Barring any surprises, this was the last home Nagasaki Soyo would be able to find in this lifetime.
Home—a word that had had little to do with her ever since the day she was born.
Once, she had had two homes.
One was her birth family, and it had been destroyed.
The pressure that came from her parents had destroyed the little home her parents had built; the once-happy couple, in the end, demolished through quarrel after quarrel the very place they had once sworn to make a happy one for their daughter.
But she was lucky—at the very least, Nagasaki Soyo still had a mother who, though she rarely came home, loved her.
The other home was the band from her middle school days, that little home that had once been thriving and on the rise...
It, too, had been destroyed.
The blue-haired twin-tailed young lady who had assembled that [family] had willfully dragged them all in, creating the so-called [community of shared fate].
She had pledged solemn vows of eternity on her own, yet time and again brought everyone a despair that wore the face of hope.
And then? Barely two weeks went by before that young lady destroyed the band Nagasaki Soyo had treasured like a precious jewel.
What happened to the band that was supposed to last a lifetime? She quit without so much as a word—everyone cared about you, so why did you, so high and lofty, ignore the goodwill of every single person?
Sakiko Togawa underestimated her own weight in the band and in everyone's hearts.
From then on, many of the band members were left, to greater or lesser degrees, with scars and shadows in their hearts...
Haah.
This was what they call [home]—fragile, yet precious.
Nagasaki Soyo had always wanted to have one; you could even say she had spent half her life, her whole life, in pursuit of it, yet every single search left her swallowing nothing but bitterness.
And so her heart was gradually sealed off—school, work, day and night spent in a haze of meaninglessness.
All the way until her mother was hospitalized, and that girl came into her home.
Only then did Soyo realize that she seemed, once again, to have the chance to gain a [home].
That tiny little white-haired girl—just what kind of great hopes had been placed upon her?
Soyo didn't know.
"Mama, I'm so sleepy."
It's barely any hour at all, and you're already sleepy.
A small child's daily rhythm is generally far healthier than an adult's—sometimes it impressed even the never-stay-up-late Nagasaki Soyo.
She glanced at the time shown on her watch; sure enough, it was only just past seven o'clock.
"Did you tire yourself out from crying, Little Chiose?"
"I don't know..." Like a little dumpling, no matter where Soyo went, Chiose would follow tightly at her feet; sometimes she would even wrap her arms around Soyo's leg, as though she wanted to stick to it.
"Do you want to go to sleep? I'll take you to bed, okay?"
"But what about Mama... Chiose's teddy bear got washed, and Chiose needs to hug something to fall asleep."
[But it's only seven o'clock right now! What am I supposed to do with you.]
Soyo sighed, gazing wistfully at Chiose with a look that said "you really are hopeless."
"All right, all right, let's go to sleep together."
Who told you to be my daughter, Nagasaki Soyo's daughter.
Once the long-accumulated pressure and emotions had been released, all that was left for Soyo was exhaustion and drowsiness; perhaps she, too, needed to rest a little earlier and sink into a good, deep sleep.
The child's eyes were already drooping with sleep, and bit by bit Soyo's own eyelids began to sag along with them; outside the house all was dim and heavy, and the light inside the house was slipping away too.
Only the little Chiose in her arms steadily went on serving as her self-heating body pillow.
"Mama, carry me up."
Her tone was a touch babyish and coy—was Chiose acting cute and wheedling? So adorable; I never even got the chance to wheedle with anyone myself.
"All right..."
Up the stairs, open the door, undress, into bed—every step was familiar, yet somehow, because of the presence of another person, each carried a different shade of meaning.
The dainty little child was tossed onto the soft, plush bed; she rolled over a few times in a daze, like some scrappy little fish flopping about on dry land.
Just what state of mind had she been in, back then, when she'd yelled at this child? The thought of it made Soyo's heart feel uneasy.
"Mama. Chiose wants to hear a lullaby."
"A lullaby?"
Seriously? You want a Ms. Nagasaki who commands the world out there to sing you a cradle song?
"I can't, you know."
"Then, Mama, hurry up and lie down over here, and Chiose will sing you a lullaby..."
Chiose's little hands patted limply at the bedsheets—this was an invitation for Soyo to lie down together.
"You can sing too? Did Grandma teach you that as well?"
Soyo suddenly had a not-so-good feeling. She seemed to have realized something.
"Mm! Mm... so does Mama want to listen?"
"I don't want to listen, I'm an adult, I... never mind, I'll listen."
People had always said that even when you know there's a pit up ahead, why can't you ever resist jumping in?
Right? Why do we jump? Isn't it simply because we truly can't help ourselves.
Burrowing into the covers—but unlike the cold, empty hollowness of the covers on days past, today the inside of the covers was warm and comfortable.
Held in Soyo's arms, Chiose buried her face completely into Soyo's chest.
Mumbling, she sang an indistinct little tune:
"Dango dango dango dango,"
(Dumpling, dumpling, dumpling, dumpling,)
"Dango dango daikazoku,"
(Dumpling, dumpling, big family,)
This song is so familiar too.
Soyo couldn't recall where she'd heard it before—perhaps at the supermarket by the roadside, or perhaps...
in some corner of the memories she had forgotten.
"Yancha na yaki dango,"
(The mischievous grilled dumpling,)
"Yasashii an dango,"
(The gentle sweet-bean dumpling,)
"Sukoshi yumemi gachi na,"
(The one a little prone to dreaming,)
"Tsukimi dango,"
(The moon-viewing dumpling,)
Wait!
She remembered it all—Soyo had completely remembered.
The voice of the big dumpling Soyo joined with the little dumpling Chiose, as the two of them softly, gently hummed the easy nursery rhyme.
"Osumashi goma dango,"
(The one putting on airs,)
"Yotsugo kushi dango,"
(The sesame dumpling,)
Chiose's voice grew faint and small, and at the very, very end it dissolved into a soft, rhythmic sound of breathing.
Fallen asleep, have you? How adorable.
Yet Soyo's lips still parted and closed slowly; those things she'd assumed she would never recall in her whole life came crashing against her heart again and again like a boomerang.
Isn't this exactly what Mama used to sing to me when I was little...
"Minna minna awasete,"
(Everyone, everyone, gathered together,)
"Hyakunin kazoku,"
(forming a hundred-person family,)
When you begin to forget someone, what is the first thing about them you forget?
It's their flaws—how unfortunate.
"Akachan dango wa,"
(The baby dumplings live, every single day,)
"Itsumo shiawase no naka de,"
(in happiness.)
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