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The wind bites through her clothing, scouring her skin and leaving her exposed fingertips numb. On other nights, Toga Himiko is not one to shy away from the cold. She revels in it, in the sharp, brilliant sensory clarity it brings to her, like the sun reflecting off pure-white snow. It makes her feel alive. She likes the flickering of streetlamps, the dank, empty alleyways, the echo of her own footsteps on the damp pavement, made slippery by snow. It’s the witching hour, like in the stories her mother used to read to her, in another life. Himiko’s smile stretches slightly when she remembers the omnipresent wolf in those stories, her own footsteps becoming lighter, predatory.
Tonight is especially harsh, though. Twice had warned her about going out, but she hadn’t paid much attention to him. Sometimes, he was a worrier. If anyone should be on the receiving end of worry, it should be Twice himself. Himiko never worries too much about herself. She always lands, like a cat, on both feet. But tonight feels … different. Somewhere in Twice’s warning, she remembers something about a storm. That seems ominous.
The wind picks up and she steps to the side, keeping to the shadows. She is in one of the older residential districts, now dilapidated, most buildings bearing ‘For Sale’ signs and empty lots where apartment blocks from a different era have been demolished. Some of the buildings have been re-purposed to house shadier elements, like the nightclub she’d passed earlier which served as a front for a thriving drug cartel. The thump of the bass had pulsed in her chest, the smell of cigarettes and smoke machines curling out into the night air past her when some patrons had stumbled out, giggling and shouting loudly. They had all ignored her, and Himiko, for a change, had avoided them too.
The cold was becoming too bitter, even for her. Under the none-too-thick coat, she recognised the tell-tale flutter of muscles in her abdomen as a fit of shivering threatened to overtake her. Glancing around, she noted an old apartment block, most windows boarded, the railings leading up the stairs rusted and peeling. She picks at flakes of paint as she ascends the stairs, absently placing some on her tongue. They are rough, metallic, satisfying.
At the top of the stairs on the fourth floor, she pauses, eyes narrowing, flickering from one end of the dingy corridor to the other. Himiko has always had a sense for places that are inhabited. The presence of others leaves behind some kind of residual warmth that she can always sense. One she is always excluded from. There is just such a trace on this floor, a faint one. Himiko’s curiosity is certainly peaked.
She treads slowly and lightly, controlling the tremors that now rack her frame. Even here, in this more sheltered space, the cold is eating steadily through the layers of her clothing. Her hand slips from under her sweater, where she had been keeping it warm, and trails lightly across the textured surfaces to her right. Wall, door, wall, fire hydrant, wall, door, and so on. She pauses.
Here.
The door beneath her fingers appears no different from any of the others. It was once a vibrant green, now faded to a pale sea-foam colour, the heavy doorknob worn smooth beneath her questing fingers. Someone has lived here for a very long time. Her hand curls around the doorknob, twists. It is locked, predictably. Glancing down, Himiko spies the ends of envelopes and magazines in clear plastic covers, shoved beneath the door. Some of the envelopes’ edges are worn and dark with dust.
She slips a hairpin from her head and slides it slowly, carefully into the lock. The lock itself is an old one, common maybe twenty years ago. She knows how to bypass such security measures easily by now. Moving the hairpin gently back and forth, listening to the grate and shift of the tumblers, she hears a soft click. The knob now turns easily, and she steps into the dark hallway, closing the door behind her. Her footsteps are muffled by the piled, unopened mail that forms a pale river from the door down into the passageway. She raises her head and sniffs the air, scenting the mould and musty aroma of food long gone bad. Fresh decay has a much different, less poignant scent than the dry, dustiness of time long past, of the things that remain preserved after rot steals their vitality.
Himiko is not alone. The curtains to the living room are drawn, letting in some of the light of the street lamps. The furniture is well-worn, the sofas sunken with many years of use, but she ignores these signs of occupation and heads down the hallway to her left, passing a bathroom and what seems to be an empty bedroom. The bed in the empty room is small, fitting for a child, and the coverlet is patterned with cheerful forest animals, the material now faded and stiff with age. The door at the end of the passage is closed. She rests her hand upon it for a moment before pushing it slowly open.
The warmth hits Himiko first, a soft, stealthy heat that steals into her cheeks and the tip of her nose. The source is an old space heater set along one wall. There is a woman in the bed, the covers drawn up to her chest. She is old, the wrinkles etched deep, tracing lines which must have sunk themselves pleasantly into the well-worn face whenever she laughed. Her hair is sparse and what is visible of her nightgown in none too clean. The woman appeared to be sleeping, but upon Himiko’s entry, her eyes opened steadily, fixing upon the girl with a strangely fearless scrutiny. Her mouth opened and her voice emerged faintly, raspy with little use.
“Hello.”
Himiko stared back, then brightened, stepping forward.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes, but that’s all right. I had to wake up eventually.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
Himiko cocked her head. The woman’s answer was immediate, no thought of self-preservation at all, even in the face of a stranger who had clearly gained forcible entry into her home. A smile spread across the girl’s face, exposing the sharp points of her canines.
“What’s your name?”
“You may call me Yoshino. What about you?’
“Himiko! Nice to meet you.”
Yoshino’s eyes ran over her ‘visitor’s’ old jacket, the skirt and the inadequate winter tights.
“Himiko, why don’t you come closer to the heater? It’s freezing out today.”
Spying a chair covered in old clothes near the heater, Himiko made her way over, unslinging her satchel and the paraphernalia of her blood-collecting equipment. The old woman’s eyes followed her movements, still no fear apparent in her gaze. Sitting, the girl let out a small sigh of contentment and brought her knees up under her chin. There was a moment of companionable silence before Himiko reached into her satchel and pulled out the container of dumplings she had purchased from a Seven-Eleven earlier. The dumplings were now rubbery, the oil around them congealed, but the flavour was still good. She ate a few before standing and making her way over to the bed, holding out the container.
“Are you hungry?”
“Don’t mind me. I’ve got lots of unused cans in my pantry.”
The girl’s eyes roved over the woman’s figure, most of which was tucked away under the patchy comforter. She took another dumpling, chewing contemplatively, then seated herself on the edge of the bed.
“You don’t look like you can cook much.”
“I guess you can see right through me, then.”
Taking a dumpling between two fingers, Himiko lifted it and placed it delicately against the old woman’s lips. There was a pause before Yoshino opened her mouth and took a small bite, chewing and swallowing with difficulty. Himiko watched the movement of muscles under the paper-thin skin, the bob of the scrawny throat as the dumpling went down. She sat back and licked her fingers.
“Why are you alone here?”
“Because this is my home.”
“Your family?”
“They no longer want to come here.”
“Oh. Then what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
The slanted, yellow eyes, lambent in the dimly lit room, roved over Yoshino’s form.
“You can’t take care of yourself anymore.”
“And why is that a problem?”
“If you stay like this, you’ll die.”
For the first time, Yoshino smiles in return. Himiko breathes out slowly and delight dances momentarily in her eyes. The silence stretched between them, spinning out endless secrets, before the older woman breaks it.
“When I told you my family won’t come here anymore, you didn’t seem surprised.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what families do, sometimes. They leave you alone.”
“Is that what your family did?”
“Yes. They didn’t like my quirk very much. They said it was dirty and evil.”
“But you were born with it, yes?”
“Hmm. It was different from theirs, though.”
Himiko stands, before spinning slightly in place, spreading out her arms.
“My quirk doesn’t feel bad to me, you know. I can use it to show people how much I love them!”
“Love?”
“Yes. If I drink your blood, I can become you. I can look like you, sound like you. And if I cut myself, I taste like you too. That’s what it means to love someone, you know? When you become so close to them, you can’t tell yourselves apart. But my parents didn’t like that.”
Himiko seats herself once more, leaning forward towards Yoshino.
“The other kids in school didn’t like it either. They called me all kinds of rude names, you know? It hurt me a lot, back then. And then my parents sent me to all kinds of doctors and other specialists. They were trying to fix me.”
There was another pause, and this time, Yoshino’s voice was soft.
“But you don’t want to be fixed, do you?”
Himiko shook her head.
“No. But don’t worry! There are some people who like me, and my quirk. I hang out with them now and we do all kinds of things. One of my friends told me to stay inside tonight, but I didn’t listen to him. I should have. I don’t mind the cold, but today, I needed some place to stay.”
“Well, you can stay here for as long as you want. It’s much too cold to be out.”
Himiko’s smile faded slightly and her glance switched to something more serious, more intense. She watched Yoshino for a while before bringing up her legs so that she was perched cross-legged beside the older woman.
“You’re like me, you know.”
“In what way, Himiko?”
“You also want to love other people. Your family left you here. They won’t be coming back. But you’re not angry, like I used to be. You’re … warm. You’re warmer than the heater over there, but on the inside, you know.” The girl spread her hands. “I also feel that inside me a lot now. I want to show people how I can love, just like them, but differently. I want to find a home. Like yours. It doesn’t have to be a place, like an apartment. It can also be someone I belong with. Like that.”
Yoshino nodded slowly.
“I see. So, we’re not that different after all.”
The cat-like eyes widened.
“You also think so?”
“Oh yes. We want to hold everything. We want to wrap our arms around all the people we care about and never let them go, even when they’re far away. We want them to remember what our love feels like, for ever and ever, even when everything is dust and ashes.”
The girl opens her mouth and then closes it, gaze transfixed by the rheumy intensity of Yoshino’s stare. The old woman laughs, a brighter, stronger sound, and raises one trembling hand.
“Himiko, do you think your love is stronger than anything else?”
The answer comes in a soft, barely audible exhale.
“Yes.”
She leaves the apartment in the morning, the first light of day painting the details of the dusty rooms with anaemic watercolours. The coat she now wears, fleece-lined and cosy, carries the musty scent of long storage, mothballs, mildew and something else, something tender and familiar. Yoshino’s blood is heavy in the many storage cylinders in her satchel, a comforting weight. As she makes her way into the street and breathes in the crisp air, Himiko smiles. She remembers the old woman’s peacefully sleeping figure, hands folded neatly across her chest.
Himiko had always known that love was scarce in the world she inhabited. People were quick to profess it, but even quicker to retract it. How could such love be real? Real love was tangible, immutable, slick and viscous, clinging to your clothes, skin, hair, tongue, as if it would never let go. It burned through your veins until it consumed you, until your need to be united was vital. She snakes a hand into her satchel and strokes one of the cylinders, the faint traces of warmth passing through her finger. She thinks of the old animal-print bedspread, the carpet of envelopes on the floor, the soft, pale curve of Yoshino’s lips illuminated by the dawn. The morning is cold, but Himiko does not shiver.