Here and there.
Back and forth.
The rocking chair cradles my aged bones, lulling them to rest. When you get up in years, the aches come, niggling little pains that trouble you merely enough to annoy. I look out at the garden. Summer is here. The cicadas are chirping. My children have come to visit, with their children, and their grandchildren. Their laughter fills the halls of this house. Perhaps that is why I rebuilt it, so that I could smother the sorrow that has seeped into this plot of land.
But the sadness never goes away, does it? I can still feel it lingering at times, in the corridors, like a nostalgic scent. A remnant of a memory from ancient, troubled times.
How long has it been? What year is it?
I rack my failing, addled mind, trying to remember the year. The war – the two great wars, had come and passed. Then had come decades of rebuilding and subsequent prosperity. It had taken so many years for the world to fashion itself closer into the form that I had once knew, and by that time, I barely remembered how it used to be at all.
While I look out blankly at the children – playing tag, it seems – I recall vaguely a celebration of my centenary a few years ago. They had also played tag then. A hundred years in life. That means… it would have been more than eighty years now.
More than eighty years since the old Sakaguchi mansion burned. That day I could recall clearly. The storm had protected the mansion’s exterior from the flames, but it had not done a thing for the interior. The insides of the house was entirely gutted. Scorched black. Charred. Before the day was over I was helping the villagers pick out bones from the ashes.
The Sakaguchi family. Their servants. They were all accounted for, except for one person.
I do not know if she truly existed, or if it was just a trick of my mind.
With the burning of the Sakaguchi mansion went all the clues and secrets hidden within. All that I could hope to discover, lost. The only avenue of investigation left to me was the Tendou family, and they were extremely close-lipped, especially after the fire. There was no other choice but to get closer to the villagers.
I settled down in Yomiki. Learnt to farm, learnt to trade. A year later, I was married.
Yukina was the best thing that ever happened to me. Without her I would have gone insane long ago, unable to reconcile the creeping differences between what I remembered, and what I was living. Many nights I woke up in a cold sweat, imagining the whispering of the spirits, and wondering if I would not be able to escape if I took a sword and cut down every villager as an offering to the Maiden. But always, Yukina grounded me.
I was conscripted for the wars. I survived. But at the same time, I realized that the world… this world… was as real as it could be. It was not some small bubble reality of a village or a hospital. I met many people in many countries. And as time passed, my sense of belonging grew.
Perhaps I really did travel through time, after all.
Perhaps I could affect change from where I stood.
After all, I knew the history, even if my knowledge was incomplete. I was uniquely positioned to influence it all.
And so here I sit, in the mansion that had once been scourged by fire. Surrounded by the many books that I have wrote over the years, under the pen-name that had once been my actual name: Shinoseki Adachi. My family – the Maeda family – has been moderately successful, but we are nowhere near the status of a powerful zaibatsu. There is no Kaimei. No hospital. Yomiki had been preserved through the decades, thanks to my efforts. Eighty long years… I had earned my escape by paying in time… now, I am free. I should have realized that I was free long ago. Perhaps I would have done things differently. Lived more happily, more for myself, than being bound by some mistaken belief that I was trapped in an imaginary prison.
My thoughts turn to my family. Yukina is long dead. Cancer took her, as it did my eldest son. My grandchildren already have children of their own, and now those children are getting married and having children of their own. I remember one of my great-grandchildren coming up to me yesterday, with a baby girl in her arms.
Nami, they named her.
Had I changed the timeline far enough? Or were some things always meant to happen?
As I ponder these questions, wheezing slightly through my toothless jaw, one of the children runs up to me, her black skirt fluttering in the summer breeze.
Her face is familiar to me.
I have so many great-grandchildren that I do not remember them all. Not at this age, where my mind has finally started to catch up with my body.
That is why it takes me a while to realize that she is not one of my descendants. I recall her face from another place. Another time.
She smiles and places her young palm over my withered, trembling hand.
My chair stops rocking.
Ah, I wonder... did I ever truly escape?