Since setting out to sea, he has abided by a single rule as a pirate doctor - to not abandon any one of his patients. This time will be no different.
No matter the odds, Trafalgar Law will not let Murasaki Arisa die.
« Trafalgar D. Water L...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Arisa had no recollection of ever waking up. It was as if she had always been here, always sitting on that bench waiting for... something.
Eventually she stood up and looked around the empty platform. Her surroundings were static and nondescript. Strangely muted in color, as is typical of most train stations. Faded brick, concrete pillars, and drab worn tiles. There was a large puddle near the edge of the platform, which she deliberately stepped around as she ventured a few paces down before returning to that bench.
She looked for a sign but could find none. No clock either.
A damp breeze rustled the foliage hemming the train tracks, punctuated with light taps of rainwater dripping from the leaves -
Footsteps registered from her right, and Arisa turned to see a young man walk up to wait next to her. He was dressed inconspicuously in traveling attire, carrying a bag and an umbrella.
She knew it was rude to stare, but she watched him closely as he set the bag down to check his watch. He was achingly familiar in a way she couldn't quite articulate. Maybe it was something about those amber eyes, the kind yet haggard face. The slow, tentative flutter of his lashes whenever his gaze sank down to his feet.
But her mind only came up blank whenever she tried to summon his name.
Their eyes met once. There was not a trace of recognition in that distant, courteous way he smiled at her. No trace of familiarity in the way he nodded once in greeting. Then they both looked away as they were supposed to, just like the strangers they were.
The man never spoke a word that entire time. But there always remained a tiny, inexplicable tug at the depths of Arisa's consciousness, a nonsensical glimmer which gave her the vaguest sense of what he might sound like.
Say something...
That idea took root in her mind, formulating into something much more distinct and concrete. Arisa stifled a small wince the more she dwelled on it, fighting to assign some sort of meaning to it.
His voice.
She could have sworn to have remembered his voice - or at least what she imagined it to be. Low and quiet and pleasant, sometimes made raspy from cigarette smoke. If she closed her eyes, she could recall everything with intricate clarity. The cadences in his speech, the expression he liked to use, the gentle lulls in his breathing. Every rhythm, every timbre - it was all there, cloistered at the furthermost recesses of her consciousness as transient illusions of a memory.
...why won't you say something, damn it?
She pictured a face to accompany those words. Envisioned the furrows etching into his brow, his lips tilting to form a sharp, frustrated scowl. She internalized the clanging of metal, the sound of him raising his voice.
Look at me, Risa...
I'm yours.
A shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling an arrival. The man looked up, his expression still inscrutable, and picked up his bag.
