One early morning when I was a child, I came across a fragment of a dream on the beach. It was a warped, silver-colored oval, its edges chipped to reveal white beneath. When I lifted it up, sand spilled out of it, and it reflected the rays of the rising sun in sparkling, prismatic colors.
The object left a big impact on a child’s mind. I couldn’t believe that something so beautiful existed in real life. I genuinely believed that it had slipped out of a dreamworld. I learned at a later time that it was just an ordinary seashell, but to my child self, it was the first treasure I ever found. And even now, it was the most important guiding principle that I lived by.
I had once thought that I could never be someone, but that dream fragment was unquestionably what led me to embark on my journey.
“Ayame. It’s about time to take a break.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll reach a good stopping point soon, so wait a little longer,” I replied, my hands moving all the while.
Hiiragi showed no intention of moving from where he stood beside me. “I’ll take this to mean that you’ll obediently heed what the duchess says, but you won’t listen to the pleas of your concerned childhood friend.”
“Th-That’s not—”
“If you’re going to deny it, then the very least you could do is face the person you’re talking to.”
His tone was scolding—far removed from his usual teasing attitude. It made me reflexively put down my brush and timidly look up, meeting Hiiragi’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yes, as you should be.” The stern air surrounding Hiiragi softened. “I’m also in the wrong for trying to interrupt you while you’re working.”
Although he relented, I felt guilty and didn’t know what kind of face to make. This wasn’t the first time I had become so focused that I’d lost sight of my surroundings. It was a bad habit that I’d been admonished for many times since I was young.
I was an incompetent child. I had slow reflexes and a bad memory. Though I was an awful speaker, I was also awful at listening to other people speak. When I found something that interested me, it consumed all my attention, and I broke promises more than a few times because of that.
I kept making this same mistake over and over again, so I didn’t have any friends. The boys in my neighborhood bullied me, and I was hated by my brother and sister, who were much older than me. My parents inevitably neglected me as I failed at everything I tried. They would only lose face if they married me off, so they quickly gave up on that prospect and instead treated me as though I didn’t exist.
That should have been something to lament. However, I was relieved. Even if I fail, I won’t disappoint anyone anymore. If I have no one to talk to, then I won’t make anyone angry. Living alone and dying alone wouldn’t be so bad.
The only person who cared about me was my uncle, a man labeled as the village eccentric. He had left home before coming of age and was making a living as an artisan. When he showed me his creations—raden lacquerware—I trembled with excitement. The bird he’d created, perched on the branch of a camellia tree, glistened with the same rainbow color as the dream fragment I’d picked up on the beach. I eagerly showed my uncle my treasured seashell, and he said, “Good eye,” and patted my head.
After that, I became obsessed with raden craftsmanship. Seashells were already so beautiful in their natural state, but artisans tinkered with them to present them in a myriad of ways. Two butterflies dancing around a blooming cherry blossom bud. The pale moon floating in the night sky. In particular, the plumage of the brown-eared bulbuls in my uncle’s work was so soft that it was practically palpable.
I want to make them too, I yearned. I don’t want to own raden pieces—I want to make such beautiful things with my own hands.
I lowered my head and asked my uncle to make me his apprentice—he said yes without hesitation. I was taken aback by how flippant his tone was. In the Kingdom of Osten, female artisans were virtually nonexistent. If my uncle weren’t such an eccentric man, I would’ve been rejected without a second thought.
My uncle spared no effort and thoroughly hammered his techniques into me. As an artisan, he was strict, but I never wanted to quit. Only once did I ever whine to him. Thanks to his teachings, I definitively improved, and yet no matter how much I tried, I could never craft a bulbul the way he did. Even though it was the same pretty form, my work always felt lifeless in comparison.
I vented my frustrations to him, tears welling up in my eyes. He gave me a troubled smile in response and simply said, “You just haven’t found it yet.” Just as there were painters who only drew profile portraits of women or sculptors who only sculpted horses, artists had subjects that captivated them.
“Ayame, I’m sure you’ll find yours one day,” he said.
My uncle passed away when I was seventeen. In his final moments, though he had become so weak that he couldn’t even get up on his own, he managed to whisper, “The bulbul came for me,” and drew his last breath with a happy smile. My aunt had passed away at a young age, and he’d loved her from the bottom of his heart, so I knew he was glad to leave this life.