Shapeshifters ¹ [Isaac L.]

NII

NII—
" I think she was there. "

—

Once upon a time, Miya lived in a palatial villa in Kyoto.

The fragrance of the sandalwood incense that her father loved to burn wafted around her home, mixing with the scent of the hinoki wood that the beams had been fashioned from. Her room was large— larger than she cared for— and screamed of the wealth that she was born into. Imported trinkets, hand-painted screens all adorned in gold-leaf, all adoringly acquired and commissioned by her parents. For the express purpose of showcasing their status.

She spent many a childhood morning sprawled out on the engawa, basking in the morning sun like a spoilt house-cat— much to the displeasure of her mother. It was unladylike! Her mother would chide. Though back then, Miya cared little for her presentation and even less for the fine silk garments she sullied by romping around in the dirt. She was young, she was carefree— and that was all that mattered to her.

How the times have changed, she couldn't help but muse as she carefully painted her lips crimson.

Her residence in Beacon Hills was a medium-sized ranch-style property.

The furnishings were minimal, the windows, French, and the carpets were fuzzy— something she hasn't quite gotten used to, having grown up on tatami. There were three moderate-sized rooms, an updated kitchen with marble table-tops and an island (she wondered why, what was the need for an island, when most days she microwaved her meals or ordered takeout), and a backyard deck that she probably stepped out on maybe twice.

Very little identified it as a home. There were no pictures. Neither knickknack nor sentimental item to be found. In a way, the house on Pine Street wasn't truly home to Miya. Her true home— the home of her birth— had long since crumbled to dust. A distant memory in a time long past. A past she had little more than the memory of.

Though, there was one thing she had taken with her from the past. One thing, one ritual, from the halcyon days of her bygone youth.

A bottle of golden-hued Tsubaki oil sat on her dresser before her, a comb on a faded indigo silk handkerchief beside it. The heirloom boxwood hand-comb was finely toothed. Tiny cranes were etched lovingly into the handle with so much detail they seemed to be taking flight from the wood itself. The gold-leaf that had been worked into the comb had long since dulled with age.

With her eyes shut, she worked the comb through her hair as the scent of the camellias brought her back to another time.

She could remember the way her mother caressed her hair— it was much longer and much darker than it was now— feeling them smoothing her locks and dragging the comb through them gently. She recalled the way tinkling of the wind chime hung outside her room and the sound of the songbirds. She could the song her mother hummed and the smell of the perfumed sachets she kept tucked under her kimono.