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Sora was always a tumbledown child.
He always had scratches up and down his arms, bruises on his knees and elbows. Cut lips and bloodied nose, always stumbling, tripping, going too fast for feet that were too unsteady on ground that was too uneven. He’d go sprawling across the floorboards of the kitchen, roll over the stones dotting the pathway, get a face-full of sand, covered from head to toe in grit and cuts.
Sora fell down all the time, all the time. But if his habit was falling, then his specialty was always getting back up. He’d fall, eyes blown wide in some strange mixture of surprise and wonder, as if for the moment before he hit the ground he thought he was flying, not falling. And then, once he’d hit the ground, he would immediately push himself up to his feet, mouth cracked open by a wide, gap-toothed smile. He dusted himself off with scraped palms and torn fingernails, bloody grin wide with victory. Triumphant because at the end of the day, he was still standing.
As his mother, you used to be terrified by his constant falls. By his tumbles and his bleeding knees. But you could never scold him in a way that made him slow. Could never admonish him enough to make him careful. Because Sora loved to run. Loved to jump. Loved to race down the paved streets with his laces loose and flying, oblivious or defiant of the risk of tripping. Loved to jump off the docks into the water, knees tucked up to his chest and air ringing with his joyful shouts. He was never worried about falling. He was not the type to cry from a tumble, from a scratch, from bloodied torn skin poking through holes in his clothing.
Sora was always a tumbledown child.
He is not a child anymore.
He stands before you, towers over you, with unfamiliar clothes and an unfamiliar stance and even more unfamiliar lack of bandages showing on every bare patch of skin.
The last time you bandaged his knees he was ten years old. He still fell, after that, but he bandaged himself. Doused the wound in salt water and then slapped on a bandaid or two before rushing back out into the sun. Even as a teenager, he so often sent himself sprawling, moving too quickly on feet that were still a little too big for his body. Too oblivious to danger, or too self-assured in his own ability to always rise again. To always stand up. Fall, and stand up. That was your son’s mantra, from childhood, to adolescence.
Time is a funny thing. Fourteen years passed and Sora barely changed. Always running and falling. Always getting back up scratched from head to toe. His limbs stretched and his clothes were different but he was always the same. Falling, standing, bandaids on both knees and elbows.
“I can use healing magic now, Mom,” Sora tells you, excited, “You can’t yell at me for all the money you spend on packs of bandaids anymore.”
Time is a funny thing. Fourteen years, and the same boy, just bigger. Two years, and that’s all swept away.
He stands before you, sixteen, straight-backed and graceful like a predator when he walks. A blur when he runs and jumps. Free of scratches by some foreign magic he can’t explain.
You haven’t seen him fall once.
It’s not that he’s grown into his feet, that the ground is less uneven, that he’s more careful. It’s something else that makes him run faster, makes his eyes keen enough to avoid anything that might send him sprawling. Allowing him to jump over logs, rocky patches of ground, anything that might slow him down.
He doesn’t fall anymore.
He hugs you and you look at the skin of his arms, tanned and muscular, lined with faded pink lines. Scars. More scars than you ever, ever wanted to see on your child. Different than the little scrapes and bumps from his youth. These scars are large, and jagged, and look like they hurt.
Healing magic, he says. They didn’t have a chance to hurt, because he always healed them right away, he says.
Okay, you say. Even though it isn’t.
And it’s more than just the healed wounds. More than the steadiness of his gait. More than the way the carefree is now complemented by confidence. More than the way he strides instead of skips, power in all of his movements, from the lift of his chin to the clench of his hands. It is more than that, you think.
Fourteen years of you watching wryly and your boy stayed the same, stayed someone you could recognize. Two years, and you missed something vital.
Who is this boy? you don’t dare wonder. Because that’s too cruel a thought for a mother to have. You wonder instead at time, and the things it takes, and the things it warps and changes, and the injustice of it all.
A pack of bandaid still sits on a shelf in his room, unused.
--
Riku used to like watching others.
‘What a careful boy,’ his mother would say, smiling. Smiling with relief, like a bullet dodged. She didn’t have a reckless child, rushing into danger and adventure. Rushing to climb trees and swim races and prove himself to other boys as the fastest and the best. She had a boy who watched, who was cautious and careful, who seemed to prefer to assess situations and think carefully before moving forward. You just raised an eyebrow, bemused by the oddly intense way your son sat on the sides and watched the other children. Somewhat concerned by his preference to play by himself, to climb trees with only you watching and paddle about when no one else was in the water, eyes focused.
‘What a careful boy’, his mother repeated, smiling.
But that didn’t last. Riku grew, as boys grow, and he could no longer fit on your knee and no longer sat still for his mother to trim his hair. He began to fidget, and his eyes began to dart about instead of staring steadily, and he walked neatly and carefully in the house but the second the door opened he was gone in a dead sprint.
His mother sighed, shook her head, muttered things like ‘it was only a matter of time’ and ‘boys will be boys’ but you. You watched.
Riku was not like other boys. He never liked to play rough with them, those first few years. He preferred to watch them, something quietly burning in the intensity of his gaze. So what changed?
You think, and it’s a weird thought to have about your young child, but you think it’s because he didn’t know he could beat them, before.
When Riku started racing the other boys his age, he always won. If he climbed trees with them, he reached the top first. If he swam in the shallows with them, he stayed under and held his breath the longest and made the biggest splash jumping off the pier. He always won. He was always the very best.
What an unusual child, you thought. And then were angry with yourself, for such an unkind thought to have about your son. So what if he waited, waited and watched the competition, waited until he knew he would be the best before he joined in? It was a good thing, to have a son who was methodical. Eager without being foolhardy. Riku knew not to challenge Wakka or Tidus at swimming but knew he could challenge Wakka at climbing and Tidus at running. Knew he could challenge Sora to fight with wooden swords but not at wrestling because Sora would still bite to win. Knew that as long as he gave himself time to practice and train, he could win whatever challenge was presented to him.
And then, when all that and more was proven, Riku became loud. He wasn’t quiet, watching in the shadows anymore. He was as boys are, brash and cocky. Clever and skilled, moreso with every year. You were proud of him. You knew he was strong, everyone knew that, but you also knew he was smart, and that’s something that wasn’t immediately evident. Your wife still despaired at his roughhousing but you, what more could you want in a son? Yes he was ambitious and yes you knew he was verging upon arrogance as he grew into a teen, but Riku was a boy and boys will be boys and as long as he was smart and strong he’d be fine. Smart and strong, knowing when and where to pick a fight, knowing how to stay away from battles he can’t win, but only for as long as it takes him to become strong enough to win them. That’s your son. That’s your Riku.
The Riku that comes back is not that Riku.
It’s a weird kind of déjà vu you get, when he returns home. Because once more, he is quiet. Once again, he is watchful. But his eyes aren’t bright and wide. They are hooded, hidden beneath lashes and shadows. Secrets like bags beneath them, weighing the lids down. He doesn’t need the long bangs of his hair to hide behind. His eyes are curtained.
He’s tall, he’s so tall, taller than you, but his limbs are folded inwards, a bit. When he stands. There’s a bit of a hunch to his back, something weighing down on his shoulders, bowing his head. And still, he doesn’t look so much melancholy as he looks coiled. Like in any instant, he could straighten up, lift his head, and send someone flying.
There’s a hunch to his back but he doesn’t slouch, he prowls. You hate watching him move from one place to another because you have no idea who you’re looking at. A panther. Some kind of predator, made for slinking in the darkness. There is nothing flashy or arrogant in his movement, just danger.
You cannot admit to the fear looking at your son causes you now, so you submit to anger instead. It makes you angry, that he slouches about and slinks when he walks and doesn’t look anyone in the eyes. Where has his arrogance gone? All his pride? Your son was smart and strong and was never afraid to show it. Never afraid to grin, step forward and prove it, assured that he was the best.
It’s a bitter nostalgia that sours the taste of homecoming. Your son, cautious and quiet once more. Back to watching carefully, but instead of his eyes taking everything in, they are instead shutting everything out.
When he sits, he is as still as a stone. It’s the only time his back is straight.
“And what do you plan to do, now that you’re back?” you ask him. And the words unsaid are: show me your ambition, show me your fire, show me you’re still my son.
You can’t see Riku’s eyes, but you can feel the weight of them, the intensity of his stare. That, at least, is one thing that time hasn’t changed.
“That depends,” he says, “On how much time I have before I leave again.”
--
Kairi needed unending light.
Opening her door so that the brightness from the lamp in the hallway streamed into her room was never enough. Installing a nightlight in her wall that covered her ceiling in glowing, moving stars was never enough. A flashlight by her bed, another lamp in the far corner of the room was never enough. She needed light, as unsullied by shadows as possible. Every switch in her room flipped on no matter the hour, light flooding into every corner and nook, chasing away any shadows that could form, could curl and lie in wait there.
Kairi was not an overly scared child, nor an irrational one. She was brave and level-headed, smiled through the gaps in her memory, and gamely attached herself to her new life on a new island with a man who was not actually her father and had never intended to be one. She took the endless meetings with counselors and child therapists in stride, greeted them all with a smile. She didn’t fuss when they told her it was time to try to go to school, and she got along well with the other children and made friends easily, and was so well-adjusted it was almost concerning.
But the dark.
Kairi couldn’t handle the dark.
Every night, every light in the top floor of the house had to be turned on. Otherwise she cried in bed, curled up tightly and holding her flashlight like it was her last lifeline. If you turned off even one light during the night once she fell asleep, she’d have screaming, awful nightmares. You’d run to her room and scoop her up, and she’d curl against your chest and hold onto her flashlight tighter than she held onto you.
And it wasn’t something that went away with time, either.
The nightmares still came, after you switched out her child-sized bed for a twin. They still came, when you painted over the pink flowers on her walls with blue waves and seashells. They still came, when she cut her hair and changed her clothing in preparation for high school. They still came, and she still needed you to flood everything with light. To burn away the bad thoughts. The scary things. Every shadow that bred in the darkness.
The first night after she returns, you turn on all the lights in the upstairs hallway, finding the habit relieving, rather than cumbersome. Your little girl is home, and you can return to all the inane rituals she brought into your life.
But Kairi leans out of her room, one hand against the doorframe, and gives you a soft smile.
“It’s okay, Dad,” she says, “I don’t need you to leave the light on anymore.”
The statement is startling, but you refuse to be shocked. It’s been- time has passed. A lot of time. Of course some things will be different. She’s gone through things you’ll never know, some of which she doesn’t even remember.
You can’t be shocked that she no longer needs the light on in the hallway. You can’t.
And still, you listen. You spend that night with your door open, listening. Waiting for the screams, the gasps and sobs. Waiting for the moment your little girl needs you to bound down the hallway and scoop her against your chest once more.
The night is silent.
You creep down the hallway anyways.
Of course you’re going to check up on her. Your daughter is home, home at last, and you’re still terrified that if you turn your head she’ll disappear again.
You peek into her room, half-convinced you’ll see her twisted in her blankets, panic and fear all over her sleeping face, but instead.
None of her lamps are on. None of her nightlights. Her flashlight is nowhere in sight, nowhere to be seen.
And still, there’s light.
There’s light surrounding her like a halo, a soft glow illuminating her body, pulsing out from where her arms are pressed to her chest. You take a single step into the room and she wakes, startles, sits up. The glow fades, but only a little, the illumination still trapped under her skin, freckles on her arms and shoulders glowing like stars.
“Dad, I told you not to worry,” she says, and her smile is wry, looking strange and distorted in the glow of her light, “I can take care of myself.”
And certainly, that’s a thing that’s always been true of the Kairi of the daytime. In the day, your adopted daughter was a marvel. A pinnacle of strength and good sense. Of unending optimism and bright inquisition. A delightful little girl, everyone said. No one was quite sure how she’d be, when she’d first turned up half-drowned and memoryless. But she’d grown up to be a delightful, confident, little girl who took care of herself. In the daytime.
In the night she was a scared child. A child who needed you. Every night, she needed you. To bring her light. To hold her when the light wasn’t enough. To shield her from the darkness and the nightmares it brought.
She doesn’t need you anymore.
What a sad, pitiful thing to be unseated by. To be unnerved by. That your daughter does not need you to leave the hallway light on anymore.
The fact that she herself is glowing is in afterthought you don’t even bother addressing. All that matters is, when you weren’t there, when she wasn’t here, Kairi learned to no longer fear the dark. Or rather, learned she was strong enough to beat it back on her own.
And you weren’t there to see it.
There’s a scratch on the record disk, a fuzzy area of missed footage in your child’s life. Time is unforgiving though, and moved forward with no regard for the scenes you have to skip past.
“Dad?” she says again, smile a little more gentle, “I’m okay, really.”
You nod once, nod again, and retreat from her doorway, down the dark, dark hallway.
You’d bought her new lamps and nightlights today, so happy that she was home. You guess you’ll return them, now.
--
There is a picture of the three of them- Riku and Sora and Kairi, all clustered close together on the beach with smiles bright, expressions wide-open and carefree. Sora and Kairi are leaning close enough that their cheeks nearly touch and pushing down on Riku’s shoulders, whose serious demeanour and staring eyes are absent from the photo. Nothing but his mop of silver hair and flailing, startled limbs, Sora and Kairi crowding close behind him.
The picture is an old one, and visibly bent and waterstained, even as it sits in a photoframe. It was taken on Kairi’s camera, the one Selphie had given her for her birthday. By who, no one’s certain anymore.
You hold the picture in your hand and remember. Remember that when this was taken Sora had a bandaid on each knee and Kairi was still missing a tooth. Remember the angry spluttering Riku had done when Sora and Kairi had stopped leaning on his head. Remember how he’d chased them into the sea, and they’d all splashed in the waves fully clothed, the beach and the sky and the rolling sea ringing with their laughter.
You hold the picture in you hand and remember the children entrapped behind the frame, and wonder where they’ve gone.
Because time is unforgiving. It makes canvases out of your children’s skin, sweeping strokes of scars across every patch that’s visible. It makes your son steady where before he’d stumble, and tempers the brightness in his eyes with a wisdom you don’t understand and weren’t yet ready to see.
You hold the picture in your hand.
Kairi gave it to Sora to keep, because Riku also had a camera and memories of his own but Sora didn’t own one. And Sora carried the picture around everywhere, held it in his hands and stared at it, until the edges were torn and the colour faded. Until you finally took it from his dirty, grasping hands and enshrined it behind glass, in a wooden frame, sat safely on his dresser.
And there the picture stayed. Through the winter storms and spring rains. Through the sandy summers and breezy falls. As Sora outgrew his shorts and his shirt and then his bed and the whole room had to be rearranged to accommodate his newly sprawling limbs. The small dresser replaced by a larger one and the picture moved to a nightstand that held an alarm clock. It sat there to be stared at on days when Riku was being too bossy to be around and Kairi was busy in town and Sora would stare at the picture and pout until they could all meet and be friends again.
And then Sora disappears, they all disappear, and you move the picture downstairs for all of you to look at. You and Riku’s parents and Kairi’s father. For the three of you to look at and cry over and despair about.
Bright, clumsy Sora. Quiet until he wasn’t, smart and strong Riku. Self-sufficient and undauntable Kairi, so long as the lights were on.
You used to hold this photo in your hand and cry, wondering where the children have gone.
Now they’ve returned, and you stare down at the photo, dry-eyed, and wonder the same exact thing.
