Page 75 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

Suddenly, for a brief moment, the toys come alive. The rickety rocking horse shakes free of its rockers and gallops in a circle around the kids. The ball becomes a balloon, rising and floating right above them. The dolls blink and move their arms. The kids stop for a moment, their eyes as big as saucers. Then they scream in delight. Akira watches, silent, curious, distant. The magic lasts for a few moments before the toys are back to the way they were before, but the kids are ecstatic. “Not all restlessness is bad, contrary to what you mortals think,” Akira says. “It’s energy that needs a place to go. And when everything aligns, it can be”—he casts a long look at the delighted, laughing kids—“magical.”

It’s rare to see happiness here. I run my hand gently over the grass. It’s soft and low, newly grown. Akira, though, pulls at the blades, tearing them out. I smack at his hand, earning a growl. We’re silent for a few moments. I find myself staring at my fox around his neck.

“Stop staring unless it’s me you’re going to admire,” Akira commands.

“Is it…” I hesitate. Not sure what I want to ask.

“Speak, mortal.”

“My fox warned me about you. It was terrified when I gave it to you.” Guilt makes my words pour out in a rush. “Makes me feel like I betrayed it.”

Akira makes a flippant sound. He wraps his hand around the fox, like I did for years.

“Worry not,” he says. “You didn’t betray your trinket.”

“I didn’t? But I didn’t listen to it.”

“This meager slip of divinity was merely scared because it’s been in mortal hands for so long. Mortal hands rub off, you see. They take wonderous things and tarnish them over time. The fox was like a baby before birth or a mortal before death.”

“So it’s—it’s happy?” I ask, needing to know.

“More than happy,” Akira says, and his tone is ponderous and soft. “It’s free.” His gaze is glossy, as though he’s seeing something I don’t. “It will always remember you, its last owner. When you cross, it will be waiting for you in its true form. You held it so tightly for so long, and while it wasn’t how you were supposed to tend it, it was its own sort of reverence.”

My throat is thick. My eyes burn. Why am I reacting like this? I cough roughly to clear my throat.

“That’s not so bad,” I mumble.

Thankfully, Akira is unaware of my emotions. He leans back. Looks up. Above us, the angry knots of shadow monsters are parted a bit by a breeze, and a little blue sky gets through. I think his lips are stretching in a grimace, but they aren’t. He’s smiling, an actual smile. I lean back and look up, too, at the small slip of clear sky. For a few moments, we’re okay.

Chapter Twenty-One

Violet

December 1942

Dear Otōsan,

I miss you terribly. Please, please, please rest and don’t worry about anything. Mama and I are taking care of each other, and we can’t wait until you’re here with us. Only write back if it doesn’t exert you too much. All we care about is that you get better.

In other news, I’ve become what I’ve always wanted to be. An artist—and a paid one at that! I’ve been doing different sketches for the community council meeting ads. The newspaper pays me a tiny honorarium out of its budget. They’ve had me illustrate logos for the sports teams, an announcement for the mess hall Christmas decorating competition, and plans for a big Oshōgatsu party to celebrate the turn of the year.

You may have heard things are tense here, but I don’t want you to be concerned about anything. I do worry about Ren if the draft is reinstated. I really do think you’ll like him, Otōsan. He’s not like the other boys I used to date. He reminds me of you. He’s brave, he’s loyal, and he protects his family. And me.

I love him, Otōsan.

I imagine this is a tremendous thing to read in a letter from your daughter, but I’ve always told you everything and I always will.

Love you always,

Violet

Otōsan hasn’t gotten better. I see it as his letters get shorter and his writing, which is always so precise, shakier. Mama does, too. But we don’t say it. We simply watch, wait.

Just like everyone else.

Today, though, is different.

I sit in the library, sketching. I’m supposed to be working on a design for the newspaper right now, but instead I’m drawing Akira while Mrs. Hata nervously looks out the window. This is my fifth attempt. I know, deep down, that this might not succeed, just as I know that if there’s any chance that it will, it must be my absolute best work.