Endless

A warmth enveloped the hand resting on his knee. He looked down, startled. Lady Murasaki, still holding the phone to her ear with one hand, her elbow propped on the armrest as she gazed out the window and spoke her dreadful, world-altering words, had taken his hand with the other.

Haruka felt an indescribable sensation, as if a cat were scratching, an ant crawling in his heart. It was a gesture of casual, thoughtless possession, yet it felt deeply intimate. He still gently, almost imperceptibly, pulled his hand away.

Lady Murasaki put down her phone, her business concluded. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and a faint, fleeting disappointment as she looked at Haruka’s now-empty knee. But in the next moment, he had reached out, taking her larger hand and enveloping it with his small one.

A small hand fully wrapped a large one. A warm current seemed to flow between them, a silent circuit completed, as if their very blood were mingling. He didn’t want to break the warmth of the moment, the fragile peace, but he couldn’t stop the question from rising in his mind, a cold, persistent whisper: Is Lady Murasaki really my biological mother?

He was cautious by nature. He knew he couldn’t draw a conclusion based on a few people’s fleeting observations of their resemblance. He needed solid, irrefutable proof to know the truth.

He turned his head and saw that Lady Murasaki was leaning back against the seat, a rare look of contentment on her face. She wasn’t looking at him, but she had curled her hand into a fist, making it easier for his small hand to hold.

Haruka’s heart softened. She’s so good to me, he thought. I suppose it’s only right that I call her ‘Mama’. My other mother is buried now, and this one treats me so well. I’m willing to call her ‘Mama’.

Is being biological or not, he wondered, a strange new calm settling over him, really that important?

As he thought, he looked out the car window. The roadside trees were being left far behind, blurring into a continuous green wall, one after another, endlessly.

He thought with a self-deprecating smile, Izayoi-neechan wasn’t wrong to say my mothers are like jujube trees. Look at these trees, one after another, endless. When will it ever end?

A tree is just a tree, Haruka mused, but a mother isn’t a mother?

He pushed the question of his parentage to the back of his mind and felt a great, suffocating weight lift from his shoulders. He saw that Lady Murasaki had no free time at all, her brief respite over. She was constantly on the phone again, giving different orders to different people.

Who is really giving the orders? Haruka wondered, looking at her beautiful, severe profile. This mother of mine is pitiful, too.

After about ten minutes, Lady Murasaki finally hung up. She straightened her back, sitting formally in her seat, though the hand that remained on Haruka’s knee broke the perfect, untouchable harmony of her posture.

Neither of them spoke. Haruka held her hand, and in the quiet intimacy of the car, he could almost feel her slow, powerful heartbeat, a steady rhythm that filled him with a strange sense of peace.

Another hour passed before the car finally returned to the Fujiwara estate.

Lady Murasaki opened her eyes and tried to pull her hand back, but it wouldn’t move. She frowned. “It’s time to let go now.”

She heard no reply from Haruka. This child is being disobedient again, she thought, a flicker of annoyance stirring.

But when she turned her head to look, she saw that Haruka’s hands were resting peacefully in his lap. He wasn’t holding her hand at all. He was looking at her with a surprised expression.

Confused, she tried to pull her hand back again, but it still felt as if someone were holding it, a numb, tingly sensation like static electricity.

Only then did she realize. She had been holding her arm in an awkward, outstretched position for so long that it had gone completely, pins-and-needles numb.

Haruka noticed it too. He was about to help her retract her arm, but she batted his hand away with her other one, a flash of her usual pride returning.

“I can do it myself,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice tight. She rolled her shoulder, and feeling slowly, painfully, returned to her arm, though her forearm and fingers were still tingling.

Several bodyguards were waiting outside the car. They opened the doors on both sides.

Haruka got out and looked to the other side. Lady Murasaki had barely stepped out of the car before she was surrounded by Fujiwara Hitomi, Momozawa Ai, and two other women he didn’t recognize, all of them reporting something to her in low, urgent tones.

Lady Murasaki listened for a moment, then turned her head and said, “Wait a moment.” Then, to Haruka, “Come here.”

Haruka walked over. “I have other matters to attend to,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice already distant, business-like. “If you need anything, go find Ai.”

Momozawa Ai nodded. “Young Master, if you need anything, please do not hesitate to find me.”

Haruka said he understood. Lady Murasaki patted his head, a quick, dismissive gesture. “I have things to do. For now, why don’t you go for a walk with the maid I gave you and clear your head.” With that, she turned and walked away briskly, the center of her own universe once more.

Momozawa Ai clearly had matters to attend to as well. As soon as Murakami Suzune arrived, she excused herself. “Young Master, if you need anything, please send someone to find me.”

Haruka smiled. “Go on, Mrs. Butler. If I need anything, I will have someone notify you.”

Momozawa Ai said nothing more, simply nodding and giving a standard, formal bow before hurrying off in Lady Murasaki’s wake.

“What an eventful time,” Haruka sighed to the empty air.

“Mrs. Butler is naturally busy with many things,” Murakami Suzune said with a quiet smile, appearing at his side like a phantom. “You will be just as busy one day, Young Master.”

Haruka looked at Suzune, then at the empty space around them where moments before there had been a flurry of activity. A sense of acute desolation washed over him. He wanted to find a quiet place to sort through his thoughts. “Is there a study in the Fujiwara house?” he asked. “I haven’t read a book in a long time.”

“There are many studies in the Fujiwara house. Large and small, for the masters, for guests, for the maids, they are everywhere. Which study would you like to go to, Young Master?”

“A quiet one, of course,” Haruka said.

Murakami Suzune led the way, guessing, The Young Master must be in a bad mood. I need to find a way to cheer him up. After a ten-minute walk and a flight of stairs, they arrived at a large, independent study.

Haruka looked at the massive, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. “There are certainly a lot of books here.”

Murakami Suzune pulled out a heavy leather chair for Haruka, adjusted the brass lamp to a suitable brightness, and walked over to a vintage record player. “Is there any music you would like to listen to, Young Master?”

Haruka had no knowledge of music and was not in the habit of listening to it while he read. “No, thank you,” he said.

His eyes lingered on the record player for a few seconds, then scanned the room. He noticed that the grand piano, the heavy oak desk, the glass-fronted cabinets—all the furniture had been intentionally aged to create a grand, 20th-century English style.

“I will take my leave now, Young Master,” Murakami Suzune said. After Haruka agreed, she quietly withdrew, closing the heavy door as gently as closing the pages of a book.

Haruka looked up at the endless spines of books behind the glass of the bookshelves. He fetched a small, rolling stool from nearby and took down two thick, leather-bound volumes: Hamlet and Macbeth, both by Shakespeare.

He placed them on the desk and randomly flipped open Hamlet. The page described the ghost of the old king, appearing on the battlements, instructing Hamlet to avenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Haruka finished reading the passage. Father, father, he thought. He was glad he had no revenge to seek. His only potential enemy, his “father,” was already buried six feet under.

Just then, he heard a soft knock at the door. Murakami Suzune’s gentle voice called out, “Young Master.”

“You may come in,” Haruka said.

The door opened slowly, and Murakami Suzune entered, carrying a silver tray with tea and a small plate of snacks.