The morning light was different in Tara's apartment.
It came through the window in soft, dusty beams, catching the floating motes that drifted through the warm air. The plants on the windowsill casted long shadows across the yellow walls, and the kettle hummed quietly on the stove.
Hoshimi sat on the couch, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold ten minutes ago.
[What am I still doing here? I shouldn't trouble her by staying here]
He'd been awake for an hour, had watched the sun climb over the brick wall outside, had listened to the city wake up around him in its slow, reluctant way.
[And I can't stay here, every time I look at her….I keep think about….nevermind, it's better if I don't remember anything]
His body still ached. The hole in his chest was still there, a void that nothing seemed to fill. But something had shifted. Something small and fragile and tentative, like the first green shoot pushing through scorched earth.
Tara emerged from the bathroom, her ginger hair damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around her shoulders. She wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans, the kind of clothes that didn't try to impress anyone.
"I can hear you from the other room," she continued, crossing to the kitchenette. "All that brooding. It's bad for your health."
"I wasn't even saying anything."
"You were staring at the wall with your sad violet eyes. That's enough for me to hear you."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Nothing ever makes sense." She poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, her golden eyes studying him. "You need to get out of this apartment. You've been here three days, and I'm pretty sure you haven't seen sunlight once."
"I've seen sunlight."
"When? Through the window?"
"That counts."
"That doesn't really count." She set down her coffee and walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. "Get up. We're going for a walk."
Hoshimi stared at her. "I don't want to go for a walk."
"I know. That's why you need to."
She extended her hand. The same hand she'd offered him in the PC cafe, pale and calloused and steady. He looked at it for a long moment, then looked away.
"I'm not dressed for outside."
"You're already wearing clothes."
"My shirt has stains."
"So does mine, so let's get you new ones." She wiggled her fingers. "Come on. Up. I promise I won't make you talk to anyone."
Hoshimi hesitated. The couch was warm. The apartment was safe. The thought of stepping outside, of facing the city with its memories and its crowds and its endless reminder of everything he'd lost, made his stomach clench.
But Tara's hand was still there.
He took it.
The streets were different at this hour.
Vendors were setting up their stalls, unfolding tables and arranging goods with practiced efficiency. The smell of frying dough and roasting chestnuts hung in the air.
Office workers hurried past, their faces buried in phones, their steps quick and purposeful.
Children in school uniforms ran past them.
Tara walked beside him, her pace slow, unhurried. She didn't try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter.
Didn't ask him how he was feeling or what he was thinking. She just walked, her shoulder occasionally brushing against his, a small, grounding presence.
She was smiling.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Nowhere in particular. That's the point."
"Really? So you don't have a plan?"
"It's not about efficiency or having a plan." She glanced at him, a small smile playing at her lips. "It's about existing. There's really no need to have complete control over every single instance of your life."
"I usually always have had someone do that for me. I'm not very good at being independent."
She nodded toward a street vendor selling taiyaki, the fish-shaped cakes sizzling on a hot griddle. "Want one? They're fresh."
"I'm not hungry."
"Liar."
She bought two anyway, handing him one without waiting for his protest. The pastry was warm in his hands, the sweet smell of red bean paste rising from its golden crust. He bit into it mechanically, the taste familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Audrey had liked taiyaki. She'd bought one at the zoo, had bitten into it with too much enthusiasm.
"Hoshimi?" Tara's voice was soft. "What is it?"
"Nothing." He forced himself to keep walking. "Just... nothing."
[I don't like reminiscing about my past, it just hurts. Why can't I just seem to forget everything?]
She didn't push. Just fell into step beside him again, her presence steady and warm.
They walked through a small park, the grass still wet with morning dew. Children played on the swings, their laughter bright and uncomplicated.
An old man sat on a bench, feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons that gathered at his feet in a flurry of gray feathers.
Tara stopped at the edge of the pond. The water was still, reflecting the gray sky in fractured fragments. A family of ducks paddled in lazy circles, their ducklings trailing behind them in a neat line.
"I used to come here with my mom," she said quietly. "When I was little. Before she died on me."
Hoshimi stood beside her, his hands in his pockets. "What did you do?"
"Nothing exciting. We'd feed the ducks. Walk around. She'd buy me ice cream from the cart near the entrance, even though I was supposed to be lactose intolerant." She smiled. "She said some things were worth the stomachache."
"She sounds like she was nice."
"She was annoying. In the best way." Tara tucked a strand of ginger hair behind her ear. "She used to sing in the car. Really loud. Off-key. She didn't care who heard."
"What did she sing?"
"Old stuff. Songs from before I was born. I used to be embarrassed."
The ducks paddled past. A breeze stirred the surface of the pond, sending ripples across the water.
The city opened up around them as they walked.
The park gave way to a shopping district, the streets lined with boutiques and cafes and the occasional flash of neon from a pachinko parlor. The crowds were thicker here, a river of bodies flowing around them.
Tara stopped in front of a pet store. The window display held a litter of kittens, their tiny bodies tumbling over each other in a tangle of fur and paws.
"Oh my god," she breathed, pressing her hands against the glass. "Look at them, they're so adowable."
Hoshimi looked. The kittens were small and orange, their eyes still blue with youth. One of them noticed him and pressed its paw against the glass, leaving a tiny print.
"Do you want one?" he asked.
"What? No. I can barely take care of myself. I can't be responsible for another living thing." But she didn't move from the window, her eyes still fixed on the kittens. "They're so small. So fragile."
The kittens tumbled over each other in the window display, a tangle of orange fur and tiny paws and eyes that hadn't yet decided what color they wanted to be. One of them batted at a hanging toy, its movements uncoordinated, almost drunken.
"I used to have a cat," Tara said. Her breath fogged the glass. "When I was younger."
"What happened to it?"
"It ran away. I don't really know what happened to it. It might be partially my fault for not taking it properly." She shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible motion. "That's how things go, I suppose."
She pushed off from the window and kept walking.
Hoshimi followed.
The shopping district opened into a wider avenue, the buildings here newer, the storefronts glossier. Expensive boutiques. Designer labels. The kind of places that sold clothes that cost more than most people's rent.
Tara stopped in front of one. The mannequin in the window wore a black dress, elegant and simple, its fabric catching the morning light.
"That's pretty," she said. "Not my style, though. Too formal. I'd look like I was going to a funeral."
[That looks like something that Miss Reina would wear.]
"You'd look fine."
"You're sweet. Bad liar, but sweet." She turned to look at him, her golden eyes sweeping over his blood-stained shirt and wrinkled pants. "You need clothes."
"I have clothes."
"Those are rags. You look like you've been living in a PC cafe for a week."
"I don't want to spend money on clothes."
"Then I'll buy them for you."
"I don't want you to spend money on me either."
Tara rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
But she was already walking toward the boutique, already pushing open the glass door, the bell above it chiming her arrival.
The interior was cool and dim, the air smelling of expensive perfume and new fabric. A saleswoman approached them, her smile professional, her eyes assessing.
"Welcome. Is there anything I can help you find today?"
Tara waved a hand at Hoshimi. "What would you think would look good on him?"
The saleswoman's smile flickered. "Ahh, we have a wide selection of clothes for you, follow me, right this way m'am."
Hoshimi stood in the center of the dressing room, surrounded by clothes he hadn't asked for.
A white button-down. Dark jeans. A gray jacket. Black boots. Tara had picked them all, had held them up against him with a critical eye, had nodded or shook her head with the authority of someone who had done this before.
"Try this one," she said, handing him a different shirt through the curtain.
"You're enjoying this."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't like being a doll."
"You're not a doll." She paused. " Now put the shirt on."
He put the shirt on.
The white fabric was crisp, clean, unwrinkled. It felt strange against his skin, too new, too perfect. He looked at himself in the mirror and didn't recognize the person staring back.
"How do I look?" he asked.
The curtain pulled back. Tara stood there, her head tilted, her golden eyes sweeping over him with an expression he couldn't read.
"Better," she said. "Not great. But better. Turn around."
He turned.
"Now face me."
He faced her.
She walked in a slow circle around him, her fingers tapping her chin. "The jacket's too big in the shoulders. We'll need a different size. And the pants are too long. Do they have a tailor here?"
"I don't know."
"Go ask."
"You go ask. You're the one who dragged me here."
"You're the one who's wearing the clothes."
They argued. Or rather, Tara argued, a steady stream of complaints and commands, and Hoshimi stood there, enduring, until finally the saleswoman returned with a smaller jacket and a promise that the pants could be hemmed by the end of the day.
"Fine," Tara said. "We'll take everything. And the boots."
"The boots are fine."
"The boots are too flashy. You look like you're trying to be in a rock band."
"I'm trying not to."
"Your fashion taste is really bad."
"I've always had someone else pick out my clothes for me."
"You really must've been a sheltered child."
She paid with a credit card, not cash, and Hoshimi noticed the way her fingers trembled slightly as she signed the receipt. She was barely surviving after all.
But she didn't complain. Didn't mention the cost. Just smiled at the saleswoman, tucked the receipt into her pocket, and led him back out into the morning light.
"You look better," she said.