Chapter Text
It’s difficult to be quiet but you manage somehow.
Somehow, you pick up the bag underneath the bed without alerting him.
Somehow, you tiptoe out the door that creaks just a bit too loud but not enough to wake him. You shrug on a worn jacket - the best one you have - and drape a threadbare scarf over your shoulders. Items you put haphazardly on the couch to not draw attention to them.
Somehow, you remind yourself not to run, just walk, gently across cold hardwood floors to the front door on sock covered feet.
It’s only when you shut that door behind you, armed with a bag and boots in your free hand do you start to rush. Shoving feet into the boots, zipping up the jacket, tightening the scarf around your throat and then you’re off.
Racing down the stairs, free hand gripping the railing to keep from falling or losing your footing until you burst out of the apartment building itself. The air burns your cheeks that flush instantly from the cold, snow drifting in heavy flakes that soon coats your hair. With a deep breath and glance up at the third floor, you turn and walk, tugging the bag over your shoulder so you can wrap yourself in your arms.
It’s a terrible, frigid night that most people would balk at walking in. It’s a wonderful, perfect chance for you.
Though the train station sits only a few blocks away from where you are, it feels like miles. By the time you actually enter the station, everything is numb and cold, fingers throbbing as you reach the station, just on time. Right at five in the morning, you’re greeted by a curious but polite worker who takes your money to a destination far from this place. With the ticket in hand, you wander about the platform, anxiety bubbling in your stomach as the minutes tick by. Soon, you glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning for a familiar body, large and imposing with dark hair and even darker eyes. Thankfully you never spot him as the train pulls in on the dot, right at five thirty and you rush to be the first person on.
The seat in the corner is the one you take, bag clutched to your chest as you wait for everyone else to get on. It’s not a very full car and those that do board look sleepy or barely aware of their surroundings, sitting with yawns and cups of coffee to nurse on their journey. Hunger gnaws on your stomach but you figure it’ll be better to wait until the train is actually moving before trying to eat the snacks waiting in the bag. You stare at the doors, breath catching as the last call for your destination sounds out… then another… before finally, the doors close.
Everything in you goes slack and you slump against the bench, eyes fluttering shut as the train jolts forward and you feel as though you can breathe properly. Fishing out your phone, you offer a few texts to those that truly need it, namely your best friend and parents, when a text pops up on the screen.
Where are you?
Your heart races and you swallow, fingers frozen. Another text comes through, this time it’s just your name and you fight to keep your breathing even. Reminding yourself that soon there will be miles and miles between yourself and him. He texts again and you can hear the anger through the simple words before the phone calls start. One after another and each time you hit decline only for his name to pop again, bold font and demanding. After the third decline, he leaves a voice message that you will never listen to and more texts.
Why aren’t you answering me?
Where the fuck did you go?
Tell me.
Answer your fucking PHONE!
That’s when you decide that maybe having your phone isn’t the best idea. You know that blocking is an option but it’s one that you’ve tried in the past… the last time you did this. Only he was able to find you by some GPS bullshit and weasel his way back into your life. But you had been younger then, more naive, more hopeful that just maybe his escalating behavior wasn’t that bad. Sure he could lose his temper but he never hit you. He was just worried, that was his favorite line when roping you back into his violent world.
He was so worried, he tried isolating you and making sure you could only ever rely on him and nobody else.
This time, it’ll be different.
With a deep breath, you shoot off more texts to your parents and dearest friend, explaining that something’s come up. That you’ll need to get a new phone number because someone is harassing you but please don’t worry and you’ll text them as soon as you’re able to. After shooting an email to yourself, all of the contacts you truly want to save along with a few pictures of better times, you with friends, you in a cute outfit for going out, your old family cat… you factory reset your phone.
And just to be safe, you leave it on the train once you get to your destination.
Starting over isn’t easy but you feel a weight off your shoulders with each step you take at being independent again.
A town, almost a village, nestled at the base of a mountain full of trees and animals and life is where you end up. Nothing like the big city and you’re okay with that. It’s fine that there aren’t many places to go for food or drinks, that getting around without a car can be a little tedious depending on the situation. Sure the small house you’ve found to rent has seen better days with its creaky backdoor, sometimes bad water pressure and cramped bathroom but at least it’s yours. The owner of the house even gave it to you on the cheap, a nice enough but cranky older woman who often came around with incense and fresh vegetables or fruits from the farmer’s market. “One of these breezes is gonna knock you over if you don’t eat more!”
It’s endearing and a bit smothering but you take the attention with a smile because that just seems to be how everyone in town is. You make sure to use everything, including the incense and find that it’s a nice smell, agarwood with spicy ginger.
Since you came in a month or so ago by the good will of a stranger with a beat up car, the locals have a habit of butting into your business. Most of them mean well, wanting to know where you’re from, why you decided to come to this place of all places in Japan and if you’re getting along fine. But some of them have a hint of suspicion, not sure what to think about the random city girl trying desperately to blend into their little community. You do your best to ignore those that pry a little too much, sidestepping questions that err on the side of rude rather than honest curiosity.
Still, it’s a nice enough place and you find it easy to settle into a routine.
You work at a little bakery, learning how to knead and proof bread, how to bake up delicate pastries like macarons and eclairs. The shop owner is a gruff man, a true pastry chef who - according to the rumor mill that’s fierce in this place - once made fancy, elaborate cakes for celebrities and prime ministers. He didn’t seem keen on hiring you at first but did so because you were the only one that was eager for the job unlike the local teens.
The first few weeks are difficult, Mr. Aizawa being a rather blunt teacher that has no issues telling you whenever you mess up. At one point he even holds up a rather flat loaf that’s supposed to be fluffy and says, “this feels like a brick and brick bread doesn’t sell.” Before tossing the very dense loaf onto the table and the thud it makes has you wincing. After that, you make damn sure to proof the dough and use the correct amount of yeast to avoid more “brick bread”. It’s not easy but as you learn how to fold butter and dough to make the flakiest, tenderest croissants, you wonder if just maybe you’ve found a new calling.
Mr. Aizawa even begins leaving the shop in your care for a few hours at a time, grumbling about doing inventory in the back where large bags of flour or sugar are held along with other ingredients. It’s only after retrieving a few items from the storage area do you realize what he’s actually doing. Napping in a sleeping bag of all things and you are both miffed and amused by the aspect that this is your boss’s version of inventory. Still, he only leaves you alone after the rush of customers and is quick to return to the front if he hears you call for him. He also offers a few compliments, small as they are, they’re there and to the point. He especially likes the fact you’ve caught on so well to piping frosted cat faces on the macarons and sugar cookies and… really anything that looks like it could use one.
It’s hard but rewarding work and you wonder what your parents would think if you admit your college degree may be for nothing if this is your life now. Not to say that you’ll be living in this little town for the rest of your life but the idea of doing so isn’t too daunting.
Though there is a dull ache at times in your heart from missing your friends and family, it’s easier to deal with than the anxiety and panic of living with him. Besides, you made sure to buy a new phone as soon as possible and text those important to you that you’re safe. You didn’t tell them the exact town you were in, just a vague area, but that did ease their concerns a little bit.
Winter thaws into spring and the routine you’ve made is easy enough, if a bit boring. After a long day of preparing a wedding cake with Mr. Aizawa’s help, you wave at the last customer of the day, practically ushering them out the door to lock it behind them as soon as the clock hits two. With a sigh of relief, you wander into the back where your boss sits at a little desk in the corner of the room. His laptop and some papers are spread across the surface and he writes down a few things on what looks to be another wedding cake order. “All done up there.”
“Two finally?” He glances at his watch then clicks his tongue and mumbles, “guess it is. What are your plans for today?”
It’s a question that you ponder, trying to picture another day of staying around the house to catch up on some reading or tv but find it unappealing. The entirety of your week has been work, home, work, home and it’s starting to feel monotonous. “I don’t know.” You finally answer, taking off your apron and tugging off the bandana that keeps your hair out of everything. “I could go home but I’ve been home a lot lately. Is there anything around here I can walk to?”
Dark eyes flicker to you and he raises an eyebrow, “you’ve pretty much seen everything this town has, kid.” A frown comes onto your face and he presses his lips together, hesitating, pen tapping on the desk as he says, “there… is one place, I can think of. Dunno if it’s up your alley though.”
“Well don’t leave me in suspense, what is it?”
“If you’re really that bored, you can go visit the shrine.”
Now that’s news and you frown, pointing out, “I didn’t know there was one around here.” Though you have seen them before in the city, the shrines you remember tend to be a bit touristy, quite a few foreigners walking around constantly to take pictures and talking a little too loud.
A shrug and he scratches at the stubble on his cheek, admitting, “it’s a little thing compared to what you’re probably used to. I think you live right near it, actually. It’s a little up the mountain.”
“Really? Can anyone go see it or is it off limits?”
That has him stop tapping his pen and replying, “if you really want to. Not many people do, a lot of them say it’s creepy. If you go, just don’t break your ankle going up the stairs, alright? I know it’s not icy anymore but those steps are ancient.”
You smile and reassure him, “don’t worry, I won’t. You still need me bright and early right?” He nods and you glance around the room, looking for any spot that might need cleaning but find none. Still, you ask, “are you sure you don’t need anything else?” He waves you off, going back to writing the rather complicated looking cake order and that’s enough of a dismissal for you.
You gather up your things, throw your little bag over your shoulder and snag a few macarons before you leave. Something that Mr. Aizawa sees but shrugs off with a tired, “that just means you’ll be making extra tomorrow.” Before you duck out the backdoor and stretch in the sunlight.
Wanting out of your flour coated pants, you head back home to change, grateful that it’s only a fifteen minute walk from the bakery. Quickly throwing your dirty clothes into the hamper, you take a moment to freshen up by cleaning your face and brushing your hair before putting on a pair of leggings and a shirt. The idea of there being a shrine nearby is new, maybe a bit exciting since you’ve never been to one.
Armed with a decent pair of sneakers and a bag of sandwiches, water and macarons, you head out in search of the shrine.
It takes a bit of time to figure out where to go considering Mr. Aizawa wasn’t specific but with some googling and searching you find a long set of stone stairs leading up the mountain. They aren’t perfect, some are broken or cracked and seem a bit uneven but it feels… right. Compared to the shrines you can recall that look a little too neat, a bit too pristine, this one feels like a place of nature. With a deep breath, you start up the long climb and take in the surrounding trees and underbrush, catching sight of skittering squirrels and all sorts of birds that sing and fly. Though winter has officially passed, there is still a chill in the air and you make a note to bring a light jacket next time.
That is if you come back.
A light sweat breaks over your brow by the time you reach the top, needing a few moments to collect yourself by resting on the top step. Panting a bit, you look down at where you started from and notice that it’s actually easy to take in most of the town from this height. Smiling, you dig out the water bottle and take a long drink from it before mustering the energy to stand up again.
With a quick glance, you find that the cobblestone all around is just as rustic as the stone stairs and take care not to trip over the uneven surface. Passing the rather pretty shrine gate that is a dark wood, almost black, with accents of bright blue paint at the top, you find yourself in front of a humble shrine. Though not large in size, the coloring is interesting and you can only imagine what it looked like in its prime. It’s made up of the same dark wood as the shrine gate, though the wood seems more worn with an elegant faded gold gable roof and the actual sliding door holds a bluish tint. Moving to the steps leading up to the door, you dare not open it and instead admire the careful carvings along the pillars that hold up the roof. Depictions of fire swirl about, creating a unique design and one that you resist tracing.
It’s a beautiful place and you make a note to thank Mr. Aizawa for mentioning it. You settle on the steps, careful not to lean back and take out your lunch, figuring there’s no harm in eating as you enjoy the quiet sounds of nature. While it is a little unsettling not having constant sounds of people milling about, it isn’t an unpleasant experience. Taking care not to leave any plastic behind, you put the baggies back into your bag but pause at the sight of the macarons you snatched earlier.
Cute cat faces stare up at you, piped by your own hand and you smile, biting into the blueberry one and savor the flavor. Your stomach protests with the idea of eating the other two, not with a long trek down and after a moment of debate, you turn towards the door, eyes roaming about the sleek but worn architecture.
You stand up and decide to put the last two macarons on the offering plate in front of the door. As you crouch down though, you see it’s cracked right in the middle, split in a way that suggests someone went out of their way to break it. A heartbreaking idea and one you frown at. You decide that if you do come back, maybe you’ll bring a plate of your own. Brushing off the dirt and leaves, you put the macarons down, the uglier of the two on the bottom and the prettier one right on top. The idea of praying to someone or something you don’t believe in seems a little silly, so instead you talk in hushed tones about how grateful you are to be in a new place and wonder what other secrets the town has to offer.
The weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter as you give a bow and smile, staring at the silly macarons and finish up your stream of thoughts, “until next time.”
With that, you head back down the mountain, the sun already beginning to set and you don’t notice the curious gaze following your back. A pair of burning blue eyes take in the little pastries left behind and a pale hand picks up the top cookie to examine the cat face before biting into the little morsel.