– 30 –

.(a forgotten memory).

She sits alone on a park swing, her eyes lifted to the sky.

A faint breeze is blowing. It tousles her short hair and whispers across her cheek, and she leans into it for a moment, imagining it to be her father’s touch.

Behind her is the sound of laughter, the clang of sneakers against the slides and steps of a jungle gym. School friends, playing King of the Castle in the background.

She has never been fond of the game. Her favorite is Hide-and-Seek.

Still, she should go back and play, even though she doesn’t feel like it right now. She doesn’t feel like doing much of anything right now, despite the occasion.

Today, she is six years old.

She sighs, ducking her chin. On her white blouse is an electric-blue icing stain. She rubs at it half-heartedly before staring down at the ground.

In the fine sand beneath the swingset, she draws her home with the toe of her shoe. First, Goshinboku, then the wellhouse shrine, then the two-story house with kitten Buyo on the doorstep.

It is a picture she has drawn many, many times. So many times in fact, that when she begins to draw her family in the foreground, it is her father who takes shape first.

She freezes as if struck, her toe still hovering above the stick-figure image as her eyes begin to blur.

A sudden cry seizes her attention.

Above her lands a dusty old crow, its black claws rasping against the top of the swingset as it struggles to find its perch.

It is an ugly, balding thing. Its beak is cracked and broken, its glassy eye weeping darkly as it cocks its head at her and stares.

Clutching at the chains, she stares back.

A chill breeze washes over her, and though it does not stir one grimy feather, the crow must have felt it too, for it turns toward the source of it and shrieks before taking flight.

She turns as well, gasping at the sight.

A man is standing a short distance from her, though he is unlike any man she has ever seen. His hair is long and silver, his eyes so light they are almost gold.

He looks, to her, like an angel.

“Kagome,” he greets her.

She eases down from the swing, heart pounding. “Who are you?”

He smiles slightly as he begins to walk toward her. “An old friend.”

Instinctively, she retreats from him, the seat of the swing digging into her lower back. She shakes her head.

“I’ve never seen you before.”

He is not the sort of person she’d be likely to forget.

“You have,” he corrects her, drawing to a stop. “You are simply too young to remember.”

She swallows, looking at him uncertainly. “What do you want?”

“I’ve brought something for you,” he answers, one pale hand reaching within a pocket of his suit. “A gift. Today is your birthday, is it not?”

She nods, entranced by the object now resting in the palm of his hand. It is the size of a large marble, dark and glittering. As she watches, the darkness seems to swirl within it, like stormclouds in a night sky.

The moment her fingertips brush the surface, the stormclouds retreat, replaced by a soft rosy glow.

The stranger breathes in sharply. She looks up at him in surprise.

He is no longer smiling. His eyes are fixed on the gift between them, now faintly smoking in his hand.

“You must keep it safe,” he says, his gaze snapping to hers. “You must keep it with you always.”

She opens her mouth to promise that she will, when something pierces her through the chest.

Choking, she looks down.

Pale fingers protrude from her ribcage, buried knuckles-deep. White shirt, white skin, splashed with red.

Her knees give way.

She feels herself falling slowly, vision dimming as she is lowered to the sand.

“It is your treasure,” his voice sounds from somewhere above her.

Yellow eyes swim into view. His hand withdraws from her, yet a weight remains. Distantly, she can feel it, sinking through her like a stone.

Wet fingers trail across her face. Icy lips whisper against her own.

“As you,” he says, “are mine.”

…

A scream awakens her.

It is her mother, crying out her name.

She stirs, pushing sluggishly up onto her elbows. Her shirt is stiff and caked in red. It tugs at her skin with every shaking breath.

She is still staring at it in confusion when her mother reaches her, collapsing at her side. Frantic hands tear through her bloodied shirt, searching over and over for a wound that is not there.

“Kagome, Kagome,” she sobs at last, in relief, in shared confusion. “What happened to you?“

Her breathing is steady now. Meeting her mother’s gaze, she frowns.

“Mama, I don’t know.”

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi