My soul has gone mute; my heart is cooling, sinking, revealing a sickly weakness. — Edgar Allan Poe
A fine rain drifted down like smoke.
Hiroshima Mori, dressed in a crisp black suit, stood at the entrance to the farewell hall, nodding in acknowledgment to each guest who stepped forward and murmured words of comfort.
Behind him, at the deepest end of the hall, a vast altar of flowers—white chrysanthemums, calla lilies, and baby's breath—rose like a small pale hill, cradling a cold, white casket.
Inside the casket, a chestnut-haired girl lay with her hands folded, her face serene.
She was his girl.
This was her funeral.
He could no longer feel grief. No tears would come. Every shard of sorrow had been left behind in the hospital room two days ago. Now Hiroshima Mori felt only exhaustion. His chest was hollow, as though he were a half-dead tree—still polished on the outside, already rotten at the core.
If someone knocked on his sternum, perhaps it would ring out with a dull, wooden thud.
He turned his head and looked at the casket from afar, thinking that if he said that to the girl lying inside, he might at least coax a smile from her—maybe even a soft scold: Don't say something so unlucky.
But she was dead.
She lay in a hard, cold box of wood. Even if he whispered into her ear, I might die the next second, she would no longer react the way she used to—flustered, ears pricking up, rising on tiptoe to hush him with her mouth.
Maybe dying like this wouldn't be so bad.
"Lady Kusanagi Tobi's passing is a loss to Central Tracen, to Japan, and to the racing world as a whole."
A handkerchief was offered before Hiroshima Mori.
"This grief may be impossible to soothe at once, but Trainer Hiroshima, please don't force yourself. Whether it's Tracen, your other assigned girls, or the Chairwoman and I… everyone will remain by your side."
Hiroshima Mori lifted his gaze and saw a green felt hat. A woman with chestnut hair and emerald eyes stood before him, her expression gentle, her worry undisguised.
"And you as well, Ms. Hayakawa," he said quietly. "Tracen's affairs are endless. Please take care of your health."
Mori tugged his lips into a smile. He didn't refuse her kindness. He accepted the handkerchief, slowly wiped the rain from his face, then folded it neatly and offered it back.
Ms. Hayakawa shook her head, pressing it into his palm instead, then walked past him. Hiroshima Mori remained where he was, watching as she stopped before his wife's casket and clasped her hands together in prayer.
"She didn't tell the truth."
A voice spoke from behind him—where there was no one.
"She's secretly hoping you'll keep standing out here in the rain until you fall sick. Then she can go to your place and take care of you… maybe even take advantage of the moment. After all, as Tracen Academy's secretary in charge of trainer coordination, she's the only one who knows your new address."
Hiroshima Mori paused slightly. He had heard it. But he did not turn around.
"Sorry. I'm not in the mood to chat right now, Beyer."
"Hmph…"
"Big brother."
The low call came from ahead and to the left. Mori turned his face and saw a young horse girl standing just outside the door.
She wore a simple black dress, unadorned from head to toe, and carried only a bouquet of white roses in the crook of her arm.
Mori recognized her—Wonder Again, his wife's younger sister from America. By his count, it had been nearly three years since they last met.
"Little Miracle."
He beckoned her over. She approached carefully, then drew a slip of paper from within the bouquet.
Hiroshima Mori took it and unfolded it. Written in elegant cursive was a maxim:
Let the dead bury the dead.
"Dad asked me to give this to you," Little Miracle said softly. "And he asked me to tell you this too: once you're finished with my sister's affairs, go out for a while. See your friends. Visit family. Don't watch tragic movies or read tragic books. What happened to my sister wasn't your fault. Don't trap yourself inside it."
"Please thank my father-in-law for his words and counsel," Hiroshima Mori replied, holding up a courteous smile and nodding to the girl. "The living should look forward. I'll remember that."
"Mm… If it were my sister, at a time like this she'd probably say, 'Trainer, as they say—the dead are gone, the living go on…'"
Halfway through, her voice caught. She bit her lip, turned her face away, and her shoulders trembled.
Watching the thin outline of her profile, Mori let out a breath. He raised a hand and patted her shoulder—so lightly it was almost nothing.
Her body jerked as if struck by a current. She didn't turn back. Slowly—like someone letting go of all remaining strength—she leaned into him, into Hiroshima Mori's chest. A moment later, suppressed, broken sobs seeped out against his suit.
Hiroshima Mori didn't move. He stared silently at the white roses that had fallen near his feet, letting the girl's arms tighten around his waist.
After a long while, the horse girl finally pulled away. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
"Sorry, big brother. When I mentioned my sister, I… lost control."
"It's fine." Hiroshima Mori shook his head, crouched to pick up the bouquet for her, then gently guided her into the hall.
"She's lying."
Another voice behind him offered a bright, almost playful contradiction.
"You noticed too, didn't you, Mori? Whether she was comforting you or speaking of her sister, her emotions didn't shift in the slightest—no wavering at all. Only when she hugged you just now did her heart suddenly speed up, because it was the first time in her life she's ever been pressed so close to you. She's secretly happy and blissful about it… even at her own sister's funeral farewell ceremony. Oh—and an enormous amount of excitement. What a rebellious little bad child~"
"Be quiet, Godolphin."
"So I was talkative? Heh. But yes, Mori, my child—you are the finest trainer in this world. Sensing a horse girl's emotions and physical reactions is instinct to you."
Hiroshima Mori did not respond again, because new visitors had already come to stand before him.
A brown-haired horse girl with her hair tied high in a ponytail stood shoulder-to-shoulder with another brown-haired horse girl sporting a dyed, shorter cut. They studied Hiroshima Mori's expression with visible caution.
"Um… Trainer… are you okay?"
"Eru. Special. Thank you for coming."
Hiroshima Mori showed his former trainees a smile. It was the easiest smile he had worn all day, because it was the standard trainer's smile—gentle, proper, and practiced.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine." He stepped aside, making room for the path into the hall. "Go see her. You were good friends. If she knew you came, she'd be happy."
At that, the ponytailed girl's gaze flickered. She couldn't help glancing at her companion, but received no response. The girl called Special Week was staring blankly at Hiroshima Mori's face, as if her eyes had been magnetized—stuck fast on his tightly pressed lips and the clean line of his jaw.
"Heh. My dear Mori—would you like to hear what they're thinking? Your wife's closest friends. Or perhaps I should say… former closest friends? Ever since you accepted Kusanagi Tobi's confession and became her lover, Little Eagle and Little Special Week never spoke to her again."
"They're happy now—truly happy. Little Eagle is thinking, 'It's been so, so long since I've seen Trainer, desu.' Little Special Week isn't thinking anything at all. She just thinks you look handsome in mourning clothes, and she's imagining you and her in this place… hahaha—don't look at her like that, you'll scare the poor child."
"Shut up, Dali."
But this time, the voices did not retreat. After a few light chuckles that were neither wholly mocking nor wholly pitying, a triune, chanting sound rose and echoed beside Hiroshima Mori's ear:
"Oh, Hiroshima Mori, our pitiable child—praised as a 'living legend,' yet the one you love most has died."
"Oh, Hiroshima Mori, our pitiable child—sorrow piles within your heart, yet you cannot find a single person to confide in."
"Oh, Hiroshima Mori, our pitiable child—you are the only one here smiling with your face, the only one here weeping in your heart."
"Turn around, Mori. Look closely—look at the entire farewell hall, look at every person who came. Your colleagues, her friends, even your family… her little sister. Everyone's grief floats on the surface. In their hearts, each of them is secretly glad. All of them—except you."
"Except you, no one truly mourns her death. Except you, no one would save her. Except you, no one is willing to save her. Except you, no one can save her!"
"Now, Mori—you still have a chance. One last chance. We have a contract, a commission. Sign it, complete it, and Kusanagi Tobi—your beloved trainee and wife—can return to your side."
"…."
Hiroshima Mori turned his head, looking back at the girl sleeping quietly, surrounded by flowers.
He was silent for a very, very long time.
"Kusa always didn't want me to get too close to you," he said at last, voice low. "She didn't want me agreeing to anything you said, or any request you made. She always said you had ulterior motives—that every commission and every reward was hiding a trap."
"We watched you grow. From the day you were born, we have stayed beside you. For these thirty years, we never once stopped you from drawing close to any horse girl… though we can understand it. When you agreed to her, you smiled so happily. You held her so tightly you didn't spare us even a sliver of attention."
"So you don't intend to refute the claims that you're plotting something—and that the contract contains traps?"
"Hehe… perhaps. But Mori—will you refuse us because of that?"
"…."
A gust of wind came then, and a raindrop was blown into the hall. It struck Hiroshima Mori squarely in the face. The cold in the rain seeped into his skin, and he flinched, his gaze drifting toward the vast curtain of rain outside.
In his memory, ever since he married her, Tokyo had seemed to rain far more often than before. Yet never had any rain felt as bone-biting as this.
Suddenly, he missed the tea room at home. He missed the bowls of tea placed before him on rainy days. He missed the thick blanket laid over his shoulders. He missed the window from which he could look down at Tokyo in the rain. He missed the sofa by that window—wide enough for two.
He would hold her there. The sharp, clean scent of tea would mingle with the warmth of her hair. His heart would be calm and full, as though he were dreaming a dream that went on and on—so long that he would never wake.
"So cold…"
With that soft sigh, Hiroshima Mori wiped the water from his face. He lifted his head toward the vaulted ceiling of the farewell hall and exhaled, long and deep.
"Bring me the contract," he said. "I'll sign."
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