By Death United (A Saimatsu story)

Chapter 1

Concerto, or the recent quartet? Kaede ruminated, considered, and accounted the best starting point; practice was necessary for both, so this instrumental dilemma wasn't of any importance – besides, of course, that of preference and sentimentality: one was major, the other minor; now that's a matter to spend one's evening with! 

After attuning her ears to the sound of the piano keys, as was her wont; alternating between a strange assonance and dissonance, she let her hands reign; starting gently, then, with further keys pressed, she hurried through them, before maintaining a regular pace: in harmony with the music sheet in front of her. The piano sang without any problems; a vintage, in some respects decrepit, instrument that Kaede inherited from her grandfather; and though it served her continuously since her earliest years, rusty strings and weary keys were unavoidable, and became her worry. Hope's Peak was furnished with several pianos: all phenomenal, much better in sound, and pleasurable to hear, even when abused by a novice; yet, the same sentimentality that caused her dilemma convinced her to keep playing on her old, oaken friend instead. 

Kaede stopped playing. She felt a dull thump down her chair: very low and barely noticeable, but strong enough to rouse her from playing. She listened, looking towards the closed door that led to the kitchen, where her mother was likely preparing supper; unusual, considering her work duties, and most welcoming whenever it did have the chance to happen. So the feeling was probably a result of something falling: it being hard to keep senses after a tiring day of work; but Kaede had to check, because what if the something that fell was her own mother? The urge to check was never greater. 

She arose and tiptoed to the door, opening it loudly to display her concern. ''Ah, Kaede, sorry, that rumble. . .'' or, ''Kaede-dear? Your dad moved something again, and I accidentally bumped into it; could you help me clean up the mess?'', were the type of responses she expected to hear, and with much less impatient expectation thought about cleaning the kitchen at this hour. But no such salutations came, and static TV mumbling was the only noise in the kitchen; no shuffling, phone-talking, knife-chopping, or broken-vase-bemoaning. 

The kitchen was clean: fruits arranged in their bowl; sink empty; dishes drying; chairs tucked under the table; counter shining. Job done, but the desired person nowhere to be seen. However, a sound beneath the static mumbling caught her attention: an unpleasant, disturbing grating whose cause she couldn't conceive. 

''What happened? Mum?'' Kaede called; entering the kitchen, open living room door against her, and a sudden dark shape that swiftly rose from the floor, and rushed towards the entrance to the garden. 

She breathed rapidly, her mouth contorting: miming a scream; body trembling; and eyes staring at the person sprawled in the middle of the living room carpet: feminine features there, blond hair, and blood; the victim clear, though Kaede looked back at the intruder who broke the window, passing through the opening unhurt; something gold visible in the bag he was carrying. 

''Mum!'' Kaede shouted and moved towards the body lying on the ground; her teary eyes taking glimpses at the window, but the broken glass didn't disappear. 

Falling on her knees, she stared at the person's face through a blurry mess of tears; so she wiped her eyes aggressively, and looked at it again. 

''Mum. . .'' She repeated quietly, before falling into an outburst of sobbing, desperate hand-holding, and shouting; the hope that her mother was alive dwindling, because the pulse was gone, while the face pale, and eyes bloodshot, immobile. 

''I can't. . .'' Kaede cried, taking out her phone; but her fingers trembled too much, and when they calmed, an internal voice begged her not to call the ambulance. If she heard a revelation of her mother's death coming from a professional, the anguish would be too great for her to bear, but it was necessary. 

Someone picked up immediately; Kaede muttered unclearly through hiccuping and rolling tears in answer to the enquiries, until she fell silent. 

''Hello? Ms? Please respond-'' The phone voice requested: a distant echo to Kaede who gazed into her mother's bloodshot eyes; unwavering persistence and disbelief speaking through her own reddened, wide-open gaze. She ended the call after telling the person her address, and embraced the body, waiting for a renewed heartbeat, gasp, or the body embracing her back; all numb and quiet, instead. 

She remained in this shocked state; and while her mind touched upon the tragedy hazily, still persistent to grope dumbly in the fog of disbelief, she took her phone and dialled for police.

"H-Hello? How can I help?" A timid voice spoke, rather inexperienced: forgetful to mention that it was in fact the police department talking, and not a neighbourhood granny that a person in distressed maybe intended to call; clarifications needed for the distressed.
"Hello? I-Is anyone-"

"Y-Yes. . ." Kaede finally spoke, trying to fend away the tears blurring her vision again. "S-Someone b-roke. . . was h-here. . . a-and. . . and they k-"

"Please relax, madame; I'm here for you. Could you tell me your address?" The voice asked; more confident and concerned in tone, though its concern bordered on anxiety: a characteristic that suddenly had Kaede remember someone.

She, in this awfully tragic situation, kept her calm and stammered out the address like last time, waiting for the policeman to finish their note taking.

"T-Thank you, we've already dispatched policemen to your l-location," he said; the phrasing awkward: more postman in quality, dispatching policemen to people in need; packages of quick delivery, everyone hopes. "Also, may I n-note down your. . . name, Ms?"

"Akamatsu. . . K-Kaede" She answered, tears blotching her blouse; feeling stuck between reality and fiction: talking with the policeman, while embracing her deceased mother.

"W-What. . . ? Kaede?" The voice spoke frantically, quite recognisable; but the girl cut the call and broke down.