The Shape of an Ending

The days passed, and our time together began to draw to an end.

On our last evening, we sat side by side, without looking at each other.

“And you’re quite sure,” I said at last, “that we shouldn’t speak to my father?” I forced a faint smile. “If it came from both of us,” I continued, “I think… I think he would give in.”

Shuichi slowly shook his head.

“Your father is the least of the obstacles.”

He spoke calmly, almost matter-of-factly.

“A marriage would have to be approved not only by him and the administration here, but also by my military superior.”

I understood at once.

“...And Chūsa Asano would never agree.”

Shuichi merely nodded and let out a long breath.

“Not while he is still my superior here,” he said. “He has made that clear enough.”

I lowered my gaze and felt as though the responsibility lay with me.

“If I had simply left back then, down by the warehouses...” I began quietly.

He turned toward me and took hold of my shoulders, more firmly than necessary.

“Don’t say that.”

His gaze was serious, almost stern.

“Even if Asano's discontent about us played a large part in my reassignment,” he went on, “I would have been sent back to China soon anyway. There’s talk of a major Communist offensive in the north. And they need my face... to keep morale up.“

He lowered his gaze.

“The fact that I was sent here at all had nothing to do with mercy. They just didn’t want to use me up too early.”

Then he looked at me again, directly, without evasion.

“And yet,” he said more quietly, “it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I felt relief so keenly that it almost hurt, and I had to look away for a moment.

As the wind stirred between us, I folded my hands in my lap.

“After the war,” I said at last.

It was not a question.

Shuichi nodded slowly.

“After the war,” he confirmed. “When I return.”

He said when.

Not if.

I said nothing that might have corrected him.

After a while, he reached into the inner pocket of his uniform.

The movement was hesitant, almost shy, something I had rarely seen in him before, but now more often.

He held a small object between his fingers and placed it in my hand.

The jade was cool and smooth, matte green, unengraved.

“I found it in Taihoku,” he said. “At a market stall. I didn’t want anything that stood out too much.”

Without replying, I closed my fingers around it, and at the same time, my eyes.

My heart raced as I put it on.

When I opened them again, I looked straight at him.

I reached for my hair and loosened the red ribbon.

The heavy braid fell down my back, and at once the wind caught it, loosening strands, letting my hair fly free.

Shuichi was about to say something, but I had already moved closer.

I tied the ribbon around his upper arm, carefully, firmly enough that it would not slip.

The red stood out clearly against the uniform, matched his cap, and was nothing that required explanation.

“So you’ll know,” I said softly, “where you must return to.”

He looked at the ribbon, then back at me.

His hand rested briefly over it, not protectively, but as if in affirmation.

“This isn’t a farewell forever,” he said at last.

“No,” I replied quietly. “It isn’t.”

The wind continued to play with my loose hair.

Shuichi leaned toward me.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I could still feel the warmth of his lips on mine.

And only for a moment, it seemed as though time itself had come to a standstill.

᯽᯽᯽

Yi-yun’s eyes sparkled as she lay on the carpet, her chin propped in her hands, watching her grandmother for a while in thoughtful silence.

“So romantic…” she said softly at last.

Shu-fen leaned back in her armchair and seemed just as deeply lost in the story.

After a while, she picked up the jade pendant from the small side table and studied it closely.

She held it between her fingers, turning it slightly in the light, as though reassessing its weight.

Yi-yun watched her every movement attentively.

“Grandma?” she asked at last. “Why don’t you wear it anymore?”

Shu-fen looked up.

“Because some things,” she said calmly, “don’t need to be worn in order to remember something.”

Yi-yun frowned.

“But… you always had it with you, didn’t you?”

Shu-fen nodded slowly.

“For a very long time,” she said. “And then, at some point, I didn’t.”

She carefully set it back down on the table.

“There was a time when I needed to keep it close,” she went on. “So that I wouldn’t forget what I was waiting for.”

She smiled faintly.

“And then there was no longer any need to remind myself.”

Yi-yun thought about that, then scooted closer.

“And…?” she asked. “What happened after that? Did you see each other again?”

Shu-fen opened her mouth.

“We did,” she began. “But we...”

The sound of an engine cut through the stillness.

Both of them froze.

The hum grew louder, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel.

Yi-yun jumped to her feet.

“Grandpa?!” she called excitedly and ran toward the door.

Shu-fen rose more slowly, just as puzzled, and followed her outside.

A car stood in the courtyard.

The door opened, and Mei-Ling stepped out, a travel bag slung over her shoulder.

“Mom?” Yi-yun came to an abrupt halt.

Mei-Ling smiled.

“Surprise!”

Shu-fen raised her eyebrows.

“You didn’t call.”

“That's... what surprises are about,” Mei-Ling said with a shrug. “I finished work earlier than expected and managed to fly back this morning.”

Yi-yun pulled a face.

“But… I don’t want to leave now.”

Mei-Ling stared at her in disbelief.

“What do you mean? You couldn’t wait to leave!”

Yi-yun crossed her arms.

“But Grandma hasn’t finished her story yet…”

Mei-Ling chuckled and turned to her mother.

“So you haven’t been boring her too much with your old stories, have you?”

“They’re not boring!” Yi-yun protested.

Mei-Ling blinked in surprise while Shu-fen smiled.

“It’s all right, Yi-yun,” she said gently. “You can come visit me again next summer.”

Yi-yun looked at her.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Shu-fen replied with a soft smile. “Then I’ll tell you how the story ended.”

Yi-yun immediately turned to her mother.

“Mom? Can I? Please?”

Mei-Ling hesitated, then smiled.

“Um… yes. Of course. If that’s what you want.”

Yi-yun threw her arms around her grandmother, and for a moment they simply stood there, holding each other.

Shu-fen looked over at her daughter.

“But surely we still have time for a cup of tea, don’t we?”

Mei-Ling hesitated.

“I was actually planning to...”

“I’ll put the water on,” Shu-fen said, already on her way to the kitchen. “It won’t take long.”

Yi-yun beamed, while Mei-Ling let out a breath, then smiled crookedly.

“All right,” she said.

A little later, they were sitting at the table where Mei-Ling was already reaching for the teapot.

“So,” she began, “before we...”

“Not yet!”

Yi-yun shot out her hand and stopped her.

Mei-Ling froze.

“What now?”

Yi-yun pointed at the pot.

“The first infusion has to be poured away.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then Mei-Ling let out an audible sigh.

“Not you too…,” she muttered.

Her gaze slid to Shu-fen.

“So you’ve already gotten to her.”

Shu-fen only smiled.

Yi-yun frowned.

“Gotten to me with what?”

“With all that tea nonsense,” Mei-Ling said, not really reproachful, more resigned. “It took me years to unlearn it.”

Yi-yun looked from one to the other.

“But Grandma says it’s important.”

Shu-fen took the pot from her daughter and poured away the first infusion.

“Not only important,” she corrected gently, “but something that teaches patience.”

Mei-Ling snorted softly.

“I had enough patience here to last a lifetime. I grew up here, after all.”

Yi-yun thought for a moment.

“Well then,” she said seriously, “I think I’ve learned a lot about patience here too.”

Shu-fen laughed softly and shot her daughter a teasing glance.

“Then at least one child has learned something here.”

Mei-Ling looked indignant at first, but then couldn’t help letting out a small giggle.

And finally, all three of them laughed.

They stayed like that for a while, until the afternoon faded into evening.

When the car later left the courtyard and drove down the path, Shu-fen remained standing there for a while.

The teacups were empty.

The pendant lay quietly on the small table.

And waited with her.