In the sea of students, I am but a faceless body. 

All the same, her eyes always find me.

In the handful of enthusiasts at the quiet bookstore I peruse, 

in my classrooms when the noises lull, 

in the silence of my home. 

She’s standing with her back faced against the window of my empty room. The door is closed, and the sun outside seems intent on making its presence known, shrouding her in an angry glare. She’s intimidatingly tall. I rise from my sitting position, and even then she’s a head taller, looking down at me the same way a child stares at an ant. Or perhaps, in the same way a mother views a child. 

Her raven-black hair flows beyond my field of view. Something tells me it’s a fool’s errand, but I look to see where it ends. I find nothing, and am rewarded with foolishness, scalding. Her eyes are placid, and I hope mine are as well. There are a thousand, a million questions racing through my mind, so I open my mouth.

“Would you like some coffee?”

An amused grin flashes across her face, skin pale as moonlight. “If you enjoy it, I would like a cup.” Her voice is assertive, imposing, but not unkind. It strikes me with an aching familiarity, despite me knowing that this is the first time we’ve spoken.

“I don’t know if I would say I enjoy it particularly, it’s just what works.”

I step out, and return with two cups of coffee. She sits, her posture straight and disciplined, while I sink into my bed clumsily. 

“So, why have you come?” I ask, though I already know the answer. 

“You wanted to see me.” 

“What if I said, ‘that’s news to me’?”

“Then you would be lying.” 

I go to take a sip of coffee, then choke down the mouthful I found myself with. 

“Well then, are you in the mood to talk, or to listen?” She asks. 

“I’m in the mood to have a conversation.” 

She obliges, and we talk. 

“What’s your favourite colour?” 

“I do not have a favourite. Those who have an interest in them, the creatives among us: this is a question best suited to them, rather than myself. I would describe myself as practical above all else, and every colour serves its own purpose.” She stops to eye the sheep plushie resting on top of my pillow. It rests, legs sprawled out, expression one of quiet bliss.  

“If I had to, I might choose its white fur as an answer. It is pure and unstained. The same is true of the rest of your companions.” Her hand makes a sweeping gesture toward the rest of the stuffed animals lazing on my bed sheets. 

“You must care an awful lot for them.” 

“I have an awful lot of time on my hands, after all.”

“Tell me about your favourite moment.”

She holds my hand. I blink, and we’re somewhere I don’t recognise, in the middle of a vast expanse of green and nothing else. The grass tickles my bare feet, biting at my ankles as I follow her wordlessly. 

“It is best you see for yourself.” 

In her hand is a light purple flower, its petals curled, poised to blossom. I recognise it as an iris. Her eyes are longing as she gazes at it, regarding it similarly to how one might regard a unicorn. 

“All too often, I only arrive to witness their departure.” The flower’s blend of vibrant blue and light purple turns to an ashy grey, and its petals shrink into dust, scattering on the winds. 

A chuckle escapes my lips. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

She stares at me in silence. We both understand, but only I laugh at the humour of the words leaving my mouth. For her, this must have happened many, uncountable times, but I don’t share her burden, so I could never truly understand. 

We talk about the sun, the moon, the sky and everything below it. 

We speak until there’s nothing left to speak of.

All of my ambitions, my dreams, my hopes, my wants, my wishes, memories of friends I no longer have, memories of those I’ll lose: now, they are nothing more than words, carried by the wind.

“I’m sorry.” I muster. 

“Whatever for?”

“It’s just one more person, but our burdens weigh on you, don’t they?” 

“It is part of my duty.” She shrugs it off, but there’s sadness in her eyes.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you earlier.”

“Do you imagine that things would have been different, if you had?”

“No.” I turn to look at her, laying in the field. 

I’ve heard stories of times before. Fantasies derived from history, where one lays under the night sky, in an impossible land utterly devoid of civilisation. There is no fire, no light, no glow of the hearth from a village off in the distance. The sun has set, and so the world is dark, save for the stars in the sky. 

In my mind’s eye, that utter nothingness was terrifying. Yet, as I look at the clothes she wears, woven out of that unimaginable black, from nights beyond the ones I experienced, I wonder: if I had been embraced by those nights, would I have been liberated? 

“No, I don’t think things would have been different, but I would’ve liked to spend more time with you.” Then, for the first time, I see a gentle smile. It blooms, and I think of the iris and wonder how she does not know. 

“Are you ready?” She asks quietly. I’d thought I would have dreaded those words: I spent nights awake, haunted by that question. Now, only fulfilment washes over me.

“I have one last question for you.”

“Anything you wish to know.” 

“What is your name?” She blinks. Once, twice. “You know the answer.”

I shake my head. “I know what they call you. What do you call yourself?”

A blend of expressions wash across her face, a mix too complex for me to place. Then, she turns to me and says, “My name is Mori.” 

“It’s a beautiful name.” I say wholeheartedly as I reach for her hand once more. “I’m ready.”

“This is goodbye, then.”

“I’d prefer a fond farewell.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. 

I am no more, a bodiless spirit drifting in the wind, away from time’s oldest keeper of stories.