I Was Once Myself, but Now I am ______________

Grey skies looked down on the mortal beings below in Inabe City. Humans shuffled through their lives, most of whom never bothered to stop and appreciate the cycling seasons around them. Most never took a moment to feel the sensation of soft grass under their bare feet. Trees bled their red and orange leaves onto the ground in offering for the encroaching winter solstice. Winds blew blasts of sharpened cold as people layered their clothes and pulled their collars close to their faces as they walked.

The plum grove was no longer pink and the blossoms had departed long ago. Now, golden leaves took their place as they waited their turn to die and fall to the earth. Their bountiful harvests had been collected and now it was time to rest as the bitterness of the coming months passed. The plum grove swayed in gentle rhythm to the winds as dozens of visitors walked through the winding paths of the broader park. Laughter and casual conversation echoed through the thinning air. Mountains in the distance would soon begin to accent their tree-covered peaks with white caps of snow.

Not far away, a quiet residential neighborhood sat along a sloping hill. The homes were old and traditional. They sat close together, sharing fences and walls along the winding roads that led to broader passageways. Tiles along the roofs sloped in unison and idyllic conformity. It was along one such street that the young man walked alone.

Footsteps came unevenly, with a simple cane tapping before him for support as he walked. One leg moved freely, while the other swung wide in labor from each step. His hair was long and disheveled. It hung in his eyes like a curtain blocking half of his appearance from the world. He was tall and lean, and though he was not hunched, it felt as though he was caving inward as he moved along in his slow, awkward walk. Gazing upon him gave the sensation of viewing the remains of a neglected temple in a remote village. If the cold and melancholy of winter could be personified as a person, it would be that isolated young man with a cane.

Even though the young man limped along with his head down, it seemed as though he was walking with familiarity and purpose. Down the streets he went, following unseen directions along curving lanes and sharp turns to new directions. No one saw him. In another lens, he could have been a ghost.

After several minutes of walking, the young man reached a specific house and stopped. Finally, he lifted his head to show his handsome yet roughened face. Though he was barely older than a child, years of hardship were already carved into the hardened skin along his strong cheekbones and sunken, blackened eyes.

The young man stood there in front of the house and gazed at its exterior. His eyes seemed to trap any light that shined on them in their cold husks. Something in him radiated sorrow and isolation. Minutes passed and the young man did not move. There he stood, eyes fixated on the house before him. So intense was his gaze, that he didn't even notice the strangers approaching in the street.

The strangers were casually talking to one another, walking hand in hand towards the young man. After a moment, the woman saw the young man ahead and stopped talking. She quickly tapped her partner’s shoulder and he looked ahead to see the young man as well. The man instinctually placed himself slightly ahead of the woman, so that he was between her and the strange young man before them.

They were young but certainly older than the young man. She was petite with a short bobbed haircut and stylish clothes. He was tall and lanky, with grey in his beard and lines forming near his eyes. The man took a step towards the stranger before him while the woman held onto his hand.

“Excuse me? Are you okay?” he asked in a non-confrontational tone.

The young man had truly not seen or heard them, and the sudden voice made him flinch like a wounded animal. He recoiled in genuine fear and held up trembling hands to simultaneously shield and hide his face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to cause any problems! I’m sorry!” he blurted out in frightened sincerity.

His hands shook as he tried to back away.

“Whoa, it’s okay. It’s okay,” said the man in a gentle voice.

The calm did not reach the young man, who had begun to panic.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he pleaded as he limped backward away from them.

His hands were still up in protective apology, so his cane was not there to balance his nervous steps of retreat. His hobbled leg tripped on the ground and he violently fell backwards onto the ground with a frightened yelp. The man and woman rushed to him.

“No! No! Please! PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME!” the young man shouted.

He was crying in hysterical fear now.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.” said the man who was kneeling to his level now.

The woman lowered herself to him as well and gently reached towards his shoulder.

“NO!” he pleaded.

Still, she kept her hand out, only now she turned it over and opened it, offering him support to get up.

The young man whimpered and kept his face covered.

“God, he’s a kid,” said the man, now speaking English.

The woman nodded.

“I’m sorry you fell down. Would you like us to help you up?” she asked.

The words reached the young man and his panic began to dissipate.

“You’re not going to hit me?” he asked.

“No, we were just trying to ask if you needed help. You seemed lost. And this is our house. We were coming home from lunch,” she said in a calming voice.

“This is… your house?” he asked her.

She nodded.

The young man looked at them and then at the house. A look of shock struck the woman as she analyzed the young man’s face.

“Arthur…” she whispered to the man, who began to understand.

"Oh my," he replied.

Neither of them moved away from the young man. They seemed to become even more gentle as a thought flickered between them in unison.

“Did ... did you live here once?” asked the woman.

Memories flooded the young man in an unwelcome tide. Tears ran down his defeated, hallowed face.

“I think so,” he whispered.

“But I can’t remember things very well anymore,” he cried.

The man named Arthur’s hand rested on his back. It was a broad hand that felt sure and steady, yet gentle. It disarmed the young man, who began to cry uncontrollably.

“You were the grandson that lived here with your grandparents. After they passed away…”

“I was sent away…” answered the young man.

His tears were receding now and he was slowly sitting up on his palms and hips.

“We tried to find you, to reach out to you about the house,” said the woman.

He shook his head and slowly sat up. Now that the couple could fully look at him, they saw the remains of a vibrant youth that had been chipped away like a tree in the middle of a warzone. His hair was oily and uneven in its length. His clothes were tattered. There were scars along his face and hands. Age-wise he looked like someone who had just finished high school.

“How many years ago was that? When my grandparents died…” he asked.

The man and woman met eyes in quiet concern.

“We looked it up in the city records after we bought the house. We wanted to honor them. They passed away about two and a half years ago,” said the woman.

“Over two years?...” gasped the young man in defeat.

“So I’m eighteen now. That’s why the orphanage kicked me out,” he said almost to himself as though working through a realization.

He fumbled with the cane and held out his hand for balance as he tried to stand. Without a word, the man took his hand in support. The young man didn’t notice at first. Motion was awkward and labored, yet after a moment the young man was upright and off the ground. Only then did he notice the man helping him. His hand pulled away in closed-off fear and out of habit, but after a moment dipped his head in appreciation.

His gaze returned to the house. There was an expression of acceptance and sorrow in his eyes, as though he was saying goodbye. The woman noticed.

“Do you want to come inside? We have some of your stuff,” she said.

The offer surprised him.

“Come inside? Your house?” he asked.

“Well, it was your house before us. We kept your stuff that had been left behind. In case we ever met you,” she said.

Thoughts of entering those doors and returning to a familiar world as a stranger flooded him with mixed emotions. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from accepting and making his way forward. In his heart, he felt a shattered longing for peace and closure. It was not his world anymore. It was not his house anymore. But he had never gotten to say farewell or properly grieve the enormous loss of everything he had experienced that day. So he accepted.

They made their way to the door.

“We’re the Hayashis,” said the man as he held out his arm in welcome and led the young man forward.

“My name is Hazuki,” said the young man in quiet reflection as he walked through the door and into the building that had once been his home.