As Petals Fall (花弁が倒れる)

Gray

Two flowers grew in the corner of the square, wrapping around each other and trying to support the other. They had no experience with anything outside of what they saw now, nothing before nor after the grayness. They could see nothing outside of this era, could feel nothing but each other. Perhaps it was best it was that way. Perhaps they could know each other better without knowledge of anything other.

And so the two flowers lay together at the far corner of the square, nearer to the side of the city that was leveled by the grayness. Sochu stared blankly in the direction of it, trying to not focus on anything but Sakeuru’s hair, which refused to be tamed by fingers no matter how much Sochu tried. Sakeuru lay in Sochu’s lap, staring at the sky and wondering. Sakeuru wondered often about the world without grayness, without humanity as a unit of solemnity, where things had visual life and variety.

“Was there a time before the grayness?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you suppose the sky holds memories of those times?”

“I suppose that it is much to ridden with clouds to see that the gray is even here now.”

“Clouds?”

Sochu was older, and had lived for a short time in a world where they still taught about life before the grayness. Sakeuru was never taught by anyone but Sochu, but trusted every word, even if Sochu was unsure of it. Neither of them had ever seen the sky any different than it was now: gray and bland, wrinkled like the face of the only Old One left. No one grew old anymore. No one wanted to. The Old One was much older than anyone else left, the only one who didn't succumb to misery from the grayness before living four decades.

“I suppose we should head back.” Socho felt tired. There wasn't a particular reason. They hadn't done any particularly tasking activities since they had last awoken. And yet exhaustion pulled at Socho’s bones, coming more from a drain on the mind and emotion rather than the body.

They had no indication of whether it was day or not. It was always the same. The sky never changed color, and there were no clocks in the city. There was little of anything in the city, except for a few empty souls in half empty rooms. Apathy pressed upon everyone, placed there by hopelessness, deafening them from any intensity of existence. On their way back to their room, they met few souls, and any who were wandering the city seemed lost, scanning their surroundings with an empty gaze. They looked almost disappointed with the lack of variety in their surroundings, as if they were expecting more. Yet more never came. Day after day, it was just the grayness. There was nothing there to change it, just empty wishes and coping mechanisms.

The two flowers reached their room. It was empty except for a single blanket neatly laid on the floors center and an empty table pressed against the wall as if afraid of something on the other side of the room. As per ritual, they went to sit on the blanket. They sat with their legs crossed, knees touching, breathing quiet and synced. Two flowers, planted next to each other, growing together as more than anything else in the rubble of a world around them. And yet they were still weak. So weak. For plants need light to grow, but when you have not seen the sun a day in your life, it is hard to thrive. When a plant is weak, it may need something to support it so that it doesn't break. Or something to hold it straight so that it doesn't seem like it's broken, so that it doesn't know it can be broken.

But what to do when your only support is broken itself?

Sakeuru sat there, head against Sochus chest now, occasionally trembling from silent, tearless sobs. The muted light from the still open door fell just short of where they sat. It seemed more solid than anything else in their lives. It seemed like the only thing that had not been harshly and completely washed of anything resembling life, however weak it was. It seemed to hesitate touching their combined form, afraid it may bring life to something other than itself.

It's mocking us, thought Socho somewhat bitterly. It glows. It dances in the air. While we sit too weak to move. It's abandoned our world, our bodies, and yet it still comes in this half form to watch us. Socho gently laid Sakeuru onto the blanket and closed the door. Socho and Sakeuru lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing. They were too drained from nothingness to think. They could do nothing but exist next to each other in meaninglessness until their joints grew sore from lying flat and would be forced to wander the small area of the city outside their door that they had the ambition to explore, only to return to this empty room to continue lying still. They saw so little. There were perhaps more things they could see, but their hearts didn't long for seeing any more still figures through doors stuck open.

What to do when your only support is broken itself?

Socho turned away from Sakeuru to stare at the opposite wall. Tears started falling from Socho's eyes. All was silent, except for perhaps the quiet sound of tears hitting the blanket. Socho could only let them fall. There was not enough soul left for even a trembling of the shoulders or a sniffle. Sakeuru could not turn away from the ceiling, just continued staring blankly at it.

They had no energy to save themselves. They were watered with tears and fed emptiness, the sun a distant fantasy. They could not thrive with no resources. They knew nothing other, and tried to live regardless. But it was only as much of a life as a feather is heavy. Those around them often ceased to exist as their minds drained of anything but the grayness.

And yet still the two flowers lived, however weakly. They lived for each other. That was all they knew. That was all they could feel. They longed for a touch of the sun but settled for the touch of each other, trying to help the other more than they helped themselves.

It was time to rise from the floor again, and so their figures rose up. They left the door open behind them. There wasn't a reason to close it.

As they neared the square, the flatness of the other half of the city met them. Sakeuru stood still for an extra moment, staring at it, then pulled at Socho. Socho wasn't sure of what was going on, but nonetheless followed, too indifferent to really protest or wonder. Sakeuru pulled towards the edge of the square, where the edge tiles of the clearing met the crumbled streets of the ruined half of the city. They each took a breath before stepping over.

The ground crunched softly underfoot. It felt somehow lighter than the other half, as if the Earth itself was hollowed there, and the ground elastic. The buildings looked like they had been stepped on, metal beams folding out like a flower's petal, everything in pieces and strewn around. Sakeuru picked up something. It reflected what little light they had, but somehow more brightly than they had ever seen before. They stared at it in slight shock. It was… so solid. So sharp and real. Everything around them was jagged and sharp and somehow more alive in its death than the life in anything in the other half of the city. Something in Sakeuru had finally died enough to bring them here, which awoke something completely new, something raw and incredible, and full of a potential.