Ryker Villegas

NO ENTRY

Joseph King

NO ENTRY

Chuckles

DROPPED OUT

Nicky De Santo

NO ENTRY

Avery Emerson

NO ENTRY

Antonio Enriquez

NO ENTRY

Gilgamesh

O people of Uruk! Sing of the blessings of our city, so proud and so beautiful! Let all raise their voices, and name the favors the gods have heaped upon their chosen people, though no mortal tongue could truly name the extent of its greatness. Lift up your eyes, noble and slave, warrior and craftsman, priestess and child, and sing the glory of our home.

Look! To the east the presence of Utu, he whose glory gives light to the world, stains the dawn in rosy hue. The chill of the dawn is a mantle upon our people; our breath billows before us as we look to his rising. See! Watch him rise and caress the loveliest of cities with fingers and light and warmth; already the temple of Anu shines at the highest point. Priestesses of Inanna, rejoice! The sun gives light to your fair district, and paints brick and sandstone, marble and gold with the bounteous radiance of day until all is covered in splendor.

Sing the beauty of the rivers, o people; even the mighty Euphrates extends a blessing to the city of Uruk. See the life of the waters spreading through our fair city, bound in brick-lined canals. Laugh, o people, as the children play in their waters and rejoice. The beauty of the gardens nourished by the waters coaxes life from the loam; can you taste the sweetness of their scent? The city sings with her people in their ebb and flow, in the boats that cut the water as though sailing upon shimmering glass, in the farmers taking shaduf to irrigate their crops. O! Truly is Uruk blessed; rejoice in the loveliness of the waters.

Noble Gilgamesh, the king more god than man, stepped out from the delights of his palace to behold the glory of his city. Upon the summit of the stony steps he stood, the bright palace of the king behind him illuminated in the dawn of a new day. O! such were the delights of the house of the king; the sounds of song and feasting were carried from within to please the ear of the king. Notwithstanding, the majesty of his city held him in place, transfixed despite the joys behind him; the blinding disc of the sun was more than halfway over the horizon, and the morning breeze carried the scent of flowers and spices, cooking food and running water, each and every sense presented with an offering to rival those of the temples of Inanna. Glory, o people of Uruk, in the delight of the king before his city! Glory, o people, in the king of the greatest of cities! Glory in the kin g after so long returning home—

—home—

Gilgamesh turned on his heel glaring about for the being responsible for their surroundings. As always, the voice had no form, no substance; Gilgamesh's eyes seized upon a frieze of the gods cavorting in their heavens and narrowed upon the figure of Nergal.

"Death!" He stormed over to the frieze, the people of Uruk obediently parting around him. "Where are you? What is this place? Answer me!"

"It's merely an offer, little king." The voice came from behind him, feminine but as calm and matter-of-fact as it had always been. Gilgamesh turned: a slave girl, more child than woman, watched him with eyes far too ancient for the face that contained them. "All I have ever done is give you offers."

She turned and began to walk down the steps of the palace. Cursing, Gilgamesh made pursuit when another voice, this one masculine, called out in the same tones.

"You chase a shadow in the hopes of seizing the mountain which casts it, little king. If you wish to speak with me, do so. There is nothing I do not see or hear."

Gilgamesh looked at the speaker: a merchant carried wine up the steps, no doubt to service the partygoers within. Piece spoken, his eyes lost their awful, inhuman knowledge and became quite mundane; he turned and continued with his task as though he had never spoken at all. Gilgamesh watched him go for a moment, then took a shaky breath.

"You say this place is an offer. What sort of offer do you mean?"

"You seek what was, not what is." A priestess of Inanna this time, alluring in form and unearthly in countenance. "I offer to you what might yet be, should you turn from the path to life. Turn away, little king, and the glory of Uruk will be yours—but it is no mere Uruk I offer you. Behold, the Uruk of dreams: it is all that poor, mundane little Uruk in the world could never become, built as it was by mortal hands, stained by mortal offal, its waters soiled by storm, flood, and waste. Is it not beautiful, little king?"

The sun painted the steps of the city with radiance, and Gilgamesh could not contradict her.

O Uruk! Sing with joy for the returned king! So blessed was he that Uruk as she never was became so, to please the god-king, attaining beauty beyond—

"Take it away."

For a moment, there was no answer. Then:

"What do you mean, take it away?" The voice of Death was an old man, a scribe with fingers still stained gray with the clay of a wet tablet. "This is the perfect city. The city you have always sought to rule. Look at—"

"You look, for once. Do you see the walls of the city?"

The scribe walked on. Gilgamesh turned to the next closest figure, a guard in shining regalia. After a moment, he asked: "You say you see all. Tell me, how many years were spent in the building of the walls of Uruk?"

The guard looked at him for a long moment. "Twelve years, eight months, nineteen days. Each of them spent in long labor at your command."

"Do you think I commanded them built at such a cost so I might have the image of a city wall?"

The breeze wafted the odor of wine. There was no answer given.

"This is not my city. This is an image, stripped of everything real to paint a pretty picture. I am the true king of Uruk; here, you are the true king. Take this... this lie and give me back the substance. Give me back the life that is mine, and the city that is mine."

A boy-child stopped beside him, gaze empty even as its words took a note of warning. "A lie it might be, but a perfect, certain one. An immortal one, I might say. Are you so truly desperate for reality that you will accept that the true Uruk might lack such qualities?"

There was a very specific inflection, hinting towards an inhuman emotion midway between sadistic delight and concerned counsel. Gilgamesh heard, but did not understand it.

"You promised the chance to return to the world of the living. Keep your word or be foresworn."

The boy sighed, then smiled up at Gilgamesh with perfect innocence.

Then the light, and the city, and the child were gone, without even a sound to mark their passing.

Emilo Amor

TRANSCRIPT FILE, ANTONIO HERNÁN ON EMILIO AMOR (Translation):

The sunflower fields are supposed to be a beautiful place. I'm sure you've all been there- everyone brings their kids at least once, or goes with their family around the holiday. Nothing like this was supposed to happen. You drive through miles of barren land to get there; it's a dreamland. It was the greatest place in the entire world.

His face is all I see. Brown eyes of a different hue, a kind of color that doesn't subsist outside the heavens. He'd look at me and everything would melt, everything would glimmer, and everything would be okay. His hands. His hair. His voice....Dios, how I want to just hear him again. Say anything. Tell me he loves me.

His brother puts it best: Emilio was the tree of life. El árbol de la vida. He was happiness. He made me forget my fear of the dark. If only because he was so alight.

I miss him, you know? I fear I'll never stop. I think I'm going to miss him forever.

Emilio woke to a sun he didn't know. It was warm and bright, shimmering like golden things coming alive and well. Perhaps it was more red than orange and more blinding than pretty, but it was perfect. It was brilliant and illuminating and he wondered why it was there with him. He was dead; there was no sunrise in death, and no sunset, and what had gotten him through the darkness was only the memory of such things remaining.

Turning to his left, he was overwhelmed with yellow. The softness of grass itched at his naked skin, as if caressing him to stay where he rested, stay where he was, and stay where the dream was more than in his head. Confusion compounded on glee and he sat there for a moment, conflicted, staring at the sun and the sunflowers like he didn't deserve to lay beside them.

He heard music, then. It was a sudden sound, one of a fragile voice underlined by a guitar. He could hear the strumming of fingers against the strings, releasing the symphony like a scent to lure him in. It filled the air; it was more enveloping than the sunlight, and more beautiful than the fields. He closed his eyes and listened- it was like a day alone, reveling in the moments you make yourself laugh- and he knew the song immediately.

And he knew who was singing. Mamá.

When he stood, he found he was out of breath. It was like his lungs hadn't yet noticed he was conscious, as if stuck asleep and in a universe that kept its creatures still. He breathed and it hurt, pushing through the sunflowers and feeling pollen land softly on his cheeks. Perhaps he was lost, and certainly he was wandering, walking without a trail and following just the faint song humming in the background.

He came to the clearing at last, and he wept at what laid before him. Gravestones lined the field in perfect rows, epitaphs painted with pastel words and crowns of flowers and marble. Each one had a bouquet settled at its stoop, the grass a divine shade of green and tan. The heat rose as he stepped forward, as if the sun was watching him and observing the way he moved. Had he run, would the light be louder?

Looking closer, he read the first grave. It was the name of his abuela, Jimena, etched into the stone with permanence, with finesse. All was quiet for a second as he read them one by one, seeing the burial site of his grandfathers and distant cousins and the ancestors who'd died when he was alive. Decorated by flora and swaying to the music.

"Es hermoso, ¿no?" It's beautiful, right?

Emilio whipped around at the voice. Perhaps it sounded familiar in its intonation, lower-pitched for a woman's yet still fluttering updraft, and the tears that'd dried milliseconds before returned. They fell. And they fell.

But the woman that stood before him was not who he'd guessed. Emilio anticipated his mother to be there- her voice was always his favorite thing in the entire world- but it was someone else. Someone similar, and so, so grand.

The boy stared back at the first grave he'd read, then turned back to the older woman and grinned. "Abuela," he said. "¿Dónde estoy?" Where am I?

"Oh, dear," she whispered. The look on her face was unreadable, in havoc with fatigue and wrestled by things Emilio would never understand. Wrinkles drifted from her eyes and her forehead, wisdom laced in the skin. "¿Importa?" Does it matter?

He went silent. Most of him immediately thought to answer Yes, but the rest of him watched as his abuela pulled him into an embrace. He was taller, her face nestling into his shoulder, closing her eyes to cherish the miracle that was Emilio Amor.

Perhaps Emilio saw the sun in the sky and that was what made him feel warm. But everyone else? They saw him, and didn't need the stars to paint away the darkness.

When they separated, a group of others gathered behind Jimena. Some were even older, fragile in their eyes. One was a younger girl, and some were middle-aged. Emilio counted them and flipped between staring at them and rereading the graves that surrounded them. It was them- it was the family he'd lost when he was alive- and his lungs finally awoke and he sucked in a breath of vigor, wonder, and bereavement.

TRANSCRIPT FILE, EMILIO AMOR ON ANTONIO HERNÁN (Translation):

Antonio? Oh damn, man. Where would I start? That's like asking a Catholic to sum up God. Dude. That can't be good. Trust me, I've been Catholic before.

He's...good. That sounds so simple, I know. But it's true. He's good. He's truthful and kind and says things because he wants me to smile. He's someone who cares. Just the thought of him inspires goodness, and grace. Even hearing his name just brightens an already glowing day.

Mr. Hernán can't possibly know how much I love him. It's an impossible thing, quantifying a man you believe in. How could I? How could I count the ways he makes my life better? Makes me better? No one is deserving of the unconditional, electric, and slow love of this boy. I'm not. You're not. He's good and good and nothing in this lifetime can take that away.

So, yeah. Maybe it's not that hard to describe God. Maybe it's not that hard to quantify love. Maybe I'm complicating what's always been awfully simple. And what I've never been able to understand is just this: him and I, wandering through the fields, forgetting to hold hands because we don't need to. We don't need anything.

We want. We crave. We desire.

We seek out what's good. And we forget what is sometimes evil.

"Abuela, ¿Qué estoy haciendo aquí?" he asked. What am I doing here? And their eyes met, her grandson's demeanor turning her into dust.

She reached for him. Her hands were like touching sand, the feel of her skin staying behind even after her fingers let go. "Estamos familia, Emilio. Necesitamos estar juntos." We're family, Emilio. We need to be together.

"Lo sé," he murmured. I know. But restlessness ached in the back of his mind, framed by gravestones and family he'd never known. Not really. "Pero, es esto todo lo que hay?" But, is this all there is?

She nodded. "¿Hay algo más?"

Is there anything more?

He spun in a circle, slowly, wiping away the dryness of his tears and the pollen that'd floated to greet him. He saw wildflowers and sweat and his hands and the coming of clouds from the distant skyline. And there, he thought to himself, what is the meaning of more?

Then, above and around him, the singing returned. It was even quieter than before, more subtle and subdued. The guitar was absent and it seemed no one else in the clearing could hear it too. They continued on. They trapped themselves in small talk and danced on the graves, like Día de los Muertos in a land where the remembered also do the remembering.

His ears couldn't stop listening to his mother's voice. He stepped past Jimena and gave quick hugs to the rest before reaching the edge of the clearing opposite to where he'd come in. The flowers were shinier here, pistils glaring and petals aglow.

Yes, Emilio's perfect world was one where he was surrounded by family. By their music and their laughter and their muddled words as a million conversations carried themselves out simultaneously. It was birthday parties and pictures of lustrous smiles, everyone shouting Cheese! as Emilio says Queso! and everyone laughs and shoves him and continues eating their dessert as the following day, the moment becomes insignificant and forgotten, perhaps mentioned once or twice in the future when everyone has separated, and never again will that same family celebrate in the same room. Someone will always be gone. Someone will always be missing.

And suddenly, that someone was Emilio.

"No puedo quedarme aqui," he whispered. I can't stay here. I can't live like this. I can't hold onto memories without making more.

There are no memories without forgetting a few. Nothing really matters if there aren't things that don't. Where there is love, there has to be pain.

He saw Jimena watch him as he took a step back. Enveloped once again by the scent of sugar and the golden array of sunflowers, Emilio felt relief flush through him. The graves disappeared. The dancing ceased and he began to forget their faces, wandering towards the music of his mother's singing. But there was still something wrong- something out of place. Maybe he did lose part of himself in that clearing. Maybe leaving them behind hurt more than he cared to admit.

TRANSCRIPT FILE, ON EMILIO AMOR AND ANTONIO HERNÁN (Translation):

My son thought he was doing something wrong by loving this boy. He thought it was corrupt. You could ask him to talk about Antonio and he'd ramble about goodness and love and he'd sound like the happiest he ever was. But that wasn't everything.

My son loved God, too.

The boys didn't meet in la Finca el Girasol because it was a beautiful place. They met there because it was hidden, where no one could see and no one would care. I sometimes wonder if my boy was ashamed of himself. I hope he wasn't. But wholeheartedly I know he might've been. It was like a silence he couldn't break, a part of him he couldn't cut away because Antonio was so good for him. So endlessly good.

You can't love everyone, Emilio. And sometimes, the person you must leave behind is the one you never imagined you'd have to.

It was love God or love Antonio. He died without making a decision. I think I'm happy about that. He didn't have to.

You can't love everyone, Emilio. I know you tried.

The sun fell cherry red over the fields.

Emilio Amor never stopped walking through the flowers, kissed by pollen and embraced by leaves, his eyes focused on where the music had faded away. His feet drowned in the dirt and he grew relentlessly tired, breathing only when it was necessary and only when it felt right to. Rarely did he weep, but often he cried, wishing to hear his mother's voice one more time at the end of the world.

The sky remained dark, then. But like he said, the memories of everything good kept him moving. The memories of everything good kept him alive.

Hitoka Kikuchi

My decision came to me like falling asleep. Slowly at first, then all at once and just like that, it's too late to back out. Someone once told me that our brains make decisions about ten seconds before we realize it. It's why we move "without thinking" or on instinct and surprise ourselves. Our brains are a lot quicker then we think. Er, irony unintended.

I blink as the thought I need to repay my debt flashes across my mind. And with that single, flying thought, the world around me changes. It darkens, bright colors turning grey and from the huddled bunches of shadowy figures in the clearing, twelve suns glow. I look down at my body. I am a yellow sun of light that pulses from my skin. It reminds me of the yuzus of home.

I blink, a fond smile curling across my lips at the small fragment of life, and feel a quiet pull at my abdomen. It's not urgent and I feel no need to follow the little tug, but as my eyelashes touch the skin of my yellow cheeks, the urge begins to rise steadily, up my throat and into my mouth until something pops and the pressure relents. I feel lighter, airy almost. It's strange, I think, but I could not put my finger onto the change. It does not matter, for when I open my eyes I am no longer in the valley of darkened figures and glowing souls. No, I am somewhere much better.

I am home.

When you think of home, what is the first image or word or perhaps feeling that comes forth? What do you see, what do you hear, smell, taste, and feel? Where are you, who are you with, what are you doing? What is home to you?

For me, home is an orchid of Japanese plums.

To the untrained eye, the small wooden cottage blends in to the dappled shadows and towering trunks. Fortunately, I am well versed in this landscape. The greying, stooping, drooping, unimpressive house catches my eye like a flare. The distance seems about right. I glance up at the tree to my immediate right. It is plain and easily ignored at first, just as the house is. But if you look closer, stare harder, you can see small nicks of lightly colored wood running up the side of the tree. And if you follow those nicks, you'll find a little treehouse perched in the branches. I smile, inhaling the smell of sweet plums and the earth in.

I remember climbing up the trees in an effort to escape my brother's tickling fingers, my father's eyes when we played hide and seek or, on the rare occasion I tracked in mud, my grandmother's wrath. I would hole up in my tree, away from Obaa-san and her hard, wooden ladle. That is, until the smell of plum pastries slowly rose to me in the trees. You can most likely see how the rest played out.

This orchid of family-grown plums holds many of my childhood memories. So why am I here? There is nothing left for me, besides nostalgia and my grandmother's...grave... The door to the cottage swings open and the blurry outline of a woman comes to stand on the edge of the dropping porch. The blurry outline I had never expected to see again.

"Hitoka, you little hiretsuna!" a strong voice calls. Tears well in my eyes and I bite my lip, forcing myself into silence. "Ienikaeru, Hitoka! Come home!"

I feel light and airy, as though I am a little girl again, waiting for her Obaa-san to give her a plum pastry as she weaves green ribbons into her hair. It's good to be home.

:-:-:-:

Katsuki, ever diligent, notices before I do.

Something is wrong. The house looks secure, but I can sense an offness about this.

"How have you been, Hito-chan?"

Obaa-san's voice shakes me from my — er, Katsuki's? — thoughts. "Obaa-san I'm twenty-one!"

She levels me with an even gaze. "How have you been, Hito-chan?"

I sigh, dropping my head in defeat. My grandmother is scary when she decides to be stubborn. "Well enough. Yourself?"

"Ah, well enough," she says, mocking me. "Arthritis does not seem to follow me into the afterlife."

Grinning, I reply, "Ah, but your grey hair did?"

Her eyes widen and she swings the wooden ladle she keeps with her at me. I hold out a firm fist, letting the paddle bounce off my arm harmlessly as I lose my mind laughing. Obaa-san huffs and rests her hands on her hips while I clutch my sides. She's smiling when I wipe enough tears away however.

"Nice to know your attitude didn't die with you," my grandmother grumbles, her mouth twitching.

What are you doing! Katsuki screeches as I open my mouth to reply. Has your training completely left you, baka? Can you feel that hostile electricity? While you were on your shiri talking with Baba, it increased! Look around, damu!

"Are you alright?"

I look up. Obaa-san is staring at me, her brows furrowed in a concerned squint. I shake my head, waving a hand up and down.

"I'm f-." Wait, concerned? I glance back up. Obaa-san was never "concerned". "Obaa-san," I begin to say, suspicious.

"Hitoka." The way she says my name is hard, a lilt of warning tacked to the edge of it.

Get out, get out, get out get out getoutgetout GET OUT!

"Well, it was nice visiting, but I really must go, Obaa-san!" I say, slamming my palms down on the small dining table and standing up.

My grandmother follows. She's frowning in full now. "Hitoka."

"Thank you for everything! It was nice seeing this place again." I take a step towards the door, facing Obaa-san. She takes three.

"Hitoka. Stay." It's an order. I pause. "Where will you go? You had no home when you died. Stay here, with me. And your Ojii-san! Wouldn't you like to meet him?"

I stare at her, my expression blank. I had never met my grandfather. He died before I was born and Obaa-san never talked about him, not really. When I was young, my grandmother would go into the forest, her only explanation being my grandfather was there. She was visiting his grave. I always thought my grandfather was a tree (those were fun years).

The light, airy feeling returns. It strengthens the more I get lost in my memories. It could be like this, my grandmother's sparkling eyes say as I look up. You could have this. And I could. I could let myself succumb to my memories and this elevated of guiltless happiness.

But I can't.

"Gomen'nasai," I say. "It was good to be home. Tell Okaa-san, Tō-san, and Nii-san I miss them. They'll be here soon, I'd imagine."

I step out of the cabin, and I don't look back.

:-:-:-:-:

Keiji rolled down the slope, his wings and other various reptilian limbs catching on loose twigs and debris. He cursed. Those will be a pain to pick out later.

He came to a fumbling stop. The dragon laid there, winded. His chest heaved and his eyes stared unseeingky into the blue sky above. Did I lose them? The answer comes in the form of an arrow that lodged itself in the soft mud beside his head. Guess that's a no then.

Keiji scrambles to his feet, his mind flying a million miles per second. What direction did the arrow fly from? How many gave chase? Have some trailed around to surround him in this disadvantage? Was he far enough away from the village?

The sunken land Keiji found himself in was a perfect place to stage a siege. Horrible for escaping, though. 1/10 would never try again.

Keiji was panicking, and he knew it. He whipped around, catlike eyes wide and scanning madly. Where would they strike? He was a trapped animal in this land cage. The soldiers could sense he was at his wits end. One by one, they emerged from the tree line, advancing with flashy swords in their hands. Keiji hissed, shuffling backwards. He had left his dual daggers inside the tavern when he fled, leaving him defenseless aside from the advantages his half shift could give him. He wouldn't dare to try a full shift, not this close to civilization.

As the soldiers continued forward, closing the distance between themselves and him on all sides, Keiji found himself in a predicament. If he shifted fully, he could (most likely) escape with minimal wounds. However, the downsides of revealing his full form were too great. But dying didn't sound fun, either. Horses pulling carts of nets cleared the trees. He'd have to make a decision, and soon, unless a miracle happened.

Luckily for him, one did.

"Aren't you government doggies a bit far from home?"

A shadow passed over Keiji, and he looked up just in time to watch a black cloaked figure fall from the sky and land beside him. He almost dry heaved (didn't get to eat his meal, thanks to that bartender) on the spot at the smell that followed the new figure. He reeked of hostile magicks. Though, as the newcomer continued to talk, the foul odor decreased.

The cloaked being wrapped a hand around the scruff of his neck and Keiji froze. He forgot to listen to what the owner if the hand was saying, to focused on the spot one long finger was pressing on. This newcomer knew his stuff. And well.

There was scuffling and suddenly the pressure was released, and Keiji could breathe easy again. His shoulders slumped in relief.

"Now, my good dragon sir." A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Keiji was spun face to face with the cloaked person.

"What might your name be?"

Sukio no Hana

Hana was never meant to be delicate. Fragile. Never meant to be soft and subtle and seem like the lower layers of the earth where the roots of trees long to reach. She was never supposed to have eyes that bled elegance, hair which felt more silken than brittle, and skin of ivory from the rarest of tusks. Perhaps it was a gift that she ended up this way. She believed that the strong hid the most cracks, and breaks, but Hana wore her wounds like they were dresses. Like they were a perfume which guided the world around her.

With the fragrance of cherries, Suiko wandered (heel to toe, soles on the line) in a world trapped in black and white. As soon as something passed her, she forgot it ever existed, the shapes of flowers and then fruits and then houses and shorelines all being drawn and erased right in front of her.

She tried staring at a kitten that came patting into a street, but it was gone by the time it hit the asphalt. Its lines disappeared, replaced by an abyss of white light. There was no color. No color. And the only thing which inspired her was the scent of the gardens she passed, and the memory of their hues.

Strung into the air like clotheslines and thin as nothing, take this

as a last gift to you,

from me.

Soon, she grew used to the fleeting pictures. It gave way to sight without detail; objects couldn't be broken and there was no dirt or dust or cracks in the sidewalk. The neighborhood's homes were smaller than what she'd lived in, the windows placed symmetrically below triangle rooftops that didn't fan out as much as hers had in Japan. Perhaps this place was more pretty, or more ugly, or maybe it was the exact same and it was just different than what she'd had.

Hana felt herself drawn to tears when she reached the end of a road. Children in lawns were painted in monochrome, playing endlessly, then dissipating as they tossed a ball into the air. Their parents kissed on the porch and their silhouettes lifted into the air, into nothing.

There was emptiness behind her, a vast expanse of white. And the same laid ahead, the universe pausing and keeping itself in an eternal abyss. But weren't abysses supposed to be dark? Weren't they full of shadows and monsters, instilled with the fear of gods that refused to bring in the sun? Weren't they cryptic? And infinite? Didn't they speak and touch and think?

In darkness, there was always something staring back at her. Death had eyes. But here, there was nothing.

from me.

lift your chin, my fingers caress your neck, and

my wrist, exhumed by roses and lavender-

it lures you in.

doesn't it?

There was no keeping track of time. She couldn't count the hours and days, but the passing of minutes curled through her as if the seconds were crawling on her skin. Her body felt time move forward, but she was still, there for so long she stopped imagining anything different.

Tomorrow ended. Yesterday started. Years may have rushed by or she may have been there a single second- she only knew her thoughts, and how many of them filled her to the brim.

Then, as she began to drift into a sleep she knew would be eternal, there was a flicker of something far away. Perhaps distance didn't exist in this infinite plain, and the thing she saw appeared afar because it'd been so long since she saw anything at all. Hana had stopped blinking and breathing and suddenly her body came rushing back- it invigorated her, to think there was an unknown possibly coming closer.

She weeped before she heard the voice. And after, there weren't enough tears left to release the tightness in her chest. The joy, the fear. The hesitation and the way her hands caught a sudden tick.

doesn't it?

i take you elsewhere, don't i?

i breathe down your chest and hand you my heart. Perhaps

i am the rain on this silver world, on

this life of nothing. of everything it can.

i know.

When Suiko no Hana's mother came into view, there was a scent in the air that they couldn't place. It drifted like air balloons caught in the wind with heat, fleeting beneath their noses and between their gaze. It was lovely and serene and as delicate as the two women that stood there, watching the other, balancing reality and the possibility they were staring directly in a mirror.

But then, her voice. "It's been eighteen years," she said. It was soft like a whisper, singsong in the way hummingbirds are born. "I thought we were to be apart forever."

Sure, Hana's heaven was empty. It was a void. There was nothing there that reminded her of her past life. There was no art and no music and no girls to wake to in the mornings. There was no hatred, or beauty. No joy, and no sorrow. Her heaven was perfection in its best form; Hana had always wanted one thing.

Love.

And the love of a mother? There was nothing better.

i know, the

way of kings, the

dance of queens, and the

ease at which both trust their lovers.

Hana dried her tears on her mother's shoulders as they fell into an embrace. Their arms became satin, their seams weakening at the touch of another. There was something graceful about the way Hana's mother moved, and spoke, and the girl began to know, after all these years, why her dreams had always been so enchanting.

"I remember you," her mother said. And it mattered.

The world had forgotten about Suiko no Hana. She was faceless. She was as blank and as bare as the heaven she'd landed in. But her mother knew her, as mothers do, and all the things in existence couldn't replace that.

Hana leaned back into her mother's arms. Their scent was the same. Perhaps their memories coalesced and brought them together, just the sight of them beside one another. It was like when she was a young girl, held beneath a blossom tree, cheeks red and pink with blushed petals drifting down to cover them.

For eternity, the two empresses would sit. They'd remain in this white expanse. They'd talk when they wanted to and sleep and feel safe. Hana wouldn't dream, if only because she didn't need to, and they'd drown in the scent of their home's backyard. Where they were both buried, the grass colored rose by wilted flowers flown to them in the springtime.

"I remember you," her mother always said. "I will forever."

And forever was all they had.