meme machine

It was on the cusp of spring that Chihiro started to think he might be coming down with something. He felt off in a way that was hard to describe — not a headache or an upset stomach, but a vague sensation of wrongness, like his skin wasn’t the right size for his body anymore.

He tried explaining it to his father, who had listened carefully but was ultimately unhelpful. “Listen, Chihiro — you’re fourteen now,” he’d said solemnly, like he was trying very hard to be serious and not doing well. “There’s a time in every young person’s life when their body goes through a lot of changes, like — ”

Yeah. He wasn’t sitting through his father’s puberty talk again if he could help it. Once was more than enough.

So even though the strangeness persisted, he didn’t bring it up again. It wasn’t like he felt bad, exactly — just weird in a way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like there was something in the wind he couldn’t touch, that he only recognized when it wasn’t there. The tap water tasted different. His sleep was restless, plagued by bizarre dreams, but by the time he woke up, he’d already forgotten them.

It wasn’t like he had any actual symptoms, and so Chihiro figured that it would either pass or he’d get used to it, especially if — annoyingly — his father was right. Things proceeded like that for a while, their isolated existence in the mountains peaceful and undisturbed. It wasn’t really until a week later, at the end of March that Chihiro realized that the dull hum between his ears had grown into a high-pitched squeal, pressing against his skull from the inside out. The vaguely unsettled feeling had grown into full-blown nausea, and he picked halfheartedly at his breakfast.

After a couple minutes, his father noticed. “You okay, Kiddo?”

“I just still feel weird.” He put down his chopsticks. “It’s not that bad, though.”

His father frowned, uncharacteristically serious, leaning over the table to press his hand to Chihiro’s forehead. Chihiro leaned into the touch – the coolness felt nice against his skin, like there were tiny pinpricks of electricity moving between them. “You don’t feel like you have a fever…” He pressed the back of his hand against his cheek. “You’re pretty clammy, though…”

“I really am fine,” he insisted. “I just didn’t sleep well last night.” And that really was the truth – his sleep had been fitful, and he’d woken up overheated and sweaty, the sheets tangled around his limbs, but the moment he’d opened his eyes, he couldn’t remember what his nightmare had been about.

His father felt his other cheek, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed into a stern line. Finally, he withdrew. “Seems like more than that,” he said, mostly to himself, but before Chihiro could puzzle him out, he spoke again. “Go back to bed, alright? Try to sleep it off.”

More nightmares didn’t really appeal to him. “Dad – ”

“Chihiro. Just try it. You’re not looking so good.”

Usually, his father trusted him to use his better judgement to manage himself – for him to exercise his parental authority over anything almost never happened. Still, Chihiro was a little miffed, if he was being honest – he was already fourteen (only fourteen, his father liked to correct) and basically ran the household single-handedly. He wasn’t a little kid anymore – he knew how to take care of himself – and so he got annoyed when his father tried to do stuff like this.

Still, he was a dutiful enough son that he went without complaint, even if he didn’t like it. He climbed to his feet and started to pick up his dishes to take them to the sink, but his father jabbed at his hands with his chopsticks. “Oi! I’ll take care of those! Go lay down!”

He definitely wouldn’t, but suddenly, it would’ve been too much of an effort to say as much. He felt dizzy and exhausted, and not really up to bantering with his unserious, troublesome father. Maybe he really did need to lay down…

Char asked, “Who’s that?”

Kunishige looked over her shoulder at the photograph in her hands, and then went still. He was still smiling, but it was strained at the edges. “...That’s my kid. Chihiro.”

Char frowned, scrutinizing it a little closer. Shiba didn’t have to look to know what photograph she was talking about – it was taken on Chihiro’s fifteenth birthday, just outside the forge. One of Kunishige’s arms was looped around his neck in a headlock, and the other hand was buried in Chihiro’s hair. Chihiro’s mouth was open, in the middle of telling him off for his roughhousing, half-twisted away. Before that day, Chihiro had very sternly claimed over and over again that he had officially outgrown birthday parties; but after the fact, Kunishige had told Shiba with a sly grin that he’d just so happened to mention how he was thinking about starting a new project – more specifically, a seventh enchanted blade – and since he didn’t have a mechanical forging press, he’d need some assistance from his apprentice. Chihiro had tried to play it cool, but his excitement and eagerness had been written all over his face.

And that was one of a thousand reasons why it was painfully obvious to Shiba that of all the enchanted blades, the one Kunishige wanted back most of all was Enten – the others had been tools of war, but that sword had been Chihiro’s.

Char looked up from the photograph. “Is he at school? Or is he a grown up now?”

“He’s…” Kunishige’s voice wavered, then cleared his throat. “...He passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh…” Char turned back to the picture. “Do you miss him?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Every day.”

That, Shiba knew, was an understatement. It had taken the better part of a year before Kunishige had finally been able to part with Chihiro’s ashes. The final goodbye had been a quiet, private affair, in a small cemetery near where their home had been, but Shiba had been relieved that Kunishige had asked him and Azami to come. There’d been a moment, near the end, where he’d been absolutely sure that Kunishige was about to throw himself down into that grave as well – but instead, he’d wiped his eyes and lifted his head.

Char said something very quietly.

“Sorry,” Kunishige said, “I didn’t catch that.”

“...I miss my Mama,” she said, her voice wobbling. “I really miss her a lot.”

Kunishige reached toward her, flinched back, and placed his hand on top of her head. “You seem like a pretty tough kid,” he said. “Chihiro was tough, too. But you know… if you’re feeling sad, or hurt, or scared, and you keep holding it all inside, it’ll just keep getting bigger. It’s okay if you want to cry.”

“Everybody gets mad when I cry,” she said. “It’s annoying.”

“What? Annoying?” Kunishige blew a raspberry. “They sound like jerks! You wanna know what’s really annoying? Leaving your socks on the floor! Not washing your dishes after you eat! Forgetting to turn the light off when you’re done in the restroom! But crying – that’s not annoying at all. Not even a little bit. It just means you’ve sprung a leak, that’s all.”

She sniffled, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I miss my Mama,” she said. “I really miss her. I wanna go home, I just wanna go home – ”