Acanthus

Then, one day, I came home from school and her Mom wasn’t there. I checked the bedrooms and outside. I tried to peek inside the study, but the door was locked. I thought nothing of it. Mom had started visiting her sister-in-law again. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for her to be late. I made Koji a snack and started on the evening chores. I moved laundry downstairs, washed a few of the dishes from last night, and set out the ingredients for dinner. It would be simple: a curry and some greens. Even Koji would eat curry, but I had to make sure his was not spicy like the rest of the fam

Winter shunned the initial predictions, proving bitter and hazy despite the lack of snow. The acanthus plant fought to stay alive even in the comfort of indoors. I spent my allowance on a small heater just for the plant. Dad grumbled about the electricity bill, but I caught him checking to make sure it was on more than once. Mom, on the other hand, seemed to be full of life again. It came without warning; she had simply woken up one day and decided that things needed to be done. Her demeanor was still reserved, and her conversations were still brief, but at least she was up and moving. Bu

Cold winds carried away what was left of fall. The seeds Dad and I bought had sprouted and died as expected. It was nothing close to what a mother’s love and care could produce, but it was more than an empty garden. Winter came, and my garden died for the first time. Through my efforts, the acanthus persisted. I doggedly watered, moved, and cared for it like a child of my own. When it grew large enough, I talked Dad into buying a bigger container. Every evening, I carefully selected the leaves that would become Mom’s bedtime tea. I had tried some myself; it had a strong, green taste

Late in the fall, I recall precariously tipping a boiling kettle over a tiny mug. At the bottom rested four miniscule leaves. The acanthus plant was barely grown, but I was worried about Mom. She had stopped making trips to her sister or even her mother’s grave. I quietly approached her mom with the watery tea, lifting it to the table like an offering. Mom sat at her usual chair at the kitchen table, looking outside with a hollow stare. When I set the tea down a little too hard, Mom jumped a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. You’re so quiet sometimes, my little flower.” I told h

Upon the old farmer’s advice, I did not plant the herb outside. Everyone knew that winter would be mild, but the plant would thrive in the warm indoors and with plenty of sunlight. I attended the plant with a zeal that surprised even myself. Every day, I checked on the sprout for even the smallest spots of yellow on the leaves. I rotated my prized possession carefully, swapping windows two or three times a day to ensure it got exactly what it needed to grow. I bought three books about caring for plants and what different blemishes meant and how to fix them. Some of the words were too hard

When we got home, Dad surprised me by rolling up his sleeves, turning the soil and preparing the garden with Haru. “Your mother normally does not let me in her garden,” he grunted as he worked. “I am prone to… making things worse. But I suppose a poorly planted garden is better than one not planted at all.” I nodded without understanding. I was simply happy to be out in the garden with him. It wasn’t the halcyon days with Koji and Mom, but half a halcyon memory was better than none. Dad seemed to think so as well; though stoic, he gave occasional sighs that almost resembled contentment. M

“This,” one wrinkled farmer said, “is a very special herb. It’s not used to living here—it’s at home in the warmer climates of mainland Asia. But it grows tall and hearty with the right care.” “Does it… do anything?” I delicately brushed a budding leaf. I still remember how smooth, how young it felt under my shaking finger. A world of possibility in a handful of dirt. “Pluck the leaves off and they make a tea that cures any illness.” “Anything?” The farmer smiled. “Anything.” I left with Dad and about three garden’s worth of seeds. Dad tried to pay for as much as possi

One of the last farmers was a wrinkled old man who looked old enough to be Dad’s grandfather. He was one of the few vendors who had remained patiently while I looked over the stalls, never rushing me. The farmer had a fantastic collection of native and foreign plants. None of them seemed like things that mom had grown, but they were new and exciting, and I listened with rapt attention as the old farmer explained each of the things he sold. He seemed more a storyteller than a shopkeeper. Each of his wares was accompanied by a story so strange or embellished that even I knew they weren’t re

The first cold front of fall signaled the change of the seasons. The garden had been stripped and harvested of its produce, ready to be replanted with hardy, cold-weather crops. Just last year I had to beg Mom to let me help plant the seeds. Now, Mom was telling me that we would get around to it later. But she had never waited this long before. I was distraught, so I went to Dad. I remember calling him in tears in the late afternoon, when he had barely started his shift. Through quiet, hiccuping sobs, I asked dad if he would help plant the garden. Within the hour, we were driving out to M

Summer began to wind down, and Mom was no better than she had been. She had yet to return to any semblance of routine, including tending to her precious domain. Instead, I labored in the garden with the desperate vigor of a man resuscitating his child. Twice a day I ventured into that hallowed green space to water. And I hated pulling up anything green, because everything deserved to grow, but I knew that the weeds had to die to make room for the vegetables and flowers. So I would lay the weeds gently in the compost, offering a solemn apology to each thing I uprooted. It felt like years s

The summer heat passed by in a daze. I became good enough at doing the laundry and was teaching myself how to cook. Dad did the dishes and any other chores he could complete while no one was looking. Koji was young enough that nobody thought to burden him with the household chores. And Mom still kept to herself. She would either spend the days in bed, or visiting her sister-in-law, or her mom’s grave. We each tried cheering her up in our own ways. Koji was a chatterbox, and often sat on her lap, rambling away about anything his mind thought of. Mom would sit and listen politely, ruffling

When those duties had dried up, Mom wilted in the privacy of her home. That summer, the Masuda house ground to a halt as the rest of the family learned how much we had relied on her diligence and care. Dishes stacked up, and laundry was no longer magically whisked away for cleaning. Mom even let the garden, her pride and joy, wither in the heat. Watching the garden waste away changed something in Dad. Begrudgingly—but without complaint—he stepped in to split the housework with me and Koji. “Your mother is sad, but she won’t always be sad. She’ll get better in time.” But I wasn’t sure

In spring, my grandmother passed away. I was nine. Mom was the picture-perfect grieving daughter at the funeral. She greeted guests warmly, took time to hear their stories, added stories of her own, and thanked them for coming with a smile that reached her eyes. Mom was appropriately sad yet ultimately functional as she spoke a beautiful eulogy over her mother’s ashes. I couldn’t understand a lot of it, but the sobs from around the room told me that the message was on point. In the weeks afterwards, Mom toiled to send out personalized responses to every card and kind wish she had rec

In the moments between her ever growing worry, Acanthus thought about what Morrígan said. Was Kumaki a friend? Her familiar occupied a less familiar space in her heart. Something closer than an acquaintance. As difficult as the bear cub could be, there was a sweetness to her that Acanthus deeply appreciated. Even in her silliest, most frustrating moments, Kumaki was nothing but genuine. And here I’ve been, spending my time doubting her. Her fears melted away, replaced for a moment by anger at herself. She could do better, because her familiar deserved better. She wasn’t sure what that loo

Soundtrack (I suggest opening them all and queuing them in order. These should be timed to last the time it takes to read the thread) Winter's Silent Voices Lief Tear Cloud Everything's Alright -------------------- Winter came, and Mom’s garden died for the last time. Her last crop had teemed with life. Vegetables and flowers sprawled across the landscape, fighting with all their might to escape the bounds set for them, despite careful sculpting and pruning to keep them confined. The effect was something like a painting: washes of color that made little sense when the viewe

Maybe the real PKers were the friends we made along the way (sign me up)

Baldur told the history of Aincrad with a sense of personality that the written logs couldn’t capture. Acanthus had already pored over Aincrad’s past through the incidental information gleaned from the game: change logs, epilogues from completed quests, and even the Monument of Life. But that was a fragmented story told through the black and white of numbers. Hearing the stories behind the boss fights flooded those visualizations with color. “Overpreparing shouldn’t be an issue. I was in a time crunch for the last boss, but the frontlines move at a slow pace. This time, I’ll prepare for e

Acanthus paused for a moment to think. As much as she wanted to hurry, she knew that slowing down would keep the situation under control. Where would she go off to hide? “Kumaki isn’t one for holes in the ground, outside of falling into them by accident. Despite her clumsiness, she is a good swimmer. But she prefers to be around water rather than in it. I think the best place to start would be moving out towards the creek east of us. That’s where we were initially foraging for supplies before she decided to run into you and Phantom.” Phantom circled around the two in a smooth, contro

Acanthus fought to remain neutral as Baldur observed her, busying herself with the tea instead. She gingerly picked up the teapot, pouring her mug a little too full. She cupped her hands around the mug and embraced its warmth as she pondered a response. First, Acanthus made a mental note to ask for details about the tournament. She hadn’t heard much about player versus player combat. It was a method of training she could explore in the future, perhaps. Acanthus decided to rip the bandage off the most embarrassing thing first. “Callisto was my first boss fight.” Acanthus watched the vapors

“Not as many,” she grunted back. She eyed the four nearest bandits. They would have to do. Acanthus ripped the sword art from the clutches of Cardinal, determined to bend it to her will. The need to stop and settle into position, or wait for the damn thing to “charge up”; it was all thoughtless obedience to her unsure beginnings. Before she knew how to handle a sword, Acanthus would pause thoughtfully, conditioned to hear the chime before allowing the system to finish the strokes. The game knew best, after all. Except it didn’t. Sword Arts settled into routines at the cost of efficie

“Thank you.” Acanthus took the seat she was offered, sliding comfortably onto the cushion. The peaceful sounds of the dojo surrounded her, and it took all her concentration to bring herself back to the moment and talk with Baldur, rather than listen to the sounds of wind and water. “There’s no need to apologize. We may live on the same floor, but it’s still quite a journey. I wanted an estate, which made it difficult to find somewhere inside town. And given my late entrance to the housing market here, many of the good locations were taken. I ended up settling on a nice plot of land outsid

The strange creature ballooned, and then deflated. Acanthus waited for the mob to crash and shatter into the typical blue triangles. Staring at the black puddle on the floor, Acanthus slowly realized it was not going to happen. Everything about this floor acted differently. First it was the lack of a safe zone, now the monsters. The frontlines needed to clear this floor as quickly as possible. There were too many uncertainties to linger. A scream and a crash erupted from the main square, and Acanthus was sprinted before she knew it. It had only been a matter of time before something big h

Acanthus followed her instructions dutifully, pausing for a moment to get her bearings. She had made it to the edge of the main island on Floor 24. Now, where was the boat? The lone swordswoman wandered along the coastline for a spell before she saw it—not the boat, but the floating Torii. She relaxed, confident that she was in the right place. Clutching her gift in one hand, she guided the boat gently toward the portal. A confirmation window asked if she wanted to visit Breidabilk. Her finger brushed “accept.” Without thinking, she offered a quick prayer as she passed through the gate. Let me

Maybe it was all the manifesting she was doing. But something about the fight *was* fun. The more she fought, the less she thought. The less she thought, the more relaxed she became. “I get it,” she said. “Oz is the king of the weirdos.” She didn’t actually believe that. Why was she saying that? “That’s what gives the competition some stakes. But if you’re not up for it, then I suppose we can make a loss more palatable for you.” Acanthus actually found Oz endearing the few times they had met. I mean, she wouldn’t trust him in a locked room with her shop’s inventory. And he was the kind of

Acanthus listened intently as Morrígan talked about her shop. She was a natural salesperson; despite Acanthus’ lack of interest in clothes, she found herself drawn in by the topic. “I’ll have to come by soon. I feel like I should have more than a handful of outfits to choose from. But frankly, most of the time I leave the house, I’m on a quest, and when I’m on a quest, my outfit is picked out for me.” She sheepishly adjusted some of her armor. “Even right now. I didn’t anticipate going on a quest in particular, and here I am, dressed in armor and carrying a sword when neither are necessary. I