Young Writers Society

Days of Gold Gone By: A Serial

Authors Note: I reccomend you read episode one for full understanding.

Episode Three: Hanging Ghosts

Under the moon my night grows younger. The sun bends around the earth so it can rise on the western horizon. Time pushes itself past me, much like the waves on the shore had crept up past my ankles, the water rushing itself forward so it appeared although I was moving into the ocean, backward to its flow. Unlike the ocean, where movement was an illusion, I am moving against time.

When I awake the world is still wrapped beneath the night sky. My ears immediately seek out sound; all is not silent. I hear voices, passing through both solid walls and rice-paper. Behind the hall is a puddle of light, drained from the other room, leaking in just enough so that I can see. I pull myself upright and throw the heavy blankets away from my legs. I cast on the lamp that sits on the far end of the desk. There is still nothing else on it save for the letter and the pair of glasses I had picked up after I had stood on them yesterday.

I pick a shard of the lens out of one of the frames; it has shattered into a form of curved triangle. Through it the printed 明 of my name on the envelope front is magnified. I place the shard back down on the frame and pick the square of paper back up, thinking about reading it again.

“Rest well, Akira.” I get a slight fright to see Kaho standing at the door frame, smiling at me. She walks in toward me and bites her lip. Without even asking she takes the envelope from between my fingers.

“I was told wait to give it to you until tonight.” She explains as she did so, “June asked me to give you this.” I am slightly disappointed that she had taken the letter. It seemed personal, but at the same time I am relieved that I have an excuse not to ponder over it any longer.

“No, we had them repaired again; you should really stop breaking them.” Kaho says as she moved her hand over to pick up the folded pair of glasses.

“It’s sharp!” I cry out in warning before I can stop myself. She does not falter but instead picks them in her palm.

“Your glasses.” She announces. She is going to take them away, just like the letter. I have no emotional attachment to them, nor do I see them in any light of significance, but I don’t want to let her have them simply because I want to rule my own future. I grab her hand and try to take them from her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Her voice sounds urgent. She does not expect me to force her, so I gain possession of them easily; dropping them into my pocket the instant I have them in my clasp.

I do not know what I expected, a break in fragment of the universe? Some sort of insane twist? But nothing happens. Kaho does not even seem alarmed. I wonder what thoughts are moving through her head.

“Nice trick...” She says hesitantly. She returns back to the door, I watch her go, my eyes set firmly on her presence.

“How do you know every time I’m coming?” She laughs, “I can never sneak up on you. Akira.” I smile back at her; it’s the first time I really have taken a good look at her without worrying about things beyond. Her face is round and her nose wide; it creases upward when she laughs. Her black hair sits beneath her ears and is unusually curled; set into a popular style that reminds me of the woman on the poster I had seen the day before. Kaho vanishes and I am left alone in the room with the dark corners.

~

What comes over me next is not something of intuition or respect. My actions come from a profound will and the desire to discover more. I wash away any guilt of my intentions on the justification that this is indeed my own room. On the far west wall there is a sliding cupboard; it is built indented into the wall, made of a thin screen for its door but the frame is carved in solid wood. My fingers fit roundly into its handle and when it slides it is smooth and silent.

Inside is a collection of clothes, some are hanging like long legless figures from the top of the wardrobe, while other fabrics are neatly folded onto a collection of vertical shelves. Overall the contents do not seem interesting at a glance. I place my hands gently on a pile of shirts; I can feel the buttons beneath my fingers, round and smooth. With a sudden wrench I heave the fabric out of its sanctuary and send it sprawling helplessly across the floor. I do the same with the next shelf, and the next; watching the malleable collection of fabrics flying and floating across the room is entertaining. I am a child.

My motives are not limited to simple destruction, I’m looking for something; secrets about my future. A flock of crumpled paper notes falls out of the next pile I throw. It is just money, nothing interesting. Once all the shelves have been evacuated I turn my attention to the hanging ghosts.

There are jackets and suits hanging at the far end, and in the centre is a dark blue yukata along with other ceremonial dress. What catches my eye hangs on the far end, tucked far behind so that it is barely noticeable. It is a dull green outfit, a shirt pressed neatly with no creases and a pair of trousers hanging folded over on the inside. On the hanger rests a hat that matches the clothing with a bright red band around its edge. I take it out and lay it down neatly on a clear space of floor. The collars are decorated with red stripes and the fabric, though looking undisturbed, is ragged around the sleeves and hem. Near the stomach of the shirt are a series forced of holes; the fabric around them is stained and discoloured, like a washed away brown. It reminds me of the exact clothes that the soldiers of the posters were wearing.

I look over my shoulder to the desk. From my new position crouched on the floor, my attention is drawn exactly level to the large bottom drawer. I shove myself backward, pulling it open. It cracks with the pain of old and broken joints. The white of a folded moons blink out at me between their brothers of brown and cream. The draw is full with paper of all variety. Most of it appears to be written documents, or more envelopes and letters, some of them yellowing, others ink-smudged from drops of rain, some scrawled hastily, and others printed fresh letters of a typewriter. Between the letters peers bright coloured shapes of origami figures and stray sheets of crafting paper. I pick one out; a green and complex looking frog, another is a bright red and beautifully folded elephant. I place them back delicately with the fear of damaging the craftsmanship. I try to wrap my mind around how they are constructed. For sure I could never make something like that.

A name on one of the letters catches my eye. June. This person had sent me more? I hungrily unfold it, expecting a flood of secrets to pass into my eyes. The paper is blank. As is the next and the next. From the outside they seem to contain words in full, I don’t understand why my desk is full with blank sheets.

Something comes across me. Those letters exist for some other alternate future, the one in which these people knew me. I could not read them because they were from my future; a future is not set, not written in stone. Even though it is a future that is a past, I had yet to live my future.

Yet what of the hanging ghosts in my wardrobe? The uniform was there. I did not know whose it was nor where it was from, but it had a history behind it. Perhaps some things were anchored, unavoidable; the only future that was unknown was the one I am to lay out for myself.