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I. DOUMEKI SHIZUKA
“I’m dying,” Doumeki says one day.
“Yes,” Watanuki agrees.
“This will be the last time we meet.”
“Yes.”
There is a hand cradling Watanuki’s face, the same side as his mismatched eye.
“You’ll miss me.” It’s a statement, like everything else he’s ever said.
Watanuki covers Doumeki’s hand with his own, and closes his eyes.
II. DOUMEKI SETSUNA
The young man in front of him has the ring, held out in his palm, brought as proof. As if his appearance alone wasn’t good enough. Watanuki almost screams.
“Keep it,” he says, finally, and watches as the boy slips the ring into his pocket. “Go make some tea.”
Mokona finds Setsuna on his way to the kitchen, and instantly tries to convince the boy to serve alcohol instead.
III. DOUMEKI RIKU
“A friend, a new friend!” Maru and Moro chime together, leading the girl in by both hands. Mokona dances happily on her head.
“You’re Setsuna’s daughter?” Watanuki sizes up the girl in the high school uniform that stands before him. She bows, sending Mokona flying into the couch.
“Yes, Watanuki-san. I’m Doumeki Riku. It’s nice to meet you.”
The ring on her right hand easily catches the light. It has been well taken care of.
-
Riku is an archer. She brings him the ribbons she wins in competitions – high school championships, college championships, and even an Olympic medal soon fill one of the shop’s cabinets.
-
“Don’t worry, Watanuki-san.” Riku is old now, somehow, hair up in a beautiful bun even in her dreams. Her hands shake, even held tightly in his. “My husband took my name. And my son… he’s a good boy.”
IV. DOUMEKI HINATA
Hinata is a good boy. He runs errands quickly and efficiently, he never tires of playing hide and seek with Maru and Moro, and when he’s older, he drinks Mokona under the table. Even Mugetsu adores him, chirping delightedly whenever the boy visits after he’s done with classes.
-
Hinata answers the phone at the shop one evening, and Watanuki watches the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and the corners of his mouth tug upwards.
“It’s for you, Watanuki-san,” Hinata holds the receiver out to him. “It’s a lady named Himawari-san.”
Hinata speaks with Himawari’s great-great-something-granddaughter often after that, and just laughs nervously at Watanuki’s mostly lighthearted threats.
X. DOUMEKI KEI
Kei tries to cook for him once a week – he seems determined to shake his family’s penchant for simply eating whatever Watanuki places in front of them.
“You’re making…?” Watanuki’s voice trails off as he leans against the doorframe.
“Spaghetti alle vongole, Watanuki-san,” Kei replies, with surprisingly neat pronunciation. “The clams are fresh, I bought them on my way over.”
“Kei is cooking! He’s a chef!” Maru and Moro’s voices are far away, but they sound delighted.
“You don’t have to – ”
“You say that every time! I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Kei flushes pink as he says it, and turns back to the pot of boiling water.
XVI. DOUMEKI YOSHIMI
Zashiki-warashi and Ame-warashi visit him for the first time in many years. Zashiki-warashi takes Watauki’s hands in hers, and smiles when Watanuki squeezes back gently. Behind her, Ame-warashi sniffs the air, and then rounds on Yoshimi.
“You – you’re that guy’s kid, aren’t you?”
“He’s a great-great-etcetera-grandson,” Watanuki says, voice flat, and the Ame-warashi’s tightened grip on his hands sends pain shooting up his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Watanuki… I didn’t… has it really been so long?”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he replies.
XVIII. DOUMEKI HOTARU
Watanuki wonders if he counts as a relation. He certainly has enough Doumeki blood, after all. He is quite sure Doumeki’s price makes it easier for his descendants to find the shop – they sometimes stumble upon him before it is time for them to be an assistant, wide-eyed and terrified as Watanuki towers over them, pipe in hand.
They are almost always eye-to-eye with him by the time they return. Another infuriating trait that refuses to die off.
Hotaru is a strangely quiet boy, even considering his ancestors. He reads voraciously, first bringing books from the temple, then the local library, and finally raiding the shop’s storerooms. Maru and Moro adore him – he reads them bedtime stories every night he visits, and simply watches them whenever they start to chant and dance around him.
-
“Hotaru,” Maru and Moro murmur as they wake up from their nap on the porch. “A City With No People, Hotaru.”
“Yes, all right,” he agrees. “I think that one is in your room.”
Maru and Moro go into the shop holding hands, and a few minutes later, return with the book.
“In this city, there are no people,” Kei reads. Watanuki watches the smoke from his pipe curl up into the sky.
XX. DOUMEKI AKIRA
“Hello, Watanuki-san. I am the twentieth of my line, Doumeki Akira,” she says with a polite bow. She has a smile like Haruka. How could such a trait survive so long?
(He has not dreamt of Haruka, or of Yuuko, or of anyone, in a long, long time.)
“I was instructed to give this to you in the event of our meeting.”
“The twentieth?” Watanuki takes the small lacquered box she holds out in front of him. “That can’t be right. Surely your family is older than that.”
“Ah, excuse me, sir, I mean the twentieth that has come to assist you. Doumeki Shizuka, we call him the First.”
“No need for 'sir,' Akira.”
This naming-by-numbers must be a recent development in the long line of Doumeki’s descendants – they are so far removed now, these children must only know him by name, maybe by an old, faded photograph tucked away in a corner of the house. It is interesting, to say the least, to watch the job of shop assistant become ritualized.
Watanuki tries to open the box’s lid, to no success. Akira leans forward, curious.
“That’s strange,” she murmurs. “I opened it this morning. There was nothing inside, by the way.”
He shakes the box, and looks up at Akira when he hears the dull thunk of something rolling around inside. “Hm,” is all he has to say.
“Very strange.” Akira sounds impressed.
-
Akira can play the violin, and beautifully so. She plays almost every evening she visits, after serving tea out on the porch. It’s raining tonight, but it seems like little more than percussion to the sound of bow on strings.
Watanuki has been sleeping even worse than usual, and surrenders easily to his heavy eyelids.
-
“Is this your idea of a joke, sending your damned progeny to coddle me forever?”
Watanuki has never dreamed of Doumeki Shizuka before.
“It is pretty funny,” Doumeki agrees, deadpan. “But it’s not a joke.”
They are out on the porch, where he left Akira not long ago. He can hear her violin if he holds his breath.
“You have some impressive genes, for an idiot,” Watanuki says finally. “It’s terrible. They all have your eyes, or your nose, your hair, your hands –”
“I miss your cooking,” Doumkei replies, and Watanuki feels nausea begin to bubble in his stomach.
Doumeki takes one experimental step forward, and then another. Watanuki doesn’t move – he refuses to be spooked.
“The box is for you,” Doumeki murmurs; close enough now that Watanuki can hear him easily. “If you ever want to forget.”
“And why now?” Watanuki asks, pretending to ignore Doumeki’s arm snaking around his waist. Death and dreams have made him bolder, apparently.
“I figured twenty generations would be long enough. If it’s you making the choice, it will be the right one.”
“You have a lot of faith,” Watanuki whispers. Doumeki tugs him even closer.
He wakes to find his head in Akira’s lap, and the rain still falling.
“I hope you don’t mind, Watanuki-san,” she says with a smile. “You looked pretty uncomfortable, sleeping like that.”
-
One day, he finds Akira in the makeshift library, staring down at an opened book.
“Akira,” he calls, and when she turns to him, her eyes are bright with tears.
Watanuki has had that book for many years now – each page has a photo of an assistant and their spouse, and anything Watanuki could think to write: the years they were with him, their birthdays, their favorite foods.
Akira has the book open on its very first page, where Watanuki’s shaky handwriting reads Doumeki Shizuka. Underneath, barely legible characters make the name Tsuyuri Kohane.
“They must have loved you dearly, Watanuki-san,” Akira whispers, voice unsteady. Her fingers trace over Doumeki’s photographed face.
Maybe there is some ancient, shared memory, passed down from parent to child to grandchild, an unending echo of quiet devotion, an arrow shot straight and true through generations. It is more than a promise to a parent that brings these children to him.
Watanuki takes the book from her as gently as he can. The side of his hand brushes the ring that fits her finger perfectly. “They still do,” he says. “You’re here, aren’t you?”