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Whatever brought you back to that ruined house, whatever lent you the courage to bury that tattered corpse — whatever it was, it can’t stand up to your fear of the small creature now clawing itself out of the grave. Regrets refusing to stay buried. A curse given form. You reach for it only out of a greater fear, something like responsibility—
Then memory’s lightning-flash: Pale hair against a fall of cherry blossoms. A warmer ache in your ever-empty chest.
You look at the squirming body in your hands; meet its tearful gaze. A monster. A child, asking to be saved.
/
You give him a name. You meet his father, again.
The little eyeball youkai likes warm baths and cold sake; cries when he’s had too much of the latter. Cries readily and often, otherwise: stroking his son’s face with a too-small hand, or smiling up at you from the moonlit veranda. An easy gratitude that hurts to receive.
I left you and your wife to die, you think each time. I almost killed your child.
A fresh guilt. Yet at least — unlike the apology lodged cold and nameless in your throat, remorse with no object — one whose origin you understand.
/
The dreams don’t end. Old dreams of scenes you can’t forget; new dreams of things you can’t remember. Blood and fire and fallen comrades. Blood, and an unearthly fire, and your hands empty when they should have cradled someone. Another’s hands around your neck, forcing your throat closed against your empty words. All the things you couldn’t save.
So, yes: Most nights you still wake with a start, face damp with sweat or inexplicable tears. But you aren’t alone. There, so close you could reach out to feel it: the soft rhythm of Kitarou’s breathing, gentle in the unforgiving dark.