Gin and Kuro: The Greatest Stories

Seiko kept herself busy. Everyone assumed it was to cope with taking a life, but her voices’ reaction to the violence bothered her more. It was easier to ignore them—their demands for more fighting, the delusions they gave her of blood on her hands, their stronger suggestions to turn against the royal family—when her own thoughts were focused wholly on something else.

She resumed helping with the summer festival as if nothing happened; as if she hadn’t killed a man and didn’t spend a full day shaken and withdrawn. No one questioned her. No one—except for the voices, at least—blamed that rebel’s death on her, nor thought it appropriate to even bring up the first battle in her presence.

One stall owner needed help piecing together fabric dolls, so Seiko offered to help. All she had to do was sew on the limbs—the stall owner said she could handle stuffing on her own, unless Seiko happened to have time later.

She let the chatter of passerby act as background noise, otherwise devoting most of her attention to the dolls. She weaved the thread in and out through the fabric, smiling when she could tell it pulled closer together.

“Good morning, Tsujihara.”

She jumped at the sudden noise. Kinjo gave an apologetic look in response, but she shook it off and gave a little smile before he could say anything.

“Good morning. Do you want to help?”

“Not quite,” Kinjo admitted, shifting to a sheepish grin. “I’m terrible at stitching—I can never get the spacing right.”

“It takes a bit of practice.” She paused for a second, then gestured to the spot next to her. “Would you like to keep me company, then? I still have a few more to go.”

“Thank you; I’d be glad to.”

A bit awkwardly—he’s been like this since he gave her the komainu figurine—he took a seat. He didn’t immediately say anything; just watched and admired the three dolls she put together so far. Each one had a distinct color palette; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. White and black were reserved for the fancier porcelain dolls.

Kinjo leaned over to pick up one of the finished dolls.

“A lot of thought went into these,” he noted.

“The stall owner told me she made a set of six each year,” Seiko explained. “Most of them are gone by sunset, I hear, on their way to daughters or sisters.”

“We mostly have porcelain dolls at home,” Kinjo said, putting the doll back down. “A lot of them are shelved and put up the following year. My sister once bought a whole stock and gave them out to the girls in our territory; then she kept a few and hid them around the house.”

“That seems like something Masaaki would do, from what I know of him.”

“Oh, I think he helped her.” Kinjo chuckled, his caution fading. “Imagine Masaaki, but just a bit more chaotic with a penchant for dry humor and scaring the living daylights out of people, and you’ve pretty much got Kinjo Nayano.”

She managed a little smile as she pictured it. The concept of siblings seemed as foreign as that of a father—she knew who they were, but she couldn’t see herself fully in that role. At this point, at least, she was merely a stranger to them and vice versa. She could imagine what it was like, but didn’t think she would get to live it.

Seiko shuddered at the memory of the dying rebel and tried to shake it off and continue sewing. Maybe she didn’t really deserve to be with them—what if she hurt them?

And yet…what if that was just the murmurs of the voices, and in actuality there wasn’t any harm in it? Could she even know for sure?

Kinjo’s murmur brought her out of her thoughts and back into the present. She opted to glance over at him in an effort to silence the doubts, once again noticing his blue eyes.

“Fabric dolls always seem to have more personality,” he mused. “They’re more common, sure, but they’re more likely to actually be played with. They get more scuffs and little openings that are sewn over and fixed, in addition to the imperfections from the creation process.”

“My mother preferred fabric dolls for that reason,” Seiko said. “The one porcelain doll I own was put up on a shelf almost as soon as I got it—it was supposed to be a toy, but it was too fragile for me to feel comfortable using it.”

Kinjo sat back and hummed. “It just…fascinates me, how much different stories these dolls could carry out. They could stay as they are and are seen as nobles or princesses; they could be modified to have horns, or tails, or wings, or even taken apart and sewn back together in a completely new project. A doll that started as being a ‘princess’ might get a cut near the eye and become a pirate, then maybe a dog would come along and snatch its hand and now she’s a battle-hardened admiral.”

Seiko laughed. He shifted back from enthusiasm to confusion as he gave her a quizzical look, and she explained.

“You’re very interested in this,” she noted. “I didn’t expect it, that's all.”

He blushed for a second before shaking it off, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

“I write stories in my spare time,” he confessed. “Inspiration strikes at odd times, I’ll admit, and you had to sit through it. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Seiko said, shaking her head. She smiled a bit and added, “I actually find it a bit endearing. Sharing stories about little objects like toys seems fascinating.”

Kinjo smiled back with some embarrassment remaining, then perked up.

“Another inspiration idea?” Seiko guessed based on his growing grin.

“Somewhat.” He completely turned towards her, curious and hopeful with none of his hesitance remaining anymore. “What if you, Masaaki, and I put on a little show, using toys as actors? Not during this festival, of course, but maybe in the fall or spring—just a little something to keep the children’s spirits up. I’d provide the script, you could make the puppets, and Masaaki could handle the puppetry itself.”

Seiko nodded. It seemed like a good enough chance as any to keep herself occupied, despite the voices’ mocking.

“I’d love to help.”

Kinjo laughed in some mix of relief and joy. Their eyes met for a moment, brown looking into blue and vice versa, until he jerked his head away and stood up.

“I’ll check and see if Masaaki would help,” he said. “I’ll see you later today, if not tomorrow?”

“Mhm.”

They exchanged little waves and he left. Seiko waited until he left sight before settling back into sewing, a faint smile remaining even as the voices mocked her for some kind of optimism.

They were the only ones that believed she needed to cause conflict, the only ones that encouraged her to do what she didn’t want to. Maybe eighteen years and some odd months was a good time to start truly challenging that, now that she had people who dulled the voices and would help her if they bothered her.