Himitsu (Book One of the Kakureta Hana series)

X: Juu

Sakura is sitting on the stairs when I walk outside the next day.  The book that Emi had included with her letter is sitting in her lap as she stares off towards the trees.

I take a seat next to her, accepting the hand that she stretches out towards me.  "Did you sleep well, Sakura?"

She leans against my shoulder with a soft sigh.  "For a while.  When the dreams started, I got up and come out here with this book.  I did not want to test Osamu by sneaking into your room, and I did not want to disturb the others' rest."

"You should have come and woken me up," I whisper, resting my head against hers.  "I would have sat up with you until you fell asleep."

Sakura raises weary eyes to mine.  "That should not be your responsibility.  You were not the one who caused the memories that haunt me.  I chose to tell Hikaru the truth, and it shall be me who pays for that mistake."

"It is fine to admit when you cannot handle something on your own, Sakura," I answer.  "I am not your father.  I am willing to help, not force you to find your own solution.  It hurts me to see you broken like this."

She returns her head to my shoulder, tucking an arm around my back.  I see her eyes dart down to the open pages in her lap, and I pick up the book, shifting it so we can both see the words.

It is a passage about love, one that confounds me more the further that I read.  "I see no evidence of all these things," I say finally.  "All too often, love is jealous, love is painful, and love is frequently shattered.  Why, then, does the writer speak of this perfect love as if it exists?"

"Because it does exist," a soft voice replies from behind us.  "We, in our short lives, are unable to comprehend such perfection because all we see is a flawed version of love.  Even when we love someone with our entire being, we often end up hurting the person.  We collect debts against them, fire words against them, and stand up against them."

Bashira moves past us to sit on a lower step before gazing up.  "My grandfather planted this stand of trees before my mother was born.  His father had tried to do the same, but he failed continuously.  He would tend them for the first few years before leaving them be, believing that they would be able to support themselves.  My grandfather spent day after day, year after year, tending those trees until he knew beyond all doubt that they would thrive."

"What do trees have to do with perfect love?" Sakura asks, staring off towards the trees that we had journeyed through the day before.

"They have everything to do with love.  My grandfather realized that in order for the trees to survive, they needed to have deep roots.  If his father had spent even a few more years caring for his trees, they would yet live.

"It is the same with love.  Anyone can fall in love with someone else, but unless you have a deep connection binding you to each other, your love will eventually wither and die.  Yes, your love will never be as perfect as the love that the writer describes, but the whole point of the passage is to show you what love is supposed to be," Bashira says, tapping the page lightly.  "Only by focusing on all these traits each day can we begin to understand what perfect love looks like."

When she says the last words, one of her hands touches a chain about her throat lightly.  I had not noted it until her gesture drew attention to it.  Her gaze becomes unfocused as if she is seeing something that the rest of us are unable to perceive.

After a moment, a wistful smile caresses her lips, and Bashira asks, "How were the shinobi when you went to see them?  I have not been to their village since...for a long while."

"They seemed well when we were there," Sakura replies.  "There were more children I expected though.  Why is that, if you know, Bashira?"

"The man who used to command the shinobi, before Emi and Masumo, had begun taking in children in the later part of his life.  Many of those they trained then and those they trained now are orphans or were sold to the shinobi," she whispers the last bit, almost as if she fears saying the words too loudly.