Eternal Beauty | Chapter 9

“Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories—and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories.”

— Alice Munro

The relentless screech of Kei’s alarm shattered the early morning silence. He groaned, fumbling blindly across the nightstand until his fingers found the device and silenced it, but the sound seemed to linger at the edges of his mind like an echo that refused to fade. He remained still for a moment, lying back against the thin dormitory mattress, staring up at the faint cracks in the ceiling as if they might rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

The room felt oppressive in its stillness, the air thick with a weight he could not name. Kei rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses, adjusting them as he sat up slowly. The floor beneath his feet was cold when he stood, grounding him enough to begin moving, though the motion felt distant, like his body was performing a routine his mind had not yet agreed to follow.

He dressed quietly, the rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the dorm room door the only sounds breaking the morning hush. The hallway outside was empty, lit by pale light filtering in through narrow windows. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked, the quiet of the building pressing around him until he stepped outside and the air shifted.

The path from the dorms to the main campus stretched ahead, lined with towering cherry blossom trees. Their branches sagged beneath the weight of blooming petals that drifted lazily to the ground in slow spirals. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in scattered patches, dappling the cobblestones in faint gold.

Ahead, leaning against the iron fence bordering the walkway, stood Kukui.

She did not notice him at first. Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the path, her long black hair falling forward in uneven strands that partially obscured her face.

“Kukui,” Kei called, his voice sounding louder than he intended in the quiet.

She turned slowly. Her eyes narrowed, and there was no warmth in her expression.

“You’re late,” she said flatly.

Kei offered a faint smile that faded almost immediately beneath her gaze. “Sorry. I guess I—”

“Don’t bother,” she interrupted, pushing off the fence and falling into step beside him.

They walked in silence. The gravel crunched beneath their shoes, amplified by the stillness around them. Kei glanced sideways at her. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her blazer as if holding herself together by force.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low but edged sharply enough to make him flinch.

“How could he?”

Kei’s steps faltered. “How could Sugei do something like this?” Kukui continued, her words spilling out in uneven bursts. “Pretending to be Marin. Acting like he’s her. Like he can just…step into her life as if it’s clothing he can put on.”

Kei inhaled slowly, but the air felt heavy in his chest.

The memories rose without warning, blurred and disjointed. Sugei running ahead of him through the woods, laughing as he dared Kei to climb higher into the branches of a tree neither of them should have been on. Marin’s voice joining theirs as she waded into the creek, the water rippling around her ankles as she laughed softly at something neither of them remembered anymore.

The memory shifted. Rain on the bridge. Marin’s face tilted toward the sky. Sugei’s voice overlapping hers until Kei could no longer tell which belonged to whom.

“Kei!”

Kukui’s voice snapped him back.

They had stopped walking.

She stood in front of him now, fists clenched, her eyes bright with frustration and pain.

“You can’t tell me this doesn’t bother you,” she said, her voice trembling. “That you’re okay with what he’s done. What he’s become.”

Kei’s lips parted, but no words formed.

Kukui stepped closer and placed her hand flat against his chest.

“Don’t lose yourself in this, Kei,” she said quietly. “Don’t let him drag you down with him.”

Her hand dropped away. She turned and walked ahead without waiting for him.

Kei remained still for a long moment as petals drifted around him in silence.

***

By the time he reached the council wing, the morning had fully settled across the campus. He paused outside the door, taking a slow breath before pushing it open.

The room inside was brighter than he expected, sunlight spilling through tall windows and casting long bands of light across the polished floor. Marin sat at the head of the table, posture straight and composed as she flipped through a stack of papers with careful attention.

With Kaori Himura still away, the room felt strangely quiet for a place that should have carried more authority.

Across from Marin, Yuki lounged in her chair, legs draped lazily over the armrest as she tapped her pen against her chin.

“This festival is going to be the death of me,” Yuki muttered, letting her head fall back dramatically.

“You’ll survive,” Marin replied without looking up, her voice even and calm.

The door creaked slightly as Kei stepped inside.

Marin’s gaze flicked toward him briefly before returning to her papers. Yuki, however, straightened immediately, her expression lighting with interest.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” she teased.

Kei shifted awkwardly. “Hi. I guess…I’m here now.”

Yuki smirked and gestured toward the empty chair. “Sit, newbie. We don’t bite.”

As Kei sat, Yuki leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “So, where are you from?”

“Just a small town nearby,” he replied.

Yuki tilted her head. “Really? Marin’s from a small town too. What are the odds?”

Marin’s hands paused briefly on the papers before continuing. “Small world,” she said smoothly.

Yuki launched into an explanation of the council’s responsibilities, her words flowing easily, but Kei found it difficult to focus. His attention drifted back to Marin repeatedly.

When Yuki finally left, the room fell into a quieter stillness.

Marin folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Do you ever rethink your decision?” Kei asked softly.

Her gaze lowered. She did not smile.

“She was all I had left of myself,” Marin said quietly. “So I became her.”

Kei stayed still.

“No one here knows her,” she continued. “They never knew her. I can be free here.”

Her fingers brushed absently along the edge of the table.

“But I do. I remember the sound of her singing in the bath. Her chipped nail polish. The way she tied her laces in double knots. I remember all of it—and it scared me how fast those memories were fading.”

She exhaled softly.

“Wearing her shoes. Speaking in her voice. It wasn’t about them. It was for me. I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up one day and forgetting her face.”

Kei swallowed.

“But what about your own face?” he asked quietly.

Marin didn’t look at him.

“I see hers when I close my eyes. It’s easier that way.”

***

Later that evening, Kei sat on the edge of his dorm bed, staring down at an old photograph of Sugei, Marin, and himself. His fingers traced the edges of the image as if he could feel the past through the paper.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” he whispered. “For both of you.”

The room answered him with silence.