not recognize. Nonetheless, his slow smile is the same for each of them.
Seiji moves slowly toward the assembled materials. He should be hungry, but he hardly glances at the food. Instead, he runs the tip of one long finger along the corner of the glass frame. “Lanterns,” he says, softly, and his expression is wistful. Soft, sad somehow. Lonely despite the bakery and the friend he now blinks at with gentle eyes. “It’s time already, isn't it?"
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
