The painting hung on the wall of the dimmed room, surrounded by many others. It showed a bridge. A broken bridge, a ruined bridge, the center of vast destruction. Behind it was a magnificent sunset, beautiful crimsons and golds contrasting with stark gray. The artist who had created the painting died soon after it was finished. The painting was his last work, and his only one. He had been a penniless boy, a dropout from art school who died tragically at a young age. The painting was admired by the world for a brief while, then faded into obscurity, kept in a small gallery on the outskirts of the suburb most damaged by the earthquakes. No one wanted to be reminded, then, of the massive earthquakes that had devastated the city and claimed thousands of lives. Tokyo wanted only to forget; to leave the past behind and move on. The artist had died in an earthquake. ----- Night in Tokyo held a life and vibrancy all its own, even when half the city lay in ruins. The portions of the city which hadn't been destroyed were alive with frentic activity, as if its inhabitants were suddenly aware of the fragility of life and were determined to enjoy it while they could. Tokyo hadn't changed much, after all. He could sense the life that still filled the city. It came to him in waves of emotion as he walked the silent path. People, humans rebuilding what was left of their old lives- he shut them out. There was no place for life in the part of the city where he was, surrounded by death and despair. Unlike much of the land surrounding it, the lane and most of the buildings flanking it were largely intact. Only deserted, grey, and dark. Even the streetlamps seemed strangely muted, casting a dim light that somehow made the lane seem grayer. He didn't know why he had come to this place, instead of staying in the other half of the city. But it seemed to fit, somehow, him being in this place where there was neither life nor purpose. He was a man dressed in the remains of an expensive coat, tugging at the very end of a cigarette. It was his last one, but he didn't care. No reason now to smoke. He watched the spirals of grey smoke drifting up into the sky, then stopped. A light had caught his eye- the light of a small lamp burning in the window of one of the buildings. Although the paint of the facade had faded, and the wall showed cracks, a plaque with elegant calligraphy hung over the doorway. An art gallery. He hesitated a while, then walked in through the doorway. The place was surprisingly well lit, with illumination provided by numerous old fashioned oil lamps, with no electric lights in sight. Taken aback, he only stood and looked around. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been this. A sound from behing, between a hoarse laugh and a cough. He whirled around only to find an onld lady, dressed in old-fashioned kimono. There were flowers patterned on it- common flowers, yet celebrated for their beauty. He loved them, he hated them, he didn't know anymore. Just the sight of them brought so many different feelings to him- Speaking. Words came to him, but he couldn't tell what they were. Words of hate, or of love? He couldn't tell. There was no emotion to them. Speaking. The old woman was speaking. Her voice was like her cough- or laugh; harsh and somewhat like a record playing on an old gramophone. He forced himself to listen, and when she finished, he forced himself to nod. He could think of nothing else to do. Then he walked forward, into the gallery. It was larger than he had expected, and full of not just paintings, but other works of art- woodcuts, metalwork, sculpture, pottery. Old pieces, artefacts that carried bits of soul in their facets and shades, like faded memories left to linger after time had long departed. Some of them had enough presence left in them to call out to him, and call out they did. They called out to him, and he let the voices wash over him. They felt all the same, whether of joy or of sorrow. He didn't feel anything anymore. Just numbness, and a mild appreciation for the beauty that surrounded him. Then it caught his eye. It was just a landscape, a modern piece by an unknown artist, and therefore not valuable, but for it he stopped breathing, briefly. A scene of rich crimson and gold, the backdrop for a twisted and ruineed black bridge of steel and concrete. And, silhouetted in the setting sun- a solitary bird of prey. Rainbow Bridge. Hands reached for the painting, although he did not recall telling them to do so. The glass that separated his skin from the watercolors was cold and hard, but fragile. He remembered- "I could break a glass, and I would feel the same way I would, were I to break you." His hands clenched, pressing upon the cold hard glass, and he whispered a word. "Seishirou-san." A voice answered him. "That one is gone now." He could hear it only in his mind, which meant it was wholy spirit, but had it been otherwise, it would have been a deep baritone, gravelly and with overtones that reminded Subaru of /him/. Subaru's hands pressed harder on the glass, and in the lamplight it gleamed dull red as blood flowed over it. There was pain, but he felt strangely detached from it all, staring at the liquid as it stained the clear glass. In it, he could see images, shards of memory as sharp and painful as the glass embedded in his knuckles. The voice spoke again. "Such a waste