Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Mushishi belong to Yuki Urushibara and its publishers/producers. They have been used without permission, with no mean intent and no desire for numeration. I claim nothing but love for Yuki Urushibara's work and the stories on these pages. Still, please don't use, forward or archive this story without permission.

This one's for my Dad.

Written for octopedingenue in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge

She was not expecting him, and yet she knew the moment he arrived. Tanyuu's heart quickened as she heard the knock on the door, Tama's voice informing her of his return. He had been returning more and more frequently of late, always with new stories and, sometimes, strange souvenirs. She did not quite know what to make of that, what to hope for.

Someday, she thought, I will not have to simply watch him walk away, helplessly wait for his return. Someday, I will learn with my own eyes the other places he holds in his heart.

Tama does not quite approve of Ginko. Tanyuu spends more time with him than all the others, speaks to him of things other than mushi, and Tama begrudges the time he takes away from their work. Still, she respects him as an accomplished mushishi and acknowledges his occasional aid.

Tama sounded slightly exasperated as she informed Tanyuu that their visit would have to wait till morning as she'd sent the grey-haired mushishioff to bed. "Dead on his feet, practically," she sniffed. "Heaven only knows what trouble he's been up to." Despite the acid in her tone, Tanyuu could hear the slight worry in her voice, watermarks of her caring nature.

She thanked Tama for the message, bent obediently back to her work to please her guardian. She'd been tiring a moment ago but now found she had the strength to continue, the energy to smile.

Ginko had returned.

There are holes in the world, holes that are left when someone dies. It is simple physics, after all. When something that had occupied a living space disappears, when an existence that was no longer is, a vacuum is left. They are left inside their homes, in the hearts and minds of those who had loved them, in the lives they had touched. Their absence is felt in the places they had occupied, in the animals they had fed, the plants they had watered, even the pathways they had walked. These holes are not always evident but they are always there. Most are miniscule, but some are large enough to swallow worlds.

There are holes that are left when something dies, but over time, other things come to fill them, to heal the tears in the fabric of life. Other people, other loves, other joys. In most cases, even the largest, rawest, most jagged wound will heal. Over time.

There are mushi, called dakkan, that help with this healing, smoothing over the edges of the wound, like a balm, soothing the hurt, allowing things, allowing light, to flow into the gaping hole and fill it. Dakkan are very rare, invisible to all but the strongest mushishi eyes. People say that the only way one can tell dakkan are present is by their smell. Even in the darkest, dankest places, dakkan smell like sunlight.

But there are other mushi, called akkan, that do the exact opposite. Like, a jealous dog akkan reject the things that heal, gnawing away at the ragged edges of the hole, keeping it raw, worrying at it so it cannot heal. Over time, akkan only make the hole bigger, taking what is healthy, until the infected being becomes more and more empty, more and more hollow. If the gods are kind, the being will only die. If not, then it, too, will disappear, be eaten away completely, and the akkan, having taken all its strength, its place in the world, will become something else entirely.

A tokoyami, some say. Some say perhaps something even worse.

The woman's name was Haruko, and she had not spoken for four years. Not since the death of her husband and her child, both ripped out of her arms by a flash flood. She had not moved at all in the last year, and only the love and patient care of her family allowed her to survive.

In the beginning, her family and friends had kept their distance, wishing to respect her pain. Such a tragedy, they all said, such a blow. Who could blame her for withdrawing, for choosing to mourn her loss? She had always been a cheerful, pragmatic child, and they had believed she would recover, given time. They realized their mistake too late. They had left her alone too long and the akkan had taken hold of her body, burrowed their way into the heart of her being.

When he reported this to the man who had hired him, the man only looked at Ginko uncomprehendingly. His name was Shin, and he had been the childhood friend of both the woman and her husband.

"Then what do we do?" Shin demanded, over and over again. "What can we do?"

"Holes must be filled to heal," Ginko said. "It is the only way."

"I don't understand."

"Many things can fill a heart, a body, a life," explained Ginko, patiently. "Love, joy, memories, hope. Even anger, hate, and pain. But her pain was too great, so she emptied herself of it all, everything that she had lost that day, everything that she felt. The akkan fed on that emptiness and, in turn, the emptiness spread more and more inside her. If it continues to grow, soon she'll be completely hollow. She'll be nothing more than a shell."

He did not tell Shin the rest, the worst.

"Then what can we do?" Shin asked again. "Please, there must be something we can do."

They tried food first, trying to tempt her with delicacies. She did not fight them when they tried to feed her, forcefully opening her mouth to place her favorite sweets on her tongue, but neither did she respond.

They tried poetry, music, next-she had loved to sing, Shin said-to no avail.

Brightly colored ribbons and silk dresses followed; vibrant flowers, brilliant koi in crystal boxes, exuberant puppies, even a puppet show-all of her favorite things. One overly affectionate puppy went so far as to lick her face and chew on her obi. The outside of Haruko's house resembled a festival, and Ginko was reminded of a story he'd once heard, of a princess who could not laugh. He wondered if there would be fireworks next.

Her friends and family came, one after another, other relatives and neighbors, brothers and sisters bringing their spouses and their children, to remind her of the past, try to reach her with anecdotes of her childhood. There was not so much as a flicker in her eye, a glimpse of a smile, a glimmer of memory, in answer.

One younger sister, half-hysterical, actually slapped Haruko before being pulled away by her betrothed. Still, Haruko sat, unmoved as a porcelain doll.

Haruko's mother wept all throughout the afternoon, saying the entire affair was too much like a wake. That it felt as if she had lost her daughter, too, all those years ago, but was only now saying goodbye.

"She won't do it," her father told them, before he led his weeping wife away. "She's too stubborn, she always was. Always had her way, always knew her own mind. You could never make her do anything she didn't want to."

Shin nodded. "I remember," he acknowledged. "We were always following her, Akio and I. She was our leader, our rock. She was the strongest of us all."

They left one by one, defeated, until finally she was alone once more, with only Ginko and Shin staying behind, in the hut she had once shared with her husband and infant daughter.

"You may go, too," Shin told Ginko, finally, handing Ginko a bag of coins as his payment. "You have my gratitude for your help."

Ginko made no move to accept the bag. "I'll stay a bit longer, if you don't mind. Perhaps we shall think of something else to try."

Shin looked momentarily hesitant, then nodded. "Thank you, Ginko-san. I will be glad of the company, if nothing else.

Haruko's mother had been right, the day had been like a wake. The night, however, felt like a deathwatch, with Shin holding Haruko's hand grimly and silently through the hours. Ginko had to wonder if had done more harm than good this day. Before he came Haruko's family had at least held some hope she would recover. Because of him they had given up.

And how was he to tell Shin that the woman he loved (and Shin did love Haruko, all could see it plain as day) could very well turn into a monster at the very end, and that it was his duty as a mushishi to destroy her? Sometimes, it was simply not worth it, Ginko thought. Sometimes he hated being a mushishi.

"Perhaps," Ginko suggested, softly, "it would be better if you left as well. I can take care of Haruko-san for now."

Shin shook his head stubbornly.

"It might be best," Ginko pressed. He did truly did not want Shin to be present at the end. Shin might try to stop him, for one thing, and Ginko could not allow that to happen. He could end up hurting Shin more than he already had.

"It was my fault," Shin whispered, lowly. "It was my fault this happened."

Ginko shook his head. "You couldn't have known, Shin-san. Nobody could have."

"I left her alone," Shin said. "We promised each other, Akio and I. We both loved her and we promised that whatever happened, whomever she chose, we would always protect her, keep her safe. But I was too ashamed, felt too guilty. For living. For thinking it was my chance." He bent his head, raised her limp hand to press it against his forehead. "I couldn't face her, couldn't be near her. I could not bear it-missing him, thinking that. So I left her alone. When I finally came here it was too late."

"Shin-san-" began Ginko, only to be stopped short as Shin suddenly let go of Haruko's hand and grabbed both her shoulders, shaking her.

"Damn you, how could you do this? To yourself, to him, to us? I loved him, too! He was my friend, my brother. Losing him nearly killed me, too!" He embraced her roughly, holding her tightly against himself. "Were grew up together, the three of us. We were always together. You were always the strongest, the center of our world. You were the one who made us alive. Akio loved you with all his soul. How could you just forget him, let him go like that, just let him fade away?" He started weeping, hiding his face, leaning on her shoulder. "And now you'll leave me, too," he whispered into her hair. "You'll be gone, too, and I'll be alone. The two of you left me behind before, but not like this. Not like this!" He sobbed, harshly, bitterly, clinging to Haruko's motionless body. "Please," he begged. "Don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't leave me alone."

Ginko stayed silent, unmoving, knowing there was nothing more he could say or do.

Finally, Shin ran out of strength. He slowly released Haruko, smoothing down the hair he had mussed, straightening her kimono, tenderly. Gently, he held her face between his hands and gazed into her unseeing eyes. He smiled, tremulously, tears continuing to fall. "Okay," he said, softly. "I could never deny you anything, you know that. If this is what you want, then okay."

"I'm sorry," he said again, then bent down to kiss her, full and open on the mouth, uncaring (or perhaps having forgotten) that Ginko was still watching.

Ginko began to look away, in respect and embarrassment, but a strange glow from the pair caught his eye. He thought, for a moment, that it was only the sparkle of Shin's tears, still flowing free down upon his face.

Shin sobbed, and his breath was caught in Haruko's mouth.

Suddenly, the room smelled like summer.

Shin missed the first flutter of Haruko's eyelashes, her eyes blinking in the dim light, but not the breath that hitched, caught, and then was returned to his own mouth. Startled, he moved to look at Haruko's face, touched the wetness there, tears that he not been the one to shed.

"She was so small," came the hoarse whisper, barely above a breath, so soft that Ginko wondered if he'd imagined it. "So beautiful. Akio said to name her Sumiko, after you. Then they were both gone." The face that had been so still, so impassive, suddenly twisted in pain, exploded into tears. Haruko keened, sobbing harshly into her hands, her body doubling up in agony. "Akio!" she screamed. She was practically voiceless, her throat long unused, but still she screamed. "Akio, oh my Akio! I'm sorry! My baby! Oh, gods!"

Shin held her, wept with her, until morning.

They were still holding each other when Ginko left, the sun burning bright and hot in the unbelievably blue sky.

"Thank you for that story," Tanyuu said. "It will be my honor to record it."

"Then why are you crying?" Ginko teased, gently. "The tale ended happily, the princess waking up with a kiss."

Tanyuu ignored Ginko's teasing, refusing to admit that her eyes were still misty and her breast still heavy with emotion. She had to concede Ginko's story had been more touching than usual, and she was torn between regret that Tama had not been present to hear it-surely, even Tama would have been moved by Shin and Haruko's story-and relief that her guardian had not been witness to her loss of composure.

Ginko would not stay long, he never did. She knew enough to take advantage of the time he was willing to give her. "Will you tell me another tale?" she requested. "Of mushi, of your travels, before Tama-san returns to escort you to the archives?"

Ginko shook his head. "That is my only story today," he informed her. "And I am not here to visit your repository this day. I came here only to see you, expressly to share this story with you. Call it a strange compulsion." He stood up. "Now, then, I believe I saw some wild flowers growing on our favorite hill and we have a few hours of daylight left. Shall we go outside?"

Strange, Tanyuu thought, as she wrapped her arms around Ginko's neck so he could carry her outside. She had never noticed before that he smelled of the open air, of trees, of sunlight.

She could still smell him on her skin, days after he had gone.

the end