[F01 | SP] Perennial Tragedies

[Acanthus 0]

Soundtrack (I suggest opening them all and queuing them in order. These should be timed to last the time it takes to read the thread)
Winter's Silent Voices
Lief
Tear Cloud
Everything's Alright

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Winter came, and Mom’s garden died for the last time.

Her last crop had teemed with life. Vegetables and flowers sprawled across the landscape, fighting with all their might to escape the bounds set for them, despite careful sculpting and pruning to keep them confined. The effect was something like a painting: washes of color that made little sense when the viewer was too close, but revealed the majesty of the artist’s vision with a few steps back.

Koji and I loved to play in that garden. And Mom loved for us to play in it. What good was art without an audience? She laughed along with us as we chased each other, playing games with silly rules I can no longer remember. All I remember is that it was never the same game twice. Some days, Dad would come out and sit with Mom. Those were the days we felt most like a family.
 

Acanthus | Lvl 65 (34/31)
No stats: this is purely an RP thread.

Edited January 31 by Acanthus

[Acanthus 0]

In spring, my grandmother passed away. I was nine.

Mom was the picture-perfect grieving daughter at the funeral. She greeted guests warmly, took time to hear their stories, added stories of her own, and thanked them for coming with a smile that reached her eyes. Mom was appropriately sad yet ultimately functional as she spoke a beautiful eulogy over her mother’s ashes. I couldn’t understand a lot of it, but the sobs from around the room told me that the message was on point.

In the weeks afterwards, Mom toiled to send out personalized responses to every card and kind wish she had received. Her beautiful calligraphy mingled delicately with the flowers personalized for each recipient. Hand-cut stationary, pressed flowers from her very own garden… She was a consummate letter writer, but the effort she expended left everyone speechless. Spring had ended by the time the last card was sent out.

[Acanthus 0]

When those duties had dried up, Mom wilted in the privacy of her home. That summer, the Masuda house ground to a halt as the rest of the family learned how much we had relied on her diligence and care. Dishes stacked up, and laundry was no longer magically whisked away for cleaning. Mom even let the garden, her pride and joy, wither in the heat.

Watching the garden waste away changed something in Dad. Begrudgingly—but without complaint—he stepped in to split the housework with me and Koji. “Your mother is sad, but she won’t always be sad. She’ll get better in time.”

But I wasn’t sure how she’d get better. Mom barely spoke or left the house anymore. She would respond to questions or conversations briefly and politely, but inevitably the talk would die out under her sparse answers. Nobody was really sure what was wrong, or who would be the one to fix it. Mom usually took care of problems. But who was taking care of her?

[Acanthus 0]

The summer heat passed by in a daze. I became good enough at doing the laundry and was teaching myself how to cook. Dad did the dishes and any other chores he could complete while no one was looking. Koji was young enough that nobody thought to burden him with the household chores. And Mom still kept to herself. She would either spend the days in bed, or visiting her sister-in-law, or her mom’s grave.

We each tried cheering her up in our own ways. Koji was a chatterbox, and often sat on her lap, rambling away about anything his mind thought of. Mom would sit and listen politely, ruffling his hair as he talked on and on. Dad started to come home early. He’d worked out some kind of temporary reduction in his duties at the hospital, and was now coming home in time for dinner. He was not much of a conversationalist, but would spend evenings in the living room reading, rather than retiring to his study. I didn’t have much to offer Mom. My love was found in each piece of neatly folded laundry and each unburnt dinner. Although everybody ate, I couldn’t help but notice that nobody at the table seemed as excited to eat as when Mom had cooked it.

[Acanthus 0]

Summer began to wind down, and Mom was no better than she had been. She had yet to return to any semblance of routine, including tending to her precious domain. Instead, I labored in the garden with the desperate vigor of a man resuscitating his child. Twice a day I ventured into that hallowed green space to water. And I hated pulling up anything green, because everything deserved to grow, but I knew that the weeds had to die to make room for the vegetables and flowers. So I would lay the weeds gently in the compost, offering a solemn apology to each thing I uprooted.

It felt like years since Koji and I had chased each other through the garden for fun, and Mom had sat out watching us, joined by Dad. Now, Koji hid in his room, drawn into his digital escape. Dad tried to keep coming home early, but the stress of work was starting to take its toll, and he began to miss one or two dinners a week. I always made sure his meal was ready when he got home, whether he ate it or not.

[Acanthus 0]

The first cold front of fall signaled the change of the seasons. The garden had been stripped and harvested of its produce, ready to be replanted with hardy, cold-weather crops. Just last year I had to beg Mom to let me help plant the seeds. Now, Mom was telling me that we would get around to it later. But she had never waited this long before. I was distraught, so I went to Dad. I remember calling him in tears in the late afternoon, when he had barely started his shift. Through quiet, hiccuping sobs, I asked dad if he would help plant the garden.

Within the hour, we were driving out to Mom’s favorite outdoor market to buy seeds. Our tardiness had cost us the best of the selection; by the time we arrived, most of the stalls were packing up for the day. And given the lateness of the season, only a few varieties remained. I wandered from stall to stall, asking very serious questions about each of their wares. I couldn’t remember all the things mom usually planted, so I had to work off of my memory as best I could.

[Acanthus 0]

One of the last farmers was a wrinkled old man who looked old enough to be Dad’s grandfather. He was one of the few vendors who had remained patiently while I looked over the stalls, never rushing me. The farmer had a fantastic collection of native and foreign plants. None of them seemed like things that mom had grown, but they were new and exciting, and I listened with rapt attention as the old farmer explained each of the things he sold.

He seemed more a storyteller than a shopkeeper. Each of his wares was accompanied by a story so strange or embellished that even I knew they weren’t real. But I giggled and kicked my feet with each tall tale, and the man eagerly recited his stories to his captive audience of one. One by one, the farmer spun yarns about each and every plant he sold, until only one item remained unexplained. A small plant that had just barely sprouted.

[Acanthus 0]

“This,” one wrinkled farmer said, “is a very special herb. It’s not used to living here—it’s at home in the warmer climates of mainland Asia. But it grows tall and hearty with the right care.”

“Does it… do anything?” I delicately brushed a budding leaf. I still remember how smooth, how young it felt under my shaking finger. A world of possibility in a handful of dirt.

“Pluck the leaves off and they make a tea that cures any illness.”

“Anything?”

The farmer smiled. “Anything.”

I left with Dad and about three garden’s worth of seeds. Dad tried to pay for as much as possible, but given the limited selection, most of the vendors had been willing to part with their goods for next to nothing. And so I returned home with a warm ray of hope I hadn’t felt in a long time. The seeds sat up front with Dad, but I adamantly held onto the special plant. I remember clutching it like a life raft, eyeing the small speck of green with childlike wonder.

It would solve everything.

[Acanthus 0]

When we got home, Dad surprised me by rolling up his sleeves, turning the soil and preparing the garden with Haru. “Your mother normally does not let me in her garden,” he grunted as he worked. “I am prone to… making things worse. But I suppose a poorly planted garden is better than one not planted at all.” I nodded without understanding. I was simply happy to be out in the garden with him. It wasn’t the halcyon days with Koji and Mom, but half a halcyon memory was better than none. Dad seemed to think so as well; though stoic, he gave occasional sighs that almost resembled contentment.

Mom watched us for a while through the window. When I finally noticed, I stood up and waved at her to come outside. Mom just smiled warmly. I thought about running to her, but I became distracted by Dad asking for the spade.

Even now, I wonder what would have been different had I only taken the time to go inside. Was that all she needed?

[Acanthus 0]

Upon the old farmer’s advice, I did not plant the herb outside. Everyone knew that winter would be mild, but the plant would thrive in the warm indoors and with plenty of sunlight.

I attended the plant with a zeal that surprised even myself. Every day, I checked on the sprout for even the smallest spots of yellow on the leaves. I rotated my prized possession carefully, swapping windows two or three times a day to ensure it got exactly what it needed to grow. I bought three books about caring for plants and what different blemishes meant and how to fix them. Some of the words were too hard for me, but Dad always had time to read them to me in the evenings.

I learned quickly that cultivating plants was the practice of careful observation, and many times, intentional inaction. Plants that were watered too much or moved around too often began to wilt under the fuss of change. My plants grew best when I checked on them, but also when I left them their space to grow on their own.

[Acanthus 0]

Late in the fall, I recall precariously tipping a boiling kettle over a tiny mug. At the bottom rested four miniscule leaves. The acanthus plant was barely grown, but I was worried about Mom. She had stopped making trips to her sister or even her mother’s grave.

I quietly approached her mom with the watery tea, lifting it to the table like an offering. Mom sat at her usual chair at the kitchen table, looking outside with a hollow stare. When I set the tea down a little too hard, Mom jumped a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. You’re so quiet sometimes, my little flower.”

I told her I had made her something, and pushed the tea toward Mom, who looked puzzled at the gift. I did my best to tell her about the farmer at her favorite market, and the plant he’d sold me and Dad, and how it would make her better. Silently, Mom took the tea in both hands. She looked back out at the garden. “Your garden looks beautiful, Haru.” Her response confused me. It wasn’t my garden. It was hers.

[Acanthus 0]

Cold winds carried away what was left of fall. The seeds Dad and I bought had sprouted and died as expected. It was nothing close to what a mother’s love and care could produce, but it was more than an empty garden.

Winter came, and my garden died for the first time.

Through my efforts, the acanthus persisted. I doggedly watered, moved, and cared for it like a child of my own. When it grew large enough, I talked Dad into buying a bigger container. Every evening, I carefully selected the leaves that would become Mom’s bedtime tea. I had tried some myself; it had a strong, green taste that I found off-putting. But every evening, Mom would drink the concoction. We would talk briefly, either about my day at school, or how the fall garden had fared. Sometimes, mom would offer up gardening advice of her own. The conversations only lasted as long as it took her mother to finish the tea, but I clung to each and every word.

[Acanthus 0]

Winter shunned the initial predictions, proving bitter and hazy despite the lack of snow. The acanthus plant fought to stay alive even in the comfort of indoors. I spent my allowance on a small heater just for the plant. Dad grumbled about the electricity bill, but I caught him checking to make sure it was on more than once.

Mom, on the other hand, seemed to be full of life again. It came without warning; she had simply woken up one day and decided that things needed to be done. Her demeanor was still reserved, and her conversations were still brief, but at least she was up and moving. But she didn’t seem to re-insert herself into the normal flow of the Masuda house. The chores were still completed by me, Koji, and dad. Instead, Mom would disappear into the study to write or call friends and family. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I didn’t care. I was so happy that Mom was finally starting to get back on her feet. The acanthus tea was finally working.

[Acanthus 0]

Then, one day, I came home from school and her Mom wasn’t there. I checked the bedrooms and outside. I tried to peek inside the study, but the door was locked.

I thought nothing of it. Mom had started visiting her sister-in-law again. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for her to be late. I made Koji a snack and started on the evening chores. I moved laundry downstairs, washed a few of the dishes from last night, and set out the ingredients for dinner. It would be simple: a curry and some greens. Even Koji would eat curry, but I had to make sure his was not spicy like the rest of the family liked it.

I was placing the potatoes on the counter (ones from my garden, as a matter of fact) when Dad walked in. I immediately sensed something was wrong. His face, usually an iron, emotionless mask, was cracked with devastation. He had been crying, but he had carefully dried his face before entering the house.

[Acanthus 0]

I asked him what was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that.

His eyes welled up for tears, and for a moment, I thought I might see Dad cry for the first time ever. Instead, he fought down the outburst and stormed off to the study. In a flash, he opened the door and swiftly locked it behind him, and in that brief flash, I could see that the study had been ransacked. There were books and papers all over the floor, and the office chair was turned over on its side in the middle of the room, far from its usual corner.

Timidly, I followed Dad, testing the lock. When it did not open, I rested my ear on the door. I knew better than to snoop, but I was desperate for answers. Why was dad home early? Why was he acting like this? And where was mom?

Father spoke through the door in a choked voice, barely containing his emotions. “Little girls should not snoop on their father. It’s unbecoming.”

A hot pang of anxiety shot through my entire body, and I’m ashamed to say I ran to my room like a child. Like Father, I quickly locked the door behind me. I’m not sure why I did that. I wasn’t afraid of him coming in—if anything, I had hoped he would. I needed him to tell me what was happening, even if the news was devastating. Something was different… something big and something terrible. But Father was locked in his study, scolding me for listening at the door. Without understanding why, I began to cry.

[Acanthus 0]

In spring, Mom passed away. I was ten.

I struggled to be the picture-perfect grieving daughter. I stood at the door to greet friends and family. Some would share stories with me, but I had too few to share with them. I thanked people for arriving, but my carefully rehearsed smile couldn’t reach my eyes the way Mom’s had. I wasn’t actually sure how sad I was supposed to be. Mom was gone because of some illness I didn’t understand. Had she been living on borrowed time all along? It sounded like it, judging by Dad’s terse eulogy. There were a few sniffs and sobs, but the room seemed covered in numb shock rather than grief. 

After the funeral, the Masudas stopped on the way home to pick up a pack of stationary. Someone had to send letters to those who had attended, and it fell to me, the Masuda’s backup letter writer.

Dad stayed in the car while I went inside to pick out the design. I settled on some light pink cards, dotted with blue hydrangeas. I thought back to her mom’s hand-cut cards with personalized pressed flowers, and guilt overwhelmed me. It hit me without thinking: Mom wasn’t here to write the cards. She wasn’t here to fold the laundry, or cook our favorite meals, or listen to me ramble on about my day as I poured her another cup of tea, or laugh with me and Koji and Dad as we spent our afternoons enjoying the gentle breeze through the garden. Suddenly, I was sobbing in the middle of the store, desperate to stop the tears before some poor clerk could find the distraught girl hiding in the aisles.

Like Father, I was careful to dry my face before coming back to the car.

[Acanthus 0]

Writing cards consumed me for months. All of my free time was dedicated to working through the stack: free periods in school, the time I had between cleaning up dinner and bedtime. When I could not sleep, I wrote in the dead of night. Even still, the stack never seemed to get smaller. How had Mom done all of this on her own?

I was also wracked with guilt over the inadequacy of my cards. Mom had managed to pen masterpieces in her beautiful script and personalized messages to every single person. My penmanship was still rough and shaky. Struggling to add some beauty to the cards, I tried to write a short poem that reflected what I knew about each recipient. But I was even less a poet than I was a calligrapher.

To try and bridge the gap between my card’s and my mother’s cards, I would throw out anything that fell short of perfect, going so far as to break out my ruler and measure the margins. Ink smudges, poor handwriting, tear stains—I allowed myself no signs of imperfection. The store clerks began to recognize me after my third trip to buy more cards.

Summer had ended by the time the last card was sent out.

[Acanthus 0]

Fall began, and I returned the acanthus plant inside. It had grown taller and stronger in the heat and sunlight, but the first chill would be upon us soon. So I dragged it back inside, back to the first window it had rested by when I brought it home.

The acanthus no longer had a purpose. It had failed to accomplish its intended task; there was no one left in the house to cure. Koji seemed almost entirely unaffected by the situation, content to stay locked in his room and on his computer. Father returned to a version of himself that was somehow even more stoic than before. The study also remained closed off, nearly a year after Mom’s departure. I finally began to suspect the two were related, but even nearing the study invited caustic comments from Father. It was a wound best left alone.

Without a patient to treat, I considered throwing the acanthus away. But it went against my nature to pull up anything green. If it grew, purpose could be found. So I began making the herbal tea once more—this time, I made it for myself. The taste was still powerful, still green, and still off-putting. But it reminded me of Mom. Every night, I would brew the tea in the same cup I gave her, and drink it while whispering half of a conversation. I talked about school, and how the garden had gone this year, and things that I had learned about the plants I grew.

I knew the conversations weren’t real, but I continued the ritual anyway. And I continued to tend the acanthus, hoping that someday, it would find someone to cure.

[Acanthus 0]

“So that’s why I chose my name.”

The girl struggled to wrap up her story with some neat moral or statement. What was left to say? That plant was a vital—yet ineffective—anchor to her own purpose. It was a sinking raft in an endless ocean, or an expired bottle of life-saving medication. To her, the plant was priceless in both senses of the word.

Acanthus finished talking. Her system clock showed she had been here for sixteen hours. Despite the length of her stay, the hard marble floor underneath was just as cold as when she sat down. It was the little details like that which made her aware that she was living and fighting through something that wasn’t real.

Throughout her time in Aincrad, that story had remained unshared. She had mentioned bits and pieces to the Gemini whenever they fought, but that didn’t really count. They were reflections of her old self—false reflections—and so Acanthus assumed that whatever she knew, they did too.

Silently, Acanthus stood and left. She’d said enough already. Besides, the Monument of Life would be here when she returned. Perhaps she would find another story to share with Edict by then.

[Acanthus 0]

THREAD SUMMARY

Experience: [Word Count: 3744/10 = 374.4] * [True Tier: 7] * [Group Factor: 1] = 2621 EXP
Col: 393 (Laurel Wreath) + 400 (bonus) = 793 col