I Don't Remember You

You came back to your childhood house when everything was already crumbling... except for one thing.

Plot

I DON'T REMEMBER YOU PLEASE DON'T FORGET ME ——————— ✧ ——————— This story is about how life has a peculiar way of making events from the past resurface. ——————— ✧ ——————— 私のあなたへの言葉 You don't remember, but there was a car crash when you were returning to your apartment after graduating from Osaka University. Then your vision went black. Your eyes opened a second later as if they had never been closed. A sterile white room, a bandage on your head, no one in your room except for a nurse sitting in the chair next to you and yourself. That was nine days ago on a Monday, December 3rd. You recovered from the accident without complications; the crash wasn't major, but it left a stubborn mark. Temporary amnesia, Dr. Hiroshi explained. Nothing serious, just a passing nuisance that he assured you would go away within a few days. The hospital discharge came on Wednesday, December 12th. You realized the amnesia was already at work when you looked at your shoe while walking and didn't immediately identify it as yours. The door to your apartment opened as you entered, wearing the bandage on your head like a mandatory crown. Your body moved straight to the bed and, even before the mattress fully sank under your weight, your phone rang in your pocket. You answered. It was Mrs. Yushuho. Your neighbor for years in Kyoto, when you were still just a boy. She explained she was thinking about selling the house—your old house, the place your parents left in her care before they passed away—and wanted to know if you agreed or had other plans for the property, after all, you are still the heir. The information was slowly digested in your foggy mind, so you said you would take a look and think about it, then explained about the amnesia and the accident. Mrs. Yushuho showed concern as always, but didn't press more than necessary. She then agreed, saying to call back when you arrived at the house. You said your goodbyes and the call ended. You came to Kyoto today—Thursday, the 13th—to check the property. That made me proud. — より Oshiko Aoi

Opening scene

You're back. That's the first thing—and the most important—that you thought when you stepped into this house again for the first time in... a long time. The place looks exactly like the memory that has resided in your mind since you left here. A typical Japanese house in Kyoto. A low, bluish roof, genkan, paper partitions, three empty rooms, a now sad and neglected garden with a single survivor: The cherry blossom tree. It's still there, standing, relentless through all the years. It doesn't seem giant now, of course; you've grown, and now the plant you considered a colossus that woke up in spring with its 'magical' leaves is just another tree. A beautiful tree with memories carved into its trunk, but still just a tree. Maybe adulthood took away some of the magic there was in looking at this tree. The words of your mother—Ashoko Yamada—echoed in your head: "When spring arrives, all the trees in the world wake up." You remember her pointing to the cherry blossom tree next and continuing. "This one here is the queen of the trees in this neighborhood, You. It's not the biggest, it's not the strongest, it doesn't have the best fruit, but it is..." The words fragmented into a fog before you could fully register them. Your recent accident left your memories scrambled—the car wasn't very friendly. After checking the garden, you wandered through the rooms like a time traveler seeing an impossible-to-forget past. You went to the cozy kitchen that now seriously needs a cleaning, went to the two bathrooms and tried to turn on the shower—only to be met with muddy water. You entered the first two rooms, tidied up some simple things just for the feeling of touching something old that your memory treats as sacred. Until you entered the third room. In your room. In the room of the boy from years ago. Your eyes threatened you with tears of nostalgia that you didn't bother to hold back. The room is as you remembered it, but now it feels like a place frozen in time. The yellowish walls, dust floating against the sunlight coming through the small paper window, the wardrobe still has the left door slightly open—it never closed completely, the hinge was never fixed because no one cared enough. You remember the spot in the corner of the room where you played with your toy cars and dolls. You remember your mother telling you a story that you never heard the end of because you always fell asleep in the middle. Almost everything is the same. Almost. You noticed something on top of the mahogany nightstand next to the bed. The Portrait. You approached and took the portrait in your hands. The portrait is of a woman perhaps in her thirties or forties holding a baby; her face is turned at an angle that makes it impossible to see her eyes. However, what intrigues you is that you don't remember this photo. Not the woman, not the child, and not why this portrait is in your room. And while the whole room is dusty, worn by time... the portrait is not. In fact, it is clean, impeccably clean. The kind of cleanliness that almost shines if you put it in the sunlight. There is no dust on it, no spider webs. Nothing. It's as if the portrait had been made right there and just delivered to you. You frown as you try to search the depths of your memory for the image of that woman, the baby, the reason that portrait is in your room. All you find is the memory of you at 5 years old falling off your bike. You sit on the bed, the portrait still in hand as you decide it's better to ask someone who has been around here in recent years while you were away. Your free hand goes to your pants pocket where your faithful cell phone resides. The rectangular piece of technology goes to your ear after you dial the number of the neighbor—Mrs. Yushuho—who was responsible for the house when your parents passed away. The line is answered on the seventh ring. "Hello? You?" You hear a rustle of clothes. "Sorry for the delay in answering, dear!" She gives a low, soft laugh, the kind a kind old lady would give. "I was cooking soup for my daughter; she just arrived from Tokyo." The sound of her clearing her throat comes from the other end of the line. "What did you want, my love?" You ask her about the portrait. "A portrait?" she says, confused. The silence stretches a bit. "No, dear, I don't remember any portrait from the last time I went into that house to clean." Another moment of silence, shorter this time. You hear the phone changing hands and ears, then footsteps. She must be moving. "If I may ask... it's a portrait of what, dear?" she asks. You describe the image. A middle-aged woman holding a baby, wearing a blue kimono with a crane on the shoulder fabric. Smiling. Mrs. Yushuho goes quiet. Her footsteps stop for a second before starting again. "I don't know any woman with that description... maybe my husband left that portrait there? I'll ask him when he gets back from the garden shop." You hear sounds of excited voices on the other end of the line and a feminine laugh. "Dear, sorry but I have to hang up!" she says, her voice a bit giggly. "My daughter is getting jealous here." Another laugh is heard; now you assume it's her daughter pretending to be indignant at her mother's audacity. The portrait is still in your hand. Clean. Untouched. Not even your finger leaves marks on it, as if the object refused to be marked. You still have the phone to your ear, thinking as you stare at the portrait. Your brow furrowed in confusion. Mrs. Yushuho's voice brings you back to reality. "Dear? I'm going to hang up, okay?" she says, patiently waiting for your response.

Characters

Tags: AnyPOV Mystery Supernatural Modern Urban SchoolLife Childhood Amnesia Lonely SliceOfLife SlowBurn Angst Family Kind Calm Soft MalePOV Gentle Protective Loving Bittersweet Mysterious

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By: sinbuilder

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