(I know her. Not as she is now, but as she once was.)
He was certain of this fact, even if the evidence was still rather lacking. He’d seen in her eyes a similar measure of awareness, coupled with a deep sense of confusion and a gut wrenching degree of longing and loneliness.
Saitoh pondered these things, deliberated on potential courses of action and the most likely ramifications of said actions and found that there were two roads, two paths to take; one was easy, bland and safe while the other was fraught with peril, heartache and the potential for a measure of peace and completion that he’d assumed he would never experience again.
Saitoh stood for several more minutes, his angular features indecipherable as he looked out at a city, at a society that was falling apart faster than he and others like him could put it back together and wondered at the wisdom and risks in choosing the past least taken, of risking so much for something so uncertain. A memory (if it was truly a memory rather than a hope made mentally manifest) blossomed in the back of his mind, of that woman, a woman he suspected had once been his wife, cradling a child in her arms, a child of their making) He’d dreamt of this boy, this missing son, even before Yaso passed away, but never in this context.
And then he thought of Yaso, of his sweet wife, who he still missed and mourned. He thought about how he’d failed her, just as surely as he’d failed their children, and how she’d passed so painfully, so violently from this life and from his side not fully knowing how dear she was to him, how deeply he loved and respected her. He wondered what she would think of this situation, how she would react to the knowledge that for the first time since her death, that the man she’d wed was considering the concept of permitting another woman to enter his life and the lives of their children. He wondered if this made his a less than loyal husband, if desiring one who was living was disloyal to one who was dead.
Saitoh leaned against the window and closed his eyes, which were burning with unshed grief. (I miss you) he thought. He felt a breeze that he assumed came from the slightly opened office window.
(I miss you too) there was no sound, no voice, just the whispery sensation of thought being pulled across his mind, like silk over steel.
(The boys…) he thought about how despite his best efforts, their home was not the happy place of memory, how his children were growing up far too somber and silent. (They need their mother…)
(And they will have her…) the breeze moved around him, through him. (She has waited for them…) Despite it being winter, the breeze from his window seemed warm; as if it had moved through leaf laden trees during the height of summer (…she has waited for you, for so long…)
(I don’t understand)
(You will…) Saitoh felt the wind, so strangely warm, move through his hair, almost like a comforting caress, and then with a parting sigh, it vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared.
He stood there for several minutes, his back to the door, until the phone rang, and Yorimoto jumped and knocked over his cup of tea and began apologizing profusely, It was not until late in the afternoon, a few minutes before his meeting with Takagi that Saitoh realized that the window to his office was shut and locked.
Part II
He was certain of this fact, even if the evidence was still rather lacking. He’d seen in her eyes a similar measure of awareness, coupled with a deep sense of confusion and a gut wrenching degree of longing and loneliness.
Saitoh pondered these things, deliberated on potential courses of action and the most likely ramifications of said actions and found that there were two roads, two paths to take; one was easy, bland and safe while the other was fraught with peril, heartache and the potential for a measure of peace and completion that he’d assumed he would never experience again.
Saitoh stood for several more minutes, his angular features indecipherable as he looked out at a city, at a society that was falling apart faster than he and others like him could put it back together and wondered at the wisdom and risks in choosing the past least taken, of risking so much for something so uncertain. A memory (if it was truly a memory rather than a hope made mentally manifest) blossomed in the back of his mind, of that woman, a woman he suspected had once been his wife, cradling a child in her arms, a child of their making) He’d dreamt of this boy, this missing son, even before Yaso passed away, but never in this context.
And then he thought of Yaso, of his sweet wife, who he still missed and mourned. He thought about how he’d failed her, just as surely as he’d failed their children, and how she’d passed so painfully, so violently from this life and from his side not fully knowing how dear she was to him, how deeply he loved and respected her. He wondered what she would think of this situation, how she would react to the knowledge that for the first time since her death, that the man she’d wed was considering the concept of permitting another woman to enter his life and the lives of their children. He wondered if this made his a less than loyal husband, if desiring one who was living was disloyal to one who was dead.
Saitoh leaned against the window and closed his eyes, which were burning with unshed grief. (I miss you) he thought. He felt a breeze that he assumed came from the slightly opened office window.
(I miss you too) there was no sound, no voice, just the whispery sensation of thought being pulled across his mind, like silk over steel.
(The boys…) he thought about how despite his best efforts, their home was not the happy place of memory, how his children were growing up far too somber and silent. (They need their mother…)
(And they will have her…) the breeze moved around him, through him. (She has waited for them…) Despite it being winter, the breeze from his window seemed warm; as if it had moved through leaf laden trees during the height of summer (…she has waited for you, for so long…)
(I don’t understand)
(You will…) Saitoh felt the wind, so strangely warm, move through his hair, almost like a comforting caress, and then with a parting sigh, it vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared.
He stood there for several minutes, his back to the door, until the phone rang, and Yorimoto jumped and knocked over his cup of tea and began apologizing profusely, It was not until late in the afternoon, a few minutes before his meeting with Takagi that Saitoh realized that the window to his office was shut and locked.