Come Sopra: As above, or like the previous tempo.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.

—Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2.

In the pale afternoon glow, Saya sat by her window.

The room—her old one at OMORO—was filled with cardboard boxes. Heaps of clothes and shoes. Schoolbooks. Posters and note-binders. In one of the boxes, she even found her old track-team uniform. The Otonashi stitched to the blouse was frayed, but legible.

The entire room smelled like memories—dusty and bittersweet. Each object a fresh discovery; a haunting reminder.

Saya smiled.

Downstairs, she heard the radio warbling, punctuated by Kai clattering in the kitchen. He was cooking for tonight's big gathering—the restaurant's unofficial reopening.

A fresh start. A new future. The sort of thing she thought of, whenever she looked at Diva's daughters, cooing in their crib. Tiny pink hands reaching for her, their murderer-turned-savior. Reminding her, with the surreal miracle of their presence, that life was a cycle of stops and starts.

Old and new. Life and death.

Selfishness and duty.

(We have to keep them, Kai holds the two squirming babies in his arms. She is stunned by his teary eyes. Her own are swollen, dried out. Haji's disappearance at the Met is stamped indelibly into her memory. It will be two weeks, perhaps more, before she can bring herself to think of anything else.)

(But for Kai, she tries. Keep them? Why? These children are the offspring of the woman who killed Riku. Why would Kai want to...?)

(Don't you get it? Kai is smiling. It's like having Riku back again. It's like me and Riku, when Dad first took us in. We had nothing. Neither do these children. Saya—can't you see...?)

(She freezes, wanting to say, Of course I can.)

(And, at the corner of her eye, the spectral image of Haji seems to nod. It is a duty you owe to these children. To those who died. And to yourself.)

Death and vengeance only led to more death and vengeance. But love begot so much more. She had mistaken the former for her duty. Allowed it to consume her very existence.

But now—at last—she could let that go.

Live on. He asked me to live on.

For him, for everyone, and above all, for herself, she would try.

The dresser was scattered with girlthings. Lipgloss and mascara. Sparkly hair barrettes. Necklaces in an antique lacquered jewelry-box. Funny. It looked so much like... One memory supplanted the next. Suddenly, she remembered being a longhaired, corseted lady at the Zoo. Smell of sandalwood and lilacs strong in her nose, overpowering, for one second, the more immediate scent of garlic wafting from downstairs.

Overpowering, for a second more, the ever-flickering image of Haji, as he was buried beneath the crumbling Met.

Haji...

Her smile wavered.

I promise. I won't forget,

Her Long Sleep was close. It had been a constant threat during their battle with Diva, dark poison tendrilling into her bloodstream. But now, that very darkness felt like a part of her.

She would not, she knew, stay awake beyond tonight's gathering.

It was just as well. She wanted the last thing she remembered to be the faces of her family. Smiling, laughing. Just as her last memory was of Haji—smiling through the haze of debris.

I will always love you, Saya...

Her eyes burned, but there were no tears. There were moments in your life when you were beyond grief.

Haji.

He was gone, but she could still feel his presence. Her reality was absolute, absorbing. But that did not mean her past ever slipped away. Sometimes she could sense his calm shadow looming over her. Other times, she heard the low murmur of his voice, felt his cool phantom hand on her brow.

Lending her, even now, strength in his silence.

Outside her window, the park was bathed in sunshine. The scenery looked so perfect. Children playing and squealing. Teenagers riding bikes. Dogs barking. Everyone serene, carefree. A completely different world from the war.

Okinawa was still exactly the same. It was only she who was different.

(But not so different, Kai shrugs, the first time she says it. Brave, no-nonsense, still smiling even after his entire world has crumbled. But that is what makes Kai so strong, she knows. The fact that he never gives up.)

(She wants him to go on smiling that way, for the rest of his life.)

(Come on, he teases. If you think this place is the same, just check out the gunk in the fridge. That shit was never around when we left. This whole place needs fixing up. Let's get to it.)

And they had. Cleaning the windows. Vacuuming the carpets. Polishing the tables. Months of neglect, which had shrouded the store, were swept away. They were left behind with an OMORO that was both brand new, yet just like before. Still a place of warmth and laughter, even after so many ups and downs.

(Side by side, in the radiance of the setting sun, they face the entrance. Kai yawns and stretches, arms crossed behind his head. We should change the sign at the door, he says, Put a Kai Miyagusuku and Otonashi Saya under the Owned By George. That way, you'll always know your place is here. This is where you belong.)

(Saya doesn't know what to say to that. But her face feels so warm. A place where I belong.)

(If Haji were here, she's sure he would smile.)

She and Kai had also rearranged the motley assortment of pictures on the wall below. There were new additions to it now. An unearthed photo of Riku at a picnic, his nose in a book, a faraway smile on his lips. George, and Kai-at-fifteen, roughhousing at a barbecue—a rare moment of lightness during Kai's surly post-broken-elbow era. The picture of the three siblings in Paris, its edges crumpled, but their faces—and the vibrant memory of their last shopping trip—unchanged. And a picture she'd never seen before, but which Kai said David gave to him from a private collection.

It had Haji and David's father, the former David. In a jungle in Vietnam, posing like big-game hunters before a live, open-mawed crocodile. Haji: pale, amused, graceful. David: rugged, dynamic, laughing.

She wondered what they were thinking, when this bizarre photograph was taken.

(When he comes back, Kai says mildly, putting the photo in place. You can ask him.)

(She nods, but not at Kai's remark. When Haji came back—if he came back—)

There is this beach I know in Okinawa too, Haji. I wish you could see it. The water is so blue…

She moved away from the window-sill. Settled on the edge of her bed, a half-open journal lying there. Miss Julia had advised Saya, when they first got home, to keep one. She wanted Saya to write in it—a paragraph, a line—stating at least one happy thought. One reason to live, every single day. Saya knew, in a vague sort of way, that Julia, like Kai and the others, was afraid she would go off the deep end. She'd weathered through the worst of her journey, but they didn't want to take chances.

There were no guarantees for a girl who'd sustained herself for decades on a death-wish.

And so, for them, for herself, Saya had written. At first, it was a line a day. Basic things like Kai, or the beach. My nieces. Kaori. Onigiri. Boiled eggs. But, as time went on, funny incidents at OMORO, or at school. Sometimes, recollections of happy memories during her amnesia. Or even, if she could manage it, moments of levity during the war.

I'll just lie back... and think of England.

England? God… Why should anyone think of England?

She giggled. Her reflection in the mirror ahead, despite the short bobbed hair, struck her as so strange. Nothing like she'd been in the war, pared of all softness, a deadly weapon existing to dispense Death. But nothing like she'd been at the Zoo either—a selfish not-so-selfish girl with eyes full of questions and a head full of fantasies.

For now, she was that sweet-faced, happy-go-lucky schoolgirl again. The one who'd looked not at the past or future, but the present.

That was all she knew, and it was enough for her.

Except she wasn't that girl anymore. Something in her had changed, and still kept changing, altering in color and depth from moment to moment. Her amnesiac self, reborn into a façade of purity, now merely reminded her of what she'd once said to Haji:

I almost wish I was two different Sayas. One to be cold and heartless and fight the war. And the other to be clean and innocent. To live her life all over again.

Sometimes, when Saya jerked awake from nightmares now, reliving the ugliness of the past—or when she tensed at odd moments, her skin clammy with cold sweat as she contemplated her unknown future, she half-missed that cradle of oblivion.

She'd been safe then. She'd been... clean.

But she would never take it back. It was better this way, with all her memories intact. She wouldn't be herself without them. She wouldn't remember all the people who died in the war. And that would mean their sacrifices meant nothing.

She couldn't abide by that.

On cue, she heard, right in her ear, Haji's whisper:

Regardless of how difficult the memories are?

She nodded. Under her glowy apple-cheeked face, sudden traces of her past self resurfaced. The steely fighter in the war. Determined to see every battle to the end.

If the memories are difficult, then it only makes me happier to be where I am. Back then, I'd never dreamed this could happen. That I'd have a second chance.

Did you, Haji?

She knew she would receive no answer. But she could imagine what Haji would say.

(It was something I always wanted, yes. But it was never something I could act on. We each had our duties to consider.)

She smiled, rueful.

And you don't miss that, Haji? Having a duty? Remember how you once told me it's what gives your life a purpose? Without it, existence would be all—all 'shapeless and wobbly', like a fat countess.

(The 'fat countess' was your contribution, Saya. Not mine.)

She almost giggled again. But if Kai saw her acting strangely, it would disturb him. He might decide tonight's party would be too much strain for her, and call it off. She didn't want him to do that.

During the war, she'd tried to distance herself from her family, because she'd thought it was her duty to protect them. Except it was only herself she had hurt. She didn't want any more distance between her loved ones. She didn't want any more pain.

Her duty today wasn't to fulfill an ancient blood-feud, but to live for tomorrow. Kai, Riku, her father, Solomon, Haji... everyone who supported her, fought for her, they had all taught her that.

I won't forget.

I promise, I won't forget.

She picked up her journal. The blank page—her last entry—beckoned. She knew she wouldn't be able to write again after tonight. An impromptu collection of words and phrases, the journal would remain as it was, unfinished. Maybe Kai would read it later, and put his own thoughts in there (oh please. Kai never touches books; they always put him to sleep.) Maybe her nieces would read it, and better understand their aunt, who had killed their mother out of misguided hatred, but who, despite it, felt nothing for them but love.

Or maybe...

Maybe…

Maybe when Haji returned, he'd read these pages. And maybe—finally—he'd understand the truth of her feelings, spelled out as clearly as he'd stated his own.

I always loved you.

But I just couldn't… couldn't make myself admit it.

We both had our duties to fulfill.

The sudden idea gave her impetus. Picking up her pen, she paused. If Kai ever read this, the embarrassment would kill him. But she was positive he wouldn't touch an entry written in old French. Perhaps, one day, he'd even grow perceptive enough to realize the words weren't meant for him.

And if not, my nieces will certainly keep him occupied.

Smiling, Saya started to write. The words flowed in a delicate script, like floral etchings. If Haji saw the writing, he would instantly recognize it. After all, it was she who had taught him to write this way.

Just as he, in his own way, had repaid the favor by teaching her how to live.

It was never just about duty. Not for you, or for me.

I understand that now.

The words came slowly at first. But soon, pages were filled, a come sopra of relived memory. The first few lines, like the prelude of a penny-dreadful novella, began like this:

"New York, 1968. It was a chilly December evening. Haji and I had just stepped off the 6-train…"

So, obviously. The entire fic was more or less a retelling from Saya's eyes. Not quite a happy ending, but hopefully not an out-and-out downer, either. However, I'll leave that opinion upto you, my wonderful readers ;)

But anyhow. This is the part where I generally ask: what was the moral of this tale? Fate Drives Us Together? Bury Your Gays? Your Cheating Heart? Abuse is Okay When It's Female On Male? Deus Angst Machina with a side of Trauma Conga Line?

Or perhaps none of that. Perhaps… some stories just don't have morals.

Wait…Wtf am I saying? EVERYONE ought to know the moral of this story by now. It was drilled in from chapter 1.

Duty. Duty. Duty. DUTY.

Well…actually, it wasn't quite about duty. A large concept of this fic was about growing up. Learning things about the world that don't quite match up with your expectations, being forced to fulfill obligations that don't really make you happy, discovering that not everything is black and white, that people you put on pedestals can be as flawed as anyone else, and realizing that you yourself are capable of doing things you never imagined you would do. Both good and bad.

Well, that, and I always wanted to do an angsty Past!fic about SayaxHaji and Diva's Chevaliers. The concept sprang into my head one day and would not leave me alone until I'd typed it down. The result of that faraway brain-spawn is now before you, in all its wordy, longassed 36 chapter glory XD

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the story! Profuse thanks to those who stuck around to read this to its end, and for all their fantastic comments and criticisms! Feedback's probably one of the reasons I find fanficcing so much fun. You get to see how someone else interprets your ideas, and consequently learn just how different or similar people can be.

That said, remember: Just because the fic's complete, doesn't mean you can't tell me how it is, or offer opinions on what could have been changed/improved. Reviews are yum! *bats eyelashes at Alerters/Favoriters. And lurkers too. ( I know you're out there…MWAHAHAWA!)*

Also, anyone wanna offer suggestions on what I could write about next? SayaXHaji, SayaxSolomon or otherwise? I have some spare time looming over the horizon, and am in the mood for one-shots…

Till then, happy trails and keep smiling! ;)