Fumi woke up in the hospital, a few days later.
And from there, he wasn't too sure what happened. The doctors told him it was a side effect of the concussion, and it wouldn't matter to much.
He spent one day speaking only a word at a time. Another day he only heard muffled sounds. After that, he was fine and almost ready to be discharged.
He remembered eating.
He remembered the tasteless, stale dishes. They were warm and filling, but weren't delicious at all. He often wanted to go home, to knead dough or to stir fried rice in a pot.
Anything but the hospital's awful food that didn't taste like much.
(That was only the beginning.)
-
His dreams become more frequent.
It was that Patissiere lady again, but she was not smiling. This time, she cried. She held her eyes, fell to her knees, and sobbed.
In the dimly lit kitchen of her patisserie, alone, she mourned for herself.
The scar on her right wrist, disfigured and ugly, stood out from her pale skin. There was a seam across her vein, scabbed and red but healing.
She threw her cake onto the ground and threw her fist into her glass shelf of trophies, screaming.
-
Fumi wasn't too sure about her now.
Wasn't she an award-winning Patissiere? Why was she so broken? What happened to her that Fumi hadn't seen? (What did he not remember?)
"Fumi-pon, are you listening?"
He snapped out of his trance. The girls were here to visit him today.
They were all grown out of their gal phase, but their nicknames for him never outgrew. The one that had spoken to him was Rase-cchi, who used to have a fake tan (and now has a real one for being one great athlete or something).
"I'm listening," he said immediately, a jolt in his voice. He was definitely not listening.
"You look like you used to look when Butakko messed you up!" she laughed warm heartedly, "it's been a while, eh?"
Fumi pouted, "it's not fun getting head injuries all the time..." he murmured, "and, Koga-neesan has already apologized to me about a million times..."
"Oh, you call her neesan?! No fair, call me neesan too!"
"Me too! Me too!"
Fumi sighed. They always kick up a fuss when it's about him. When will he ever be able to live without being treated like a baby, he wonders...
Tamako stepped forward, ignoring the chaos before her, and placed a Tiffin carrier on his overbed table.
Fumi stared at it, curious. It didn't particularly smell like anything...
"You're probably bored of the hospital's food, so Grandma Kiyo made you some rice gruel. She couldn't make it to the hospital today, so I'm here to deliver it!"
He sparkled almost immediately. It's Grandma Kiyo's rice gruel! It's the amazing secret recipe of love that everyone yearns for!
"Woah, that's the happiest I've seen him all week!" Tamako gaped, "so apparently this was a good idea. Note that down, girls."
"Aye, boss!" they responded, full of humour.
-
Tamako opened the steel box, a metallic shriiing splicing across the table as she removed the cover.
Even from his seat he could feel just how warm and homely it was.
But something was weird.
The delicate topping of chives and onions. The soy sauce mixed into each creamy grain. The little bits of flavourful cubed chicken that would never fail to make his mouth water in anticipation--
(it did not smell like anything.)
Something was wrong.
"Ohh, that smells so good!" Rase-cchi fawned over the dish, her drool sliding off her lips as she near moaned greedily, "can I have a bite, please?"
"Nuh-uh, this is for Fumi only!" Tamako playfully whacked her in the shoulder, "but as expected from our Grandma Kiyo, I really can't resist!"
(Huh?)
Fumi took a deep breath.
The cold of the air conditioner. The feeling of the icy air through his nasal passages-- and yet. He could smell the warmth of the food, the thickness of the smell emanating from that little bowl-- but there was nothing.
(Weren't hospitals supposed to smell like medicine?)
Fumi stared at the bowl of rice gruel, and something hits him.
Something so, so terrifying, he froze up and didn't, didn't want to believe it.
(It doesn't smell like cooked rice. Doesn't smell like chicken soup and doesn't have the aroma of white pepper and chives.)
He picked up his spoon, and without giving his thanks, he scooped up a spoonful and deposited it in his mouth.
He could feel the burn of the much-too-hot rice on his tongue. He could feel every grain as he chewed and swallowed, the sticky texture and the bits of chewy meat he would find here and there.
(But there was nothing.)
It was not salty. It was not sweet. He could see the bits of powdered pepper, could feel it tickling his nose-- but it was not spicy.
It tasted like nothing.
(It tasted like nothing.)
He took another bite and nothing changed. He took a sip of the soda Tamako had on hand, only to feel the spicy tingle and none of the sugary satisfaction.
He felt disgusted.
It tasted like nothing. Smelled like nothing.
So he put the spoon down and buried his face into his hands, trying his hardest not to cry.
-
He still didn't know her name, but the lady looked in the mirror and Fumi, for the first time, saw her face clearly.
She had hair a shade of brown just like his own. Her eyes were a deep blue, but now glazed over with a misty white cloud.
Cataracts? Ah.
(She was blind.)
(She was blinded.)
She felt around the table, found her hair tie, and reached up to her own head. She always had her hair in a french braid-- perhaps she was going to try and get ready for her day despite everything.
But it couldn't happen, and Fumi watched her numerous attempts helplessly. She would miss a strand, her hands would get tangled, or she would lose track of the process.
Finally, her arms were too tired, and she gave in with a deep, shoulder-sagging sigh.
She had always tied her own braid blind anyways, so what was the difference?
The psychological damage in losing her eyesight, perhaps.
And it hurt her to realize that she couldn't even do such a simple thing on her own anymore. The tears at the edge of her eyes were hastily wiped away, as if there was anyone around to see.
(There wasn't.)
She was alone.
(The wedding ring that used to be on her finger was gone.)
Beside her, the newspapers she couldn't read piled up on the table.
And on the front page was a special feature, a sensational scandal, a world-wide tragedy, telling the story of how a renowned patissier lost her eyesight after hitting her head in a construction incident.
(The newspapers sure had a field day with this article.)
(Is that all she was now? News to bring in readers? Guess she really didn't matter to the world after all. Reduced to just a fallen piece of really good news, she was abandoned by the Culinary World.)
And unable to further herself in her journey, she fell into despair.
(What happened to her after that?)
Fumi saw a blade in the washroom sink, and a grim understanding sank into him.
-
"He can't taste anything, or smell anything at all."
When the diagnosis was finally given, Tamako stood straight up, horrified. Fumi himself simply sat down on his bed, releasing an understanding sigh, as if he had expected it from the start.
It was true. He didn't have much hope after the rice gruel.
(In his past life, he lost his eyes. Now, he loses his tongue and his nose? Does god really have it out for me, I wonder...)
"Is it permanent?" Uncle Yukihira was much more composed, but his arms were folded and his brows were furrowed.
The doctor nodded grimly.
"It is a rare condition," he told them, "it is not life threatening, but it is disruptive, so if he learns to cope with the differences, he will still be able to live a generally normal life herein."
That was a relief. After all, unlike blindness or muteness, this would not visibly or too strongly impact his future life.
(Or so they believed.)
"May I talk to you three outside?" the doctor said, addressing the three adults in the room.
Fumi was being excluded. Maybe because he was a child.
(She was ostracised too.)
He tried not to think about it.