Good Evening.
Thank you for the many entertaining episodes. I’m truly sad I’ll never get to hear your voice again. I loved your show and looked forward to it every week. It always cheered me up. I know you’ll never get the chance to read this, but I wanted to send you one last “thanks”. From your biggest fan, thank you very much.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
Where did you come from? Where are you going? I’m sure you come from some place I don’t know, going some place I can’t follow.
When I was twelve, I came down with a terrible fever that attacked my nervous system. I survived somehow, but lost the use of my legs. Before I was paralyzed, I’d always dream of becoming a prima ballerina. I loved dancing before an audience and basking in their praise. My parents would tell me that my smile lit up the room, kindling the fire of pride that burned so bright in my young heart.
I can’t look back on this time in my life without bringing up Mao. Mao was a neighborhood boy and my best playmate. We shared our dreams, so full of hope for what the future held. Mao aspired to become a botanist.
“Do you know what genes are? They’re what determine the color of flowers in the nucleus of their cells. I’m going to study genetics and engineer a flower with a color like the word’s never seen before!”
I drew a picture that combined both of our dreams, it showed me as a beautiful woman, dancing in the middle of a field of Mao’s flowers. His creations looked like bellflowers that were snow-white by day and that glowed blue at night. I called them lantern blossoms.
When the stars came out, they would light up, making the field a stage all my own.
“A flower that changes color depending on the time of day?” When I tried to show Mao the picture I had drawn, he pursed his lips and gave a slight frown as he thought it over.
“I admit, it sounds interesting. White by day, blue at night, was it? Maybe for the tiny window of time when the sun’s going down, it could burn a dark red.”
Mao had given a most wonderful addition to my idea. I considered it a present from him to me. I was so happy! My name is Akane, which means dark red in Japanese.
Mao was a pushover of a boy. He was the butt of the other kids’ jokes and victim of their pranks. They’d toss his glasses in the garbage or hide them in the blackboard erasers.
However, I was the only one who’d get furious at them, while Mao would rejoice in the fact that they didn’t break the lenses. He’d just wipe them clean and put them back on. The boys would think he was being cheeky and tease him all over again, but Mao refused to ever let them get to him.
Mao’s head was filled with facts about flowers, so the boys’ taunts registered as no more than the meaningless buzz of insects. Meanwhile, I spent all my time worrying about the bullying and helping him find his glasses. We’d eat lunch together and partner up during gym class. Still over time, it became apparent that my attentions meant less and less to Mao.
In fact, it was only when he talked about genetics, or what determined colors in flowers that he would truly come alive, and his eyes would sparkle with excitement. As far as Mao was concerned, I was little more than a mirror for him to talk to about his dreams.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
The day of the recital at the ballet school I attended, despite my insistence that he come, Mao didn’t show up. While on stage, my eyes were fixated on the audience. And being so distracted, my feet tripped up my classmates and made a mess of the performance. I went home completely dejected, only to find Mao waiting in front of my house.
“Mao, why didn’t you come today?” I demanded as I ran up the steps to him. Mao replied with, “Well, you know…” What was that supposed to mean?
“More importantly, look at this.” Mao showed me the inside of the white plastic bag he was holding. What was supposed to be more important?
“They’re called ‘Moonlight Mushrooms.’ They light up at night and if I can figure out what causes that and blend it with the genes of the bellflower.” Mao’s dirt-smeared cheeks were flushed with excitement, it angered me like nothing ever before. Mao had ditched my recital to go hunting for mushrooms in the ravine instead. I swung my hand up and knocked the bag from Mao’s grasp. Dirt flew from the bag and a rain of mushrooms fell to the ground.
Mao looked at them with the saddest expression on his face. Imagine that, Mao was more worried about some mushrooms than about me. He could marry them for all I cared.
“You look like an idiot obsessing over some pathetic mushrooms! I’m just a waste of your precious time, aren’t I? Unlike me, your plants don’t tell you to come to recitals, they won’t make fun of you or tell you to do your homework. You only need to look after them when you want to. You only turn to your plants because you’re no good with people. You may have a dream for your future, but don’t step all over mine.”
I know, I know. I was taking out my frustrations from my poor performance on Mao. My own dreams weren’t going as well, so I was looking down on Mao’s. It was a lowly thing to do. But I didn’t want to apologize. I left Mao standing there as I ran inside and locked myself in my room.
I had hung up my drawing, where everybody could see it on my wall. The one of me, as an adult, dancing in the field of lantern blossoms. That drawing of Mao’s and my dreams coming to reality was a treasure to me. When I tried to peel it off the wall, the picture tore.
For a moment, I felt extreme remorse. But I refused to give in, took the torn drawing and ripped it to shreds before dumping it in the garbage.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon,
I was hit with the fever the night that Mao and I had our fight. I remember bits and pieces of the dream that flooded my mind, but in the corner of every dream was the same image. It was the drawing that I had ripped to shreds. My legs in the drawing were cut off right at the ankle. In a sense, I was dancing legless.
Soon, the dream became reality. Though the fever subsided, my legs remained paralyzed. I couldn’t walk, let alone dance, ever again. I spent weeks mourning in my room. Mao came again and again to check on me, but I refused to see him. Eventually, he stopped coming at all.
After a short time, I went back to school, bound to a wheelchair. My line of sight was so low to the ground, it felt like I’d reverted back to a little kid. Everything I saw looked different from before. The school buildings were like gray giants that threatened to crush me. My friends were kind to me, but it felt like they were all looking down on me and sneering. I rarely lifted my head anymore. Even when I ran into Mao at school, I didn’t make eye contact with him.
My sickness robbed me of everything. My dream of becoming a ballerina. My smile that people used to say brightened the room. Even Mao.
Even though I was stuck in that wheelchair, I attended school like everyone else. With my unyielding nature, I strived hard in my studies, ate my meals with gusto, and led in my student council duties. Finally, my old smile returned, and I found a new dream. I decided I’d aim to be a world-class sports photographer. Figuring that my wheelchair couldn’t stop me from taking photos, my father had bought me a camera.
Of all the things I lost with my sickness, there was only one thing I couldn’t get back. After that day, Mao and I remained strangers. The anger and hurt I felt from him were long gone, and yet there was less and less chance for conversation like before. I would often watch Mao tending to the flowers in the school garden from my perch at the window. After all this time, it was only now that I truly understood him. It’s odd how rather than when we were close, it was by watching him from afar like this, that I came to know him better.
Plants are far more delicate than I used to think. If you’re the least bit irresponsible and neglect their care even a little, they take a quick turn for the worse. And because they can’t speak for themselves, you have to sit for hours to watch and read what they need. Do they have enough water? Good fertilizer? Any signs of sickness? Are they thriving?
Mao was ever-patient as he looked after his plants. If there was a sickly-looking sprout, he’d change its soil, set a splint for it, and even stay late into the night to watch over it. He’d crouch in front of the flowers that had been trampled on by thoughtless students and mull over them for hours. While the other students were laughing it up and having a good time, only Mao would have his ear tilted to the silent voices of the flowers that nobody cared to listen to.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
When I finally spoke to Mao again, it was the day of our high school graduation. I heard from our homeroom teacher that Mao was going to college in some far-off city. It was a college where he could really pursue his study of botany.
I didn’t want to leave things as they were.
After the ceremony, I searched the school, and found Mao by the school garden.
It’d been so long since I saw him up close, and he was a lot taller than I remembered. His long, slender fingers were black with earth and his hands looked weathered. The strap of his canvas shoulder bag had been loosened to its maximum to let his bag fall to his hips. Somehow that was enough to make my heart race.
All I had to do was talk like we used to, but my mind suddenly went blank. What did I sound like when we used to talk? Was my voice high? Low? How did I choose my words? Was I curt with him? Cute? What was my timing when I smiled or got angry? I had no idea what to say.
The graduates and students were laughing and crying together. They called out to each other, their incessant flow of words echoed through the school halls and reverberated around us.
“We’ll always be friends!”
“Take care!”
“Good luck!”
“Goodbye! Come back to visit!”
I listened closely to borrow some of their words, but none of them were what I wanted to say.
“Mao… come down here.”
That was all I could finally manage to say. After a quick look of confusion, Mao knelt before me, eyes on mine. There was that familiar scent. The smell of damp earth. Mao always smelled of earth. Long ago, I used to love napping beside him as he read. It felt like I was lying in the middle of a grassy field.
I finally felt like I was with my old Mao and was able to speak naturally.
“How’s your research for the lantern blossoms going?”
“Actually, my college has fully equipped labs, so I think I’ll finally be able to make some sort of progress. Genetic engineering is still a tricky field, so I probably won’t be successful right away. I have a million and one things I want to test out, so I highly doubt that four years will be enough time.”
Once given the chance, Mao’s eyes glistened and he rattled on like the old days. His voice was lower than I remembered. He was intense and full of confidence. But there was still a bit of that old, delicate Mao in him, too. My heart was filled with so many feelings, I thought I’d burst into tears. I hadn’t even cried during the ceremony.
How had I survived being apart from Mao all these years? How could I stand not hearing him? How could I breathe without taking in his scent? Why hadn’t I tried to patch things up sooner? And now, Mao was going far away. I would never be able to follow him with my legs.
Mao was like a towering tree beside me. He offered me cozy shade, quenched my thirst with dew, gave me fresh oxygen to breathe… He was a gentle, peaceful tree.
“Mao, we’ll always be friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Take care where you’re going.”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
“Yeah.”
“Goodbye. And… come visit me some time.”
“…Yeah.”
I’m still studying photography. And I’ve even landed some gigs. I click the shutter, blown away by the force, and breath, and energy of the athletes. As a hobby, I’ve begun shooting trees and flowers, too. Whenever I capture the workings of life that flowers give off so powerfully, and yet can be easy to miss if you’re not careful, I swear I can smell Mao beside me.
Though the year of his graduation came, Mao did not. Rumor had it he was staying late at the lab. He was so preoccupied, he’d probably forgotten all about me.
I knew deep down in his heart, he never had any intention of keeping his promise to see me again. By that point, he and I had already make our way down our own separate paths. I had left my tree called Mao and was already breathing on my own. I’d come to the realization that our dreams no longer fit on a one-page drawing the way they used to.
Where did you come from?
Where are you going?
I’m sure you come from some place I don’t know, going some place I can’t follow.
If during your journey you happen to encounter a lantern blossom, I want you to take a moment, stop, and think about the botanist who created it. I’m sure it will have been a young man named Mao. I believe that someday, he’ll become the most amazing botanist ever.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
I named my character “AAAA.”
At the time I didn’t really care,
but halfway through the game,
when I thought about changing it,
I realized that
I was actually pretty attached to it.
Despite your bizarre moniker,
you still saved the princess
and had the king
hailing you and your stupid name.
Come on, “AAAA.”
Are you really going to vanish like this?
Are you okay with ending it all
without even saving the world,
stuck with that name?
I’m sorry, “AAAA.”
I should have thought up
a better name for you.
– Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
