Chapter Text
There was an old song. In short, it told the tale of two roses, one white and one red who grew up in a garden together as brothers. In the morning, the white rose would open its eyes with the pale dawn and in the evening the red rose would close its eyes with the setting sun. Time would pass until, one day, a hand appeared and plucked one of the roses from its bed. No one knows whether the rose had been white or red—whether it was the white rose that had turned red, or that the red rose had turned white. All that could be certain was that the rose remaining—whether red or white, white turned red or red turned white—was left with a broken heart.
Truthfully, she did not know how old the song was, only that her mother had sung it to her and her sisters and brothers as a lullaby. Whether or not that meant anything at all, to her that had made it very old. She had taken to singing it to all her nieces and nephews when her siblings bore them, and it had been a favorite of hers until her death. In fact, she had been jovially singing it when it happened and it had resonated in her soul and carried her into her next life where she was left to question: what was she? Had she been the white rose or the red rose? Perhaps she had been the hand. Even if she were the hand, then she was also a rose for she had been left immutably with a broken heart.
—
The law of karma was that all actions—good, bad, past, present—would be rewarded fully.
Anzu had not considered herself very religious in her previous life. She had been raised religious; Shabbat on the seventh day of every week, Tiklal recitation every holiday, songs of Sana’a were sung as frequently as songs of the grace of her God. But somewhere between the passing of her father and oldest sister and the general state of the world, she had become disillusioned in her faith.
This was far from a unique problem and one that many encountered. Particularly regarding the Abrahamic religions. For, if God was as all knowing and all powerful, why did bad things happen? Anzu had not been able to escape this question. As a result, she had studied religion thoroughly in college and for most of her adult life. Ultimately, she had not found anything that resonated with her greatly. Neither had she felt particularly swayed by any single version of an afterlife. How shocked she had been when, after dying, she awoke in the body of an infant.
In the end, perhaps there was some truth of the universe to be found in existing religions.
In the Bhagavad Gita, the Blessed Lord Krishna, eighth and greatest avatar, spake and revealed his wisdom to the Lord of Hearts Arjuna. Therein he said:
“He is not born, nor doth he die; nor hath he never been, nor will he ceaseth evermore to be; unborn, perpetual, eternal, and ancient; he is not slain in the body’s slaughter.”
This was in respect to the jivatman or jiva—what could be called the self, perhaps could even be called the soul. Swaminarayan also discussed the jiva in his Vachanamrut, saying of it:
“The jiva is uncuttable, unpiercable, immortal, formed of consciousness, and the size of an atom… through the ten senses and four inner faculties, it perceives all of the sense-objects… It pervades the body from head to toe, yet is distinct from it. Such is the nature of the jiva.”
What could be understood from this was that the jiva or the self existed primordially and without end and each body it inhabited was merely a vessel to contain it until moksha or liberation. This Hindu concept was in contradiction to Buddhism which postulated that there was no such thing as an unchanging, eternal self as all things were inherently impermanent, a concept which was called anatman.
In Hinduism there were only three main loka or realms. They could be colloquially referred to the human realm, heaven, and hell. The human realm was a world of strife, yet uniquely poised as a place where people could reap the rewards or ramifications of their actions in the next life. Buddhism recognized a similar situation of realms with the addition of a few more.
What Buddhism ultimately had over Hinduism in her eyes was that there was no true supreme god—disregarding Yama or Death who existed on a scale as big as the wheel of life but could perhaps be understood as an aspect rather than a deity. Anzu, simply, had found no proof of God in her experience thus far. The possibility remained, perhaps Brahma and Yahweh are one in the same. All she knew was her jiva had been blessed (or possibly cursed) to remember her previous life. (Or one of her previous lives as there was no telling how much time had passed since her death and birth.) If anything, this could be one life as they seem to be connected.
All this aside, what Anzu meant to say was that she must be experiencing karma. There was no other explanation as to why, of all things, she would be born an Uchiha.
Birth was a strange thing. When Anzu entered the world, cold and slimy, she was half convinced she was dreaming. She kept silent, unsure what was happening. This seemed to displease someone as the next thing she knew, there was a large hand delivering a shock of pain to her rear. In her little, frail body this was agonizing and she screamed, coughing past the mucus and muck in her mouth and lungs to wail. She opened her eyes and realized she could make out nothing but blurry grey shapes.
There were more hands on her, taking her somewhere—into a bath it felt like. There was a commotion elsewhere, urgent shouting and a man’s desperate cries. Anzu, unsure at the time of what was happening, found it all exhausting and she went to sleep before she even knew it.
For a long while, it was hard to discern what was happening. She had died, she was sure of this. She remembered something similar happening at least.
Roads slick with ice, too much joy, too much alcohol. One bad decision, then screeching and the sound of metal bending and so much pain, a stilled heart, sirens and shouting, and—nothing.
Reckless endangerment of the first degree resulting in vehicular manslaughter was what she would have been charged with had she not died. Anzu was certain of this seeing as she had been an attorney. Perhaps that was why she had been cursed into this next life, born into a family with too many curses to count.
Albeit, it took a fair amount of time for her to realize what family she had been born into.
She understood quickly just what state she was in. Her body simply felt smaller and it hurt all the time from rapid growth. She could not sit up nor could she move with dexterity and there were no teeth in her mouth. She could not speak, she could not help but soil herself, and all she seemed to be able to properly do was cry.
What took her longer was figuring out where she was. At first, she hoped that perhaps she would be able to do it all over. But she soon realized her hopeless idealism. The language the people around her spoke was unintelligible and the complexions of everyone not as swarthy and their voices not as songful. Even the sound of the house was different, no distant sirens or roars of cars.
In the end, it had been the first time she was able to roll over when she saw it. Her vision was finally something of use and it allowed her to see a woman’s back. She wore a purple dress and her hair was black as night and in the process of being tied up. Once swept away from the woman’s nape, Anzu saw a large crest dyed into the fabric on her back. A fan in red and white.
At first it was comical and she thought it a joke. Then she realized it was her reality and that this was without a doubt her penance.
In the Chiggala Sutta, Bikkhu told the story of a blind turtle that surfaced only once every hundred years. He discussed the coincidence it would be, when surfacing for the first time in a century, for the blind turtle to lift its head right into the center of a yoke. In comparison, he said:
“It’s likewise sheer coincidence that one obtains the human state. It’s likewise a sheer coincidence that a Tagaatha, worthy and rightly self-awakened, arises in this world… Therefore, your duty is contemplation.”
And as an infant could manage not more than sleeping and weeping and soiling oneself, Anzu contemplated and she wept and she contemplated some more.
By the time she was seven months, Anzu, due to the wonders of the rapidly developing brain of a child, began to understand the spoken language. From this, she quickly realized that Uchiha Anzu, since birth, was a herald of bad luck.
Her mother had died from childbirth. Her father had died shortly after during a mission wherein a lapse of judgment or perhaps a purposeful miscalculation urged by grief caused him to walk right into an enemy trap. That had left Anzu to be taken in by her aunt, a little slip of a young woman who had lost her husband to the field as well.
Uchiha Asami was a very quiet woman. She rose with the sun as her name would imply and from there went about her life in utter silence. It was a very different experience to what Anzu had lived previously. In her last life, she dealt with noise at all hours of the day. She had been from a city that never slept and had been surrounded for the most part by people who were loud and lively. It hadn’t been until Anzu was much older when she came to appreciate the comfort silence could bring. But Uchiha Asami was not pleasantly silent. Rather, it was almost as if she were without a soul. It was unsettling, to say the least.
Asami provided for Anzu adequately, to her credit. Anzu was not neglected physically. She was fed, bathed, clothed, and never alone during the night. There was a notable degree of emotional distance which might have bothered a more normal child, but Anzu was able to empathize with Asami’s grieving. She, afterall, was grieving herself.
It was hard not to think of all that she had lost. Her family, her friends, a person whom she had loved more than anything. All of it was lost across the great uncrossable distance of all space and time.
And simply nothing could be done.
In this life, Anzu was born in January. Something notably convenient in terms of keeping track of passing time. Her first birthday had passed with little fanfare. As Anzu and Asami had no close living relatives and Asami was not a social person, it ended up being a quiet affair shared between the two of them.
For the most part, once gaining some general dexterity and autonomy, Anzu was impressively self-sufficient. It was through bullheaded determination, but by the end of the year, Anzu was walking without stumbling and talking with proficiency.
“Clever girl,” Asami had taken to saying any time Anzu impressed her, which seemed to be relatively frequent.
Anzu had not basked in the praise, though she did not deny it either. She was more concerned with remembering all the days of the month with special pronunciations that did not follow the pattern. In general, her struggles to once again become a fully coherent human being took precedence over most barriers such as the social expectations of what a one year old ought to do. That was until one day in the spring.
“What do you think about these shoes,” Asami asked Anzu, showing off a pair of sandals.
“They won’t be comfortable, the sole is too thin,” Anzu replied. She pointed to another pair a bit higher on the shelf. “I like those. They look more cushiony.”
Asami took the pair from the wall and handed them to Anzu to try on.
“Wow, your daughter is so smart,” a woman said, looking between them in surprise.
“She is clever,” Asami agreed. She had grown out of specifying their relationship seeing as it only spurred more questions.
“How old is she,” the woman said, idly straightening some other shoes on the shelf before wringing her hands on her apron.
“She turned one at the beginning of the year,” Asami answered, rubbing Anzu’s head lightly.
At this, the woman looked more surprised, “Only one? She’s so well spoken, I thought she was older.”
“She is clever,” Asami repeated kindly.
“Very much so,” the shopkeep said in slight awe. “You’re Uchiha, aren’t you? Will you be putting her in the academy soon?”
“No, I won’t,” Asami said, voice edging into a firm tone. She cleared her throat and brushed some of her hair behind her ear.
“You won’t,” the woman asked. “Well, I suppose we’re in peacetime now. Maybe it’s best if you wait.”
Anzu’s ears perked at the woman’s anecdote and she looked up, “Peacetime?”
Asami looked down with a pinched expression, “Yes, peacetime. It means there’s no fighting going on, Anzu-chan.”
Anzu took this information and began turning it over in her head. No fighting likely meant a reprieve from war. She had thought things were strangely gloomy the few times she went out with Asami but she had not imagined the reason being war. Considering that there were three faces on the mountain cliff, Anzu would guess that the recently ended war would have to be the Second Shinobi war. She had been wondering where in time she had been born as, of course, her demise was certain. With this, Anzu realized she likely would not live to see twenty.
Karma indeed, she reasoned.
All things considered, Anzu found her new life rather pleasant. She spent most days free to roam the house and garden. She found that when small, everything was an adventure. It was nice to be able to hide in tall grass, observe tadpoles, and see how far up a bush could support her slight weight.
Asami, as it turned out, was an embroiderer who lived off commissions and whatever stipend it was that the village distributed for the spouses of fallen soldiers. She was very talented and each piece took more than a month on average which resulted in gorgeous painting-like images. The nature of her dedicated work often meant that Anzu was left to entertain herself—now that she was able.
Kindly, Anzu had been given a set of workbooks detailing basic math and literacy. Anzu had needed only to learn the symbol charts and their associated sounds before she took off in self-study. Having been an attorney, Anzu was accustomed to rigorous self study and very much appreciated the pursuit of knowledge. This had not faded as she entered her new life. Very quickly, Anzu began reading through all the children’s books in the house and teaching herself how to write.
It was not long before Anzu graduated from story books and moved on to other books lying around the house. She went about this systematically. At first, she would attempt to read a whole page and note words or characters she did not recognize. Then she would ask Asami what it meant and how to write each character, then would practice until lunch before repeating the process for another page. By the end of the week, Anzu would have learned at least fifty new characters and words.
This was a grueling way to go about it and required a lot of focus and patience, but it was immensely effective. Languages were made of patterns and the human brain had evolved to find and recognize patterns with exceptional aptitude. That and having the brain of a two year old child which inherently soaked up information like a sponge was a most stupendous boon. Stroke orders became second nature and her literature became longer. By the time Anzu was two, she could read most books and figure out how to write most characters on her own.
At this point, Anzu realized she was proving herself to be quite advanced for a toddler. Asami was encouraging and enabling in her education, allowing Anzu to take out her own books from the library at this point. Most of what Anzu read were history books, particularly those about the smaller nations which she did not know as much about. Though she did read a fair amount of history regarding the Land of Fire which was interesting to cross-reference with what she already knew. She had wanted to read more about chakra, once she remembered that all people in this world had it, but that seemed to be the one thing which Asami did not want her to learn about.
“No, you can’t take that book with you,” Asami said when Anzu returned with a large textbook about chakra and its manipulation in her small hands.
“Why not,” Anzu frowned. She had never thrown a tantrum in this life, keen on making her aunt’s life as stress free as possible, but they had never really had a disagreement before. “I’ll carry it myself, I won’t get tired.”
“I know, Anzu-chan, but…” Asami hesitated. She knelt down and gently took the book from Anzu’s grasp. She went on lowly. “If people see you reading something like that, they’ll ask questions. They’ll ask why I haven’t found someone to train you if you’re so interested.”
“Train me,” Anzu repeated in a questioning tone.
“Yes. To become a shinobi,” the woman explained. “Like my sister’s husband and my husband.” She then hesitated. “I… I won’t allow you to become a shinobi, Anzu-chan. It’s not the sort of life I want for you. You’ll die too soon, just like them.”
Anzu stared at Asami. Her narrow, beautiful face was twisted with worry and latent grief. Anzu thought about it for a moment. Indeed, precocious children did seem to be ferried into the shinobi lifestyle in this world. Anzu had not thought about it much herself, but it would stand to reason that a clan like their own with a history entrenched in shinobi culture would likely exhibit pressure on Asami to push her into the profession if she was deemed interested and competent enough. This was likely the woman’s worst nightmare, having already lost all her important family members.
“Oh,” Anzu uttered. “Ok. I’ll get something else.”
“Yes, something else please,” Asami nodded, shoulders easing in relief.
As Anzu turned to go put the book back where she had found it, she watched as Asami clasped her hands together and pressed them to her forehead as she sighed deeply. When she looked up, her gaze was full of sorrow. Anzu had never related to someone more.
Buddhism taught that all things were impermanent. The self, the state of the world, one’s state of being. Thus, followers should not dwell on things like remorse or grief. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna spake as to why a person should not mourn considering that the soul never could die. While these wisdoms were certainly true, they failed to consider the simple fact that the human condition was one of a disposition to love. And when the object of love was lost, it carved an aching space within a person like no other.
Anzu could fill herself with as much knowledge as possible, but a broken heart could not be healed by books alone.
While their relationship was not normal in the sense that it reflected an adoptive parent and child, Anzu appreciated the bond she shared with Asami still. They shared a distinct sort of camaraderie that could only be forged between two people in grief. While Asami certainly did not know what Anzu was grieving and perhaps did not know that she even had something to mourn, she felt less alone to know that there was someone else in the world who could have a sorrow as deep as her own.
She often found Asami lying vacantly awake in the middle of the night, staring with hollow eyes at the dark ceiling of their small home. In the morning, she might find the woman sitting utterly still as she stared tiredly forward at the far wall. Anzu would press closer to her and lean into the woman’s side and share a long and silent stretch of time until Asami would draw her into her arms and hug her briefly before moving on with her day.
“By all the world, Asami-san, this is beautiful,” a woman uttered, fingers ghosting over the surface of the brocade.
“I take it you like it, then,” Asami asked, arms extended as she gingerly held out the fabric to be admired. “If there’s anything you want changed, let me know now.”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” the woman assured, grinning up at Asami. “You’re just brilliant.”
“I’m glad. I’ll wrap it now,” she said demurely.
Anzu peeked in through the crack in the fusuma panels to observe the customer’s sitting in the main room. A woman and a young boy, both Uchiha it seemed. The woman was very beautiful and wore a modest purple dress with her wavy hair braided into a bun. The boy seemed about Anzu’s age and was sitting neatly beside his mother, looking at the extensive fabric. Asami had worked on it for the better part of the year thus far. It was a brilliant rectangle of fabric with images of blooming flowers and golden cranes. It was apparently a gift for the clan head’s wife who was soon to give birth to their heir.
She would die before fifteen then.
Stepping away from the door as it was pushed open, Anzu meant to hide in the hall. Asami looked down at her and hummed, “Ah, Anzu-chan, did you need something?”
“No,” she said. “I just wanted to see who was visiting.”
“Why don’t you go meet them, then?”
Anzu was about to protest when Asami gently pulled her into the room and pushed her forward. Both the woman and the boy looked at Anzu in interest who froze in place. The woman smiled.
“Oh? Who’s this?”
“This is Anzu,” Asami said.
“Minou’s girl,” the woman blinked, eyes widening in realization. “My, it’s been that long already?”
“Yes, it has,” Asami said, voice softer and sadder.
Quickly, the woman smiled and bowed slightly, putting her fingers on the tatami delicately, “Hello, Anzu-san. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sumie and this is my son Shisui.”
Anzu froze at the name and stared at the boy looking up at her with big, childishly round eyes. She nodded and bowed back slightly, “Hi…”
“Anzu,” Asami urged.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she added.
“How old are you, Anzu-san,” Sumie asked with a pleasant smile.
“I’m three.”
“That’s almost the same age as my Shisui-tan,” Sumie hummed.
“Okaasan,” Shisui frowned, tugging on his mother’s sleeve. He seemed embarrassed at the childish suffix that had been added.
“How old is Shisui-kun,” Asami asked, idly petting Anzu’s head.
“Sorry,” Sumie said lightly with a fond smile. She put a hand on the boy’s head, “How old are you, Shisui?”
“I’m two,” he answered.
“But he turns three in October,” Sumie elaborated. “Maybe he and Anzu-san could be classmates at the academy? We’re going to put him in early, he does really well in training with his father. Though he still has a lot to learn.”
“Ah, Anzu won’t be attending the academy,” Asami said politely. “She wants to learn embroidery, right, Anzu?”
Anzu had expressed some interest in embroidery, although she did not think she could nurture a passion for it like Asami did. She understood quickly what the woman was getting at though and nodded, “Yes. I want to be like Asami-basan and make pretty things for people to wear.”
Sumie nodded, “That’s very admirable, Anzu-san. I’m sure with such a teacher, you’ll become a master at it. Do your best, ok?”
“I will, thanks,” Anzu nodded. She glanced back at the boy who was still staring at her and wrinkled her nose in distaste. Shisui faltered and shrank back, though he did not stop staring.
Asami patted her head, “Why don’t you go get me the wrapping paper, please?”
“Yes,” Anzu said and ducked out of the room swiftly.
Sumie looked a little lost as she left the room. Clearly, she had wanted for Anzu and her son to become friends. That was nearly certain doom. She was very grateful that Asami also seemed to want to separate her from any potential shinobi. Truly there was no one in this new world that understood Anzu as Asami did.
The heir to the Uchiha clan was born in the thick of summer. A large clan celebration was held for three days and nights to celebrate the birth of a boy and thus a rightful inheritor. They did not attend. Normally, missing out on such an occasion would be seen as a grievous offense toward the head family, but they were excused on account of supplying the fabric to their matriarch’s congratulatory kimono. They were also excused due to the fact Anzu had contracted an off-season cold that had her sick in bed and throwing up for all three days and nights. It was an omen if Anzu had ever known it.
“Poor thing,” Asami murmured, rubbing Anzu’s back as she expelled all the liquid that she just managed to get down into a metal wash pail.
Anzu did not reply in the midst of her retching. Had she been able, she might have laughed at all the irony. More than anything, the Uchiha were a clan of poor, pitiable things. Of all things, celebrating the birth of the one who would come to kill them all. Karma, she had come to find, was really quite a cruel and funny thing.
Four was an inauspicious number. Anzu was quick to find that it was also an inauspicious age.
Konoha had seen an unprecedented amount of snow that year and the winter was harsh and cold. The sun was perpetually hidden behind a veil of clouds and gone too quick to sufficiently melt the frost. Shinobi around the clan had taken to clearing the streets with careful fire techniques. Anzu would often wake to see men or young shinobi and kunoichi shoveling the snow from the roofs around the neighborhood. They were lucky enough to have a chuunin that lived next door who would shovel the thick snow from their roof after he finished his own. Such a convenience did not last long, however, as soon the Third Shinobi War began and all active shinobi were called to duty.
“Doesn’t it feel as though we just got out of war,” the baker said over the counter he was leaning on, talking to Asami in soft murmurs. “I mean, the economy’s not even recovered…”
“I know,” Asami sighed, watching as Anzu looked into the display. “Things will be hard again. No one can afford to buy brocade at a time like this. Of course, I have my gratuity from Toshihiko but still… He was only a chuunin.”
“What about Komei? Aren’t you able to collect his as well?”
Asami nodded, “I am, but I’ve been putting it into Anzu’s savings for when she is older.”
“Ah, I see. Still, wasn’t your little sister’s husband a jonin? Perhaps you should use his death gratuity and put your husband’s stipend into saving instead,” the baker suggested.
“I could, but I want to save as much as possible for her,” Asami sighed. “I was thinking about looking for another job, one that has more consistent pay.”
“Are you? You know, one of my counter girls is going to have a baby soon. Nanami, you’ve met her. I’d be glad to have the help. The pay isn’t the best, I know, but I could give you consistency,” the man offered.
Asami blinked, “Really? Wow, that’s so kind of you… I’ll think about it.”
Anzu focused back on the task at hand. War affected everyone, no matter if you were on the frontlines or not there was a struggle to be felt. Reasonably, Anzu was at the age where she could mostly take care of herself. Asami had always been an embroiderer as it was apparently the craft their family specialized in. It would certainly be an adjustment for her to find different work, but there was only so much that could be done when there was scant thread to run through needles and resources were being allocated to support the war effort.
“Have you decided, Anzu-chan,” the baker asked, turning a kind smile toward her.
“Yes,” she nodded. She pointed to a small white cake without frosting or decoration. It was the cheapest in the case. “That one looks good.”
He blinked at her, “Really? It hasn’t got anything on it. Are you sure you don’t want a pretty cake, it’s for your birthday, pretty girl.”
“No, I want that one,” Anzu insisted.
Asami came behind her and combed through her loose hair, twisting it idly, “You can get what you want, Anzu-chan. I know I was talking about money with Noyasu-san, but you can have the cake that you want.”
Anzu was given pause. Her aunt was, afterall, the person who knew her best of all in this world. Asami was long accustomed to just how aware Anzu was of how the world worked, even if it were not expected of a child her age.
“Wow, Anzu-chan is really smart, isn’t she,” the baker commented in surprise. He observed the young girl and the intelligence in her eyes before smiling at her. “What cake do you really want?”
“That one,” Anzu affirmed, still pointing at the plain cake at the front. It had a discounted price and everything from having been baked the day before. “I like the white flavor.”
Noyasu hummed, then pointed to another one, “How about this one instead? It’s the same flavor and it has cream and berries. It’s much more suitable for a birthday.”
It did look much more appetizing than her choice, but it plainly was not as cheap. She shook her head, “No thank you. I want this one.”
“We’ll take that one, Noyasu-san,” Asami said, squeezing Anzu’s shoulders. She tipped her head to the baker’s choice.
“But—”
“I like that one better. I have to eat it too, you know,” Asami said with a small smile. She lifted a brow, “Is that alright?”
Anzu pressed her lips together and nodded. Noyasu smiled and reached for the small cake to put it inside a box, “How’s about this? Since it’s such a special day, this one is on the house.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Asami said with a frown.
Noyasu shook his head, “It’s ok. Think of it as my birthday present to Anzu-chan.”
Asami looked caught before she sighed and offered a smile to the man, “In that case, thank you. What do you say, Anzu?”
“Thank you,” she uttered, feeling quite at a loss.
She watched as Asami took the box from the man who grinned kindly, “Not a problem, you two. Enjoy it. Happy birthday, Anzu-chan.”
“Thank you,” she repeated.
Asami reached over the counter as Noyasu was pulling away and gripped his hand in her own. He froze and looked at her, eyes wide as she told him earnestly, “Really, thank you.”
The man’s face twitched a bit and a small flush rose to his cheeks as he grasped Asami’s hand in return. He then rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat, “Don’t mention it. I’d do anything to help you, Asami.”
Anzu looked between the two of them again. Asami only smiled softly and looked down, long lashes dusting her pale cheeks. Soon, they bid the bakerman goodbye and that night they savored the cake he had given them.
It snowed heavily for the next week. So heavily that Asami and Anzu stayed inside the whole time. Anzu was content to read some classic from the Warring States era about a princess and a samurai in the Land of Iron. Asami had taken to finishing a personal project that she had been touching off and on for Anzu’s whole life. She had never let anyone see it in full, but that changed upon completion.
“Anzu-chan,” Asami called softly.
“Yes,” she responded, setting aside her book and looking up. When she did, she could not help but gasp.
Before her was a marvelous tapestry. Dark midnight blue with fine, shimmering stars in the background. It depicted the scene of a celestial maiden looking across a great divide to where a man stood with an ox beside him with several fair children riding on the back. There was a bridge of silver magpies in the midst of falling and scattering into the void below. Over the bridge was the full moon, white and luminous. The maiden held one hand to her chest and one out extended as tears fell from her peach blossom eyes. Her tears carried across the way, mingling with the stars in the background.
“Is that you,” Anzu asked, stepping closer to marvel at the masterful work.
“Maybe,” Asami hummed, looking down at the tapestry. “She does look like me, doesn’t she?”
“Then that would make him…” Anzu started.
Asami smiled wistfully, “I started this piece before my husband died. Originally, all the figures were standing together on top of the magpie bridge but… Well, I changed my mind. So I flipped it over and started on this side.”
She then lifted one end of the tapestry and raised it before turning it over to display the backside. And Anzu gasped again.
“This sort of technique is called two faced embroidery,” Asami said.
On the other side, all the characters were standing in the middle. The maiden, the man, the cow and their children. They stood embraced within each other with the ox proudly beside them. The moon was full but they were in a silver valley with a river of stars beneath their feet.
“What do you think,” Asami asked.
“It’s a masterpiece,” Anzu said breathlessly. “You… You could sell this for a fortune.”
“I could,” she agreed. “But I think I’ll keep it.”
Anzu watched as Asami folded up the tapestry and wrapped it in parchment paper. Asami decided she would figure out a way to display it later, choosing to focus on making dinner instead. She never would decide where to put the tapestry.
A week after Anzu’s fourth birthday, Asami noted that the snow was getting to be too thick on their roof. She left Anzu inside for the morning while she used a ladder to get onto the roof so she could shovel the snow off. Anzu waited patiently for Asami to return so they could eat breakfast, reading to pass the time. She continued to read for hours before her attention was drawn by a gurgling in her stomach.
Blinking, Anzu quickly realized that a long time had passed since her aunt had gone out to shovel the snow. She curiously set her book down and went through the backdoor to check what was taking so long. Upon opening it, she realized what had happened.
There on the ground was Asami lying flat on her back with her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Anzu was frozen in place before she leapt into the snow where it instantly stung her bare feet and hurried over to the woman. She reached for Asami’s hand and stilled. Her skin was as cold as the air around them. She was completely still.
She clawed into the woman’s robes, exposing her sternum which was also cold. Anzu pressed her ear to bone and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And realized that with no breathing and no beating heart, Asami was dead.
It must have been quick, instantaneous even. No matter how much snow was cushioning the ground, if a person fell on their neck from the roof, it would be a swift death.
Anzu lifted her head slowly.
The Nagara Sutta from the Pali Basket wisely detailed that:
“Aging and death exist when birth exists. From birth as a requisite condition comes aging and death.”
Anzu knew this. It was perhaps the most fundamental aspect of human life. Yet still it was a difficult and vulnerable feeling to realize that she was alone in all the world.
As she looked at her aunt’s pale white face, relaxed with the bliss of death, Anzu wondered what would become of her now.