Any trace of Totsuki's forlorn nights and the drowning lanterns are wiped clean in Fukue, every single ember and all its ashes. As if it never existed. Not unlike the drawings on the walls of pink bedrooms, the dust on the mantlepiece, the flowers on her mother's grave and any trace of Nao Tetsuya ever existing.

Mahiru looks down, watches the jilted motion of the clock hand, ignoring the daffodil fields and the sapphire sky. The gingham dress is gone along with the straw hat. She's drawing gazes with her loose fitting claret camisole top, her high-waisted pants and a loose grey coat — all the staples of upper class modern North-American fashion.

The train blows into the station roughly two minutes later, and there's a single moment where her heart leaps at the sight of white hair. The rashness settles just as soon as it comes, and it's tasteless as she swallows it back. Mahiru isn't that type of person.

He gets off the train with a measured step, dressed in a pair of brown khaki pants and a loose-fitting dress top with rolled up sleeves, he carries a small duffle bag. This was Mahiru's favourite version of him— Not quite the peevish boy with a penchant to screw things up, but not the man with ruthless ambition and the world at his feet.

This version of Eishi is normal, none of the extremes in their world. Again the feeling of black-and-white pictures comes to Mahiru. Because of worn corners and softened edges, smooth even if there's a tear right down the middle.

"Hi," he says as they meet. "I didn't expect you to respond so quickly."

Mahiru offers him a polite smile. "I need your help," she says mildly, he nods.

"Okay," he says. "How likely is Rindou to kill me over this? Or Azami Nakiri?"

She gives him a flat look and brings out her phone to show him a picture. "It'll hurt less than it looks," she says as they descend the steps of the train station. "This is my grandmother. Amami Miyano. I apprenticed with her briefly in middle school. She wanted me to bring someone who'd impress her. I figured, why not the First Seat?"

"Honto?" he grabs the phone out of her hand and there's no small amount of awe in his voice. "Amami Miyano? I'd love for her to critique my work— There are so many kinks in the French Cuisine that I haven't worked out. I really loved her insight on the Foods Magazine, the August issue—"

His voice settles into soothing murmurs, falling in place with the engine as Mahiru presses the ignition. Surprising even herself, there's a soft curl of fondness in her heart—

The phone rings.

Eishi keeps talking. She sighs, and he looks up. "Why aren't you taking the phone, Mahiru—?"

They both look at the phone in his hand and then back to each other. Mahiru gives him a flat look and he flushes. "Sorry, I, uh, I got carried away."

She sighs and plugs an earbud into her ear and begins softly murmuring away in Russian. But there's a part of her that knows she's a part of the reason why— Mahiru used to be the only one who'd listen to him. Attached by the hip ever since they got over the petty rivalry in second year.

They delve back into silence and as they slow down in one of the two traffic lights in Fukue, Eishi mutters something.

Mahiru, never the one to look away turns a judgemental gaze on him. "Pardon?"

He flushes again, the red seeping through red skin and to the tips of his ears, visible through the thin curtain of pale hair. "I said you look nice driving."

She gapes and he reddens further, it's only when there's a sudden car honk behind them — one of the old Bentleys, who then rolls down the window to yell something they can't hear. Mahiru rolls her eyes and steps on the gas, breaking her track record of smooth driving as the BMW jerks into motion.

They come to a stop outside her grandmother's villa, there's some sort of awe in Eishi's eyes as they step out. They pause at the front gate when he abruptly stops.

"Uh?" Mahiru pauses and turns around, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He blushes again and pulls out a box.

"What's this?" She takes it, careful that their hands don't touch.

Eishi coughs, one of his mechanisms to hide his awkwardness. "They're flowers," he offers timidly. Mahiru raises an eyebrow— Which he balks under. "They're cake ones, you mentioned you didn't like real ones."

She's momentarily caught off guard, unsure of how to respond. And then there's the familiar clacking sound and very dryly, her grandmother murmurs. "Ah, young love, how very sweet. Your mother had to drag your father all the way here to get my blessing."

Amami has retained her sharpness and Mahiru presumes it's because of the clothes. Amami is a woman of her words and Mahiru has gotten what she wanted— Which means the version of Mahiru her grandmother wants is no longer there, and there is no longer any need for Mahiru to keep acting.

Mahiru sighs, and straightens herself, clutching the box against the back of her palm and turning it away from Amami's view. "Shishou," she addresses. "This is Eishi Tsukasa, he specializes in French Cuisine."

She doesn't bother mentioning his council seat— Because it delves into him becoming a stuttering mess, and Mahiru isn't that... Mean.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Tsukasa walks forward quickly and bows. "I've read a lot of your recipes— At least the ones Totsuki had records of. You're certainly ingenious—"

"Mahiru," Amami interrupt, Mahiru deigns to give her the time of the day. Cocking her head in question, Amami continues. "I asked you to bring a chef, not a fanboy."

Mahiru opens her mouth, but Tsukasa beats her to it. "In our profession, there is little difference when meeting you."

Amami hums. "Huh, show me how well you do in the kitchen. French cuisine, you say?"