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It’s the final day of February, and spring is still just a hope. The rattle of the windowpanes against a cold blast of wind competes with the sound of the last bell of the day (wasn’t this school supposed to be, like, brand new?) and Yukari fumbles for her scarf before getting up from her desk. The pixellated little display on the front of her cell phone shows a temperature of 6ºC. No wonder the daffodil bulb she set out in a pot by the lounge window back at the dorm has yet to show any life. Other students hurry past towards the classroom door, in a rustle of jackets and backpacks.
Before Yukari can reach her feet, the toe of her shoe catches the leg of her chair, which in turn catches her desk. She stumbles forward and reflexively catches hold of the nearest available support - the next desk behind hers.
Its occupant, Minato Arisato, asks, “you okay?” Which is two more words than he’s spoken all day. Something about that fact strikes Yukari as odd - he’s always been reticent, but never quite this silent, as far as she can recall.
“Yes, fine,” she notes absent-mindedly, untangling herself from the furniture and standing up straight. “Wait, what are you drawing?”
There’s a date book open on Minato’s desk, that he has apparently been sketching in. It’s some kind of serpent, devouring itself from the tip of its own tail. Yukari doesn’t think she has ever noticed before, but he has an excellent hand; delicate but clear. Was he in one of the cultural clubs? She can’t remember.
“Ouroboros,” Minato replies, as though that tells Yukari anything at all. He sees her furrowed brow and continues. “A reminder.”
The whole sketch is under the heading for March 5th in the datebook, which rings some vague bell in the back of Yukari’s head. “Got something to do that day?”
“Yeah.” Something about the admission seems to leave Minato vaguely dissatisfied, though; the hint of a frown crosses his features, and he slumps in his chair.
Come to think of it, 5 March was the day of the seniors graduating, but Yukari wasn’t a senior. She must have had some other reason for remembering that date, one she can’t quite place - there was the graduation ceremony and one other thing, too…
She looks at the calendar on her phone - but of course she hadn’t bothered with any note to herself on the matter, she observes with a scowl.
Putting her phone back in her skirt pocket, Yukari glances down at Minato, who stares up at her intently through his messy hair, like a man searching through a thick fog.
“Oh! Sorry,” Yukari offers hastily. “It’s not anything you did. Um… we should get going.”
“Right.”
The classroom is already emptying out; the only students left besides Yukari and Minato are three boys talking in a knot at the back of the room, and that blond foreigner girl who sits in the desk next to Minato, Aigis. Whether that was her family name or her given name, Yukari had no idea, but either way it was the only one she knew.
(Why didn’t she know? Weird.)
While Minato tucks his things away in his schoolbag, Yukari catches Aigis’ eye. She offers a smile, and a wave - Aigis is even quieter than Minato most of the time, a consequence, Yukari assumes, of not knowing much spoken Japanese. But she deserves to at least feel a little more included. Aigis smiles, faintly, in return.
Minato at last rises to his feet; standing between Yukari and the classroom windows, a few loose strands of his hair catch a rare shaft of sunlight and shine brilliant white. For one more slowly twisting second, he appears as someone else, someone older, standing crooked and bent in a uniform much too large for his skinny frame.
Then the moment passes, and Yukari steps out of the classroom into the hallway.
-
Their vigil at the hospital lasted eleven hours, before the doctors finally told them what they already knew they were going to hear: Minato had slipped away. With as much gravitas as her wavering voice could muster, Mitsuru ordered everyone back to the dorm to rest, and all that remained was sheer exhaustion.
It still doesn’t feel real. Yukari’s mind is a blank, staring out into the dark street from one of the sofas in the lounge. It’s probably time to go to bed, but after all those hours in the timeless sterility of Minato’s hospital room, she can’t bring herself to care. She turns over her cell phone idly in one hand; that was one of the things he wanted her to do. Call her mom. She had almost felt ready, too.
Across from her on the other sofa, Fuuka is on her laptop, but whatever it is she’s using it for clearly isn’t engaging her. Her typing is intermittent and half-hearted; the light of the screen slides past a glassy stare.
Something rises to Yukari’s mind. “Borrow that for a sec?”
“Hm?” Fuuka gazes through bloodshot eyes at Yukari, momentarily confused. “Um, sure.” She scoots over to one side of the sofa to admit Yukari, and hands her the computer when she sits down at Fuuka’s right.
Yukari pulls up a search engine and types in the word “Ouroboros.” An ancient symbol of rebirth, renewal, and eternity. Question answered, she hands Fuuka back her laptop.
Maybe that reminder wasn’t only for Minato.
At the window, her daffodil bulb has its first tentative green shoot.