InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Forgotten History ❯ Forgotten History ( Chapter 1 )

Forgotten History

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Eheu fugaces labuntur anni.

- Alas, the fleeting years slip by. (Horace)

 

The book is heavy and expensive, and waiting in line he wonders if it is really worth all this trouble. Again, he takes out his wallet and counts his money. Sighing, he takes out a credit card and stuffs the wallet back in his coat's deep pocket, patting it out of habit.

 

With the book in a bag now, he finds it much easier to carry, his old fingers no longer losing grip on the smooth cover. On the bus he's examining the book once again, rifling through the pages until he finds the spot; he marks it with the receipt.

 

Her apartment is as clean as ever, and she's all smiles and welcomes, ushering him in, taking his coat and shoes and tucking them away. She's fiddling with his collar and trying to do the same with his hair, but he started balding many years ago.

 

He laughs softly, and pushes her fidgeting hands away gently. “Nee-chan…we're not kids anymore, are we?” he says, patting her thin, bony shoulder.

 

Smiling, she shakes her head, hands brushing invisible crumbs from her apron. “I can always pretend though, can't I?” she replies, turning away and hobbling into the kitchen. “I was baking cookies,” she says when she gets there. “For the grandchildren…how is little Yuri-chan?”

 

“Good, good,” he answers, walking slowly into the apartment, his back feeling a little stiff. “Good, good,” he repeats, murmuring.

 

“What was that?” she calls from the kitchen.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, “Just an old man talking to himself.”

 

She laughs. “Maa, Souta…if you are old, then what does that make me?”

 

“I'm fatter than you are,” he says as he walks into the kitchen and leans on the counter. “And you are so much healthier - you make me eat all of your cookies for you.”

 

Laughing once again, she straightens as she takes the tray of cookies from the oven. A delicious smell fills the tiny apartment, and he breathes it in, a lazy smile settling on his lips.

 

“Ah ah!” she warns. “They're hot, so don't touch…besides, you're too fat!” She laughs.

 

He smirks and holds his hand up innocently, watching her place the tray down beside him on the counter. She takes off her oven mitts and closes the oven door. “Ah…” she sighs, scratching her forehead. She notices the bag he's holding and her hands are abruptly on her hips, a grin on her face. “Ah, you brought me something, Souta?”

 

Nodding, he takes the hardcover out of the plastic bag and hands it to her. Her liver-spotted hands take it from him slowly, a look of confusion crossing her face. Squinting to read it, her thin fingers trace the bold title, smoothing away something from the cover.

 

She looks up at him now, a bemused smile questioning him. “A book of myths and legends, Souta…?”

 

Nodding, he gestures with his hand. “I marked a spot for you - look.”

 

“Ah - just give me a minute to find my glasses…” She glances around the kitchen. Looking back at him, she hands the book back. “Here, you take this and I'll make some tea for us. Go sit down at the table, and I'll put the kettle on…” she trails off, shuffling about the kitchen, taking two tea cups and the teapot from the cupboard, filling the kettle and plugging it in.

 

He walks out, leaving her by herself, and goes to the dining table - a small, round wooden table, made in the Western style, and he sets the book on top of it. He is just about to sit down when her voice reaches him from the kitchen.

 

“Oh - Souta! Please see if you can find my reading glasses!”

 

“Where are they?” he asks.

 

“They should be on my bedside table…would you go get them, please?”

 

“Yes, yes,” he mutters, walking past the kitchen and down the hall. He tries two doors before he finds her room, and he chuckles softly to himself, thinking that he is becoming a very forgetful old man.

 

In her room, there is a small bed on the right and a simple dresser on the left, which is cluttered with pictures - mostly of family and friends. He stops for a moment to look at them. His own face appears in a few, and he marvels at the young one he sees smiling back at him in one. Another is of a middle-aged lady and her husband, taken at least twenty years ago, he thinks.

 

On her bedside table is a book, a lamp, her glasses - just as she said they'd be - and another picture, this one of just her husband. He studies it for a brief pause; the man whose old face is captured within it has long since been laid to rest. He remembers him being a very nice man; originally from Kyoto, if his memory is correct.

 

Shaking himself quickly, he picks up the glasses and leaves the room, waddling back into the dining room where he sits, the chair creaking.

 

It is only a few minutes later when she comes out with the fresh pot of tea and pours him a cup.

 

“Ah, now let's see this then…” she says, sitting down slowly and adjusting her glasses, blinking a few times as she takes a sip of her tea.

 

He watches her eyes scan down the page, looking for this myth - this legend, that he wishes her to read. She is just about to take another sip when she stops, her mouth still open as she stares at the page.

 

For what seems to him like a long time, she just stares, lips slightly parted and her cup still hovering beside her mouth. He almost regrets paying so much money just to show this little thing to her. He thinks she must be upset.

 

“Souta…” she finally says, eyebrows pushing together when she looks at him, confused. “This is…this is quite a - a surprise.” She laughs nervously and takes a sip of her tea.

 

He smiles. “It was to me, too. Very unexpected.”

 

“Yes,” she agrees. She is staring at the page again.

 

“I thought you might like to see…”

 

“Oh, well…it's nice to know, I suppose, but…after all this time…you know?” she says at the end, looking up at him.

 

Shrugging, he sips his tea before speaking. “That's just karma. Who knows what is around the corner, eh?”

 

“Hm,” is all she says in reply, her hands wrapping around her cup.

 

“It…you never told me they all died, Nee-chan.,” he says in a hushed voice.

 

Shaking her head, he is worried when he sees the corners of her eyes glistening.

 

“Not everyone, Souta.” The last sentence is spoken to herself. Her eyes drop away from his.

 

He looks at her in confusion, and is about to ask what she means, when her quiet voice saves him the trouble.

 

“Me, Souta. They always forget me.”