Paper Wings

Ren commands the paper into intricate folds. The amber sunlight streaking through the window by his desk illuminates the softness of his dark eyes. Serious. Meticulous. Inspired. His collection of origami figures stands proud against the shelves. An army of parchment. A testament of creativity. An undying respect for tradition.

Ren’s smile curves as the structure breathes into the familiar shape of a crane. Birds of grace. Harbingers of peace. The key holders to good fortune. The crisp, colored paper gleams a steady, humble hue of crimson as Ren’s fingers form the narrow beak.

His back, hunched with confidence and modesty, burns with ache — a pain he has become numb to. “Origami comes with a heavy burden,” his ojiisan used to say. “Arthritis came for me the moment I picked up my first sheet.”

Ren would laugh at that. Dry tears and jubilant laughter. A symphony of bliss spent under the sakura blossoms as Ren watched his ojiisan work. His hands — so agile, so practiced and disciplined in the art — made Ren believe him a sorcerer.

A recollection of memories floods his vision.

Ren and his ojiisan, Aoi, sat on the pavement, gathering a crowd, as Aoi summoned life into the inanimate.

Aoi brought the children great joy, gifting them with the blessings of his birds.

For the adults, Aoi would humble them with wisdom aged into honorable speeches. The fragility of life. Mono no aware. Kuchi wa wazawai no moto.

A shower of spring rain, nourishing the roots of humanity. Aoi, a gardener of the soul.

“One day, I believe you will master the art,” Aoi had told him, returning home beneath the welcoming glow of a summer sunset.

Ren remembers smiling, his youth clinging onto the threads of hope.

Now, after years spent in his wisdom, younger Ren would never have believed the origamist he has transformed into.

The crane is complete. An immaculate clone of the hundreds he has already birthed. Ren slides from his desk, the paper bird resting peacefully in his palm. He lifts his arm, twisting his wrist at a slight angle. His face brightens.

The miniature crane of parchment, despite lacking a soul, sits with a royal’s grace — an emperor without a crown. Ren, satisfied with his work, welcomes the crane into its new home: a community of paper birds just like it. A myriad of colours, a community of warmth, all of them crafted by Ren’s own mind.

He stands there, proud and admiring.

Then, it calls to him. His most treasured bird. The elder of his clan. Like a weeping willow planted into the peak of a mountain, Aoi’s last crane stares down at Ren. Tired. Relaxed. Mournful.

Its surface, crinkled and withered like a flower in winter. Its bright colour faded like dying petals. Still, the bird is immortal. A legacy of Aoi Tanaka. The wish he spoke in his final nights.

Ren’s throat bobs, his eyes fixed heavy on the soulful face of a paper crane. Ren knows he should feel no shame. Life is a road, and every road has an end. He reminds himself Aoi was happy with the path he had walked. No tears shed from his eyes when his final moments were approaching. Nor did he implore any selfish wishes.

Only that Ren, his beautiful, cherished, and talented grandson, ends his own road with a life that stirred every heart he knew.

To continue, despite the inevitable challenges the road brings.

To make it to the end of his journey, surrounded by everything he holds dear.

Ren wipes an escaping tear from his cheek. A bitter yet grateful drop of longing. A dream Ren will aspire to breed into reality.

To become like his ojiisan.

A soft knock on the door disrupts the serenity.

Otousan stands at the threshold, the dust gliding like dancers of the air around his head.

Ren gestures for him to enter, clearing him a seat by the window.

Otousan is quiet for a moment before speaking, as he basks in the glory of Ren’s artistry. Otousan holds out a ramune soda for Ren.

The original flavor. His favorite, just like Ojiisan.

The marble clinks against the glass, the carbonated bubbles fizzing over, as Ren swallows with a delighted sigh.

Otousan chuckles lightly, a modest smile to match the twinkle of his eyes.

Ren takes a seat on the floor, crouched into the position of a schoolchild drawing with chalk on concrete.

They drink together, soft words and light conversations. Ren asks about his sister, studying in a university miles away.

He learns she is doing well and has even found love in another soul.

Ren comes to think of the short days he had spent with her. Incomplete memories. A warped reality. The closest image he can form is the time he had taught her Aoi’s special trick to making the most stubborn of shapes into the most obedient beauty.

That was a long time ago, and Ren’s heart sinks heavy with the fleeting nature of time.

Ren shifts on his knees, the fuzzy sensation of immobile limbs.

Otousan leans further into the chair, a restful glare towards the window. Their reflections fade in the glass as the sun absorbs its golden glow into the bedroom.

The choir of evening birdsong cherishes the day they had been blessed. Otousan raps his fingers lightly against his thigh, humming along to the rhythm of creation.

A melody of nostalgia that drowns Ren into his Blue Youth.

The hours where nothing seems real. A dreamlike realm of imagination conducted by Ren’s vision of birds gliding on paper wings.

A sakayume where longing is traded for comfort.

Ren closes his eyes, pouring out his hand, imagining himself catching the light like liquid silk. The iridescence of his birds, a flock of swarming crimsons, amber, golds, cobalt, whites, blacks, and everything, and yet nothing.

He feels his heart soar beyond the clouds — an intruder of heaven, a messenger of ecstasy.

Just his soul and his birds, returning towards an invented home. A shrine of memory, of love, and reverence.

Ren lets this love shoot through his chest. An arrow piercing skin, loosening the threads of regret.

His hands fall over his sides, fingers brushing the heads of his cranes. Aoi’s legacy, wish, and work all diluted into one passion.

A sanctuary of steadfast and eternal lineage. A blazing flame Ren will alight in everyone he meets.

His smile is burning, searing, and infinite.

A limitless expanse of paper wings and loyalty.

Ren’s eyes open to a dying gold hue, his heart and soul conjoined in a trance. He places a hand over his chest, a soft and steady pace.

Otousan’s head tilts back, falling into a deserving slumber, a careful word leaving his mouth as he exhales.

Ren rises, feet unsure beneath him, as he comes to his bed, sitting upon the edge like he had always done with Aoi’s tales before rest.

Otousan mumbles beneath a breath, reaching for his son’s hand.

Smooth touches calloused.

His fingers glide over Ren’s paper cuts, and he chuckles lightly.

Ren digs into his peaceful eyes.

“The rest is left up to you.”

For a moment Ren is worried. Confused. Slightly nauseous.

Then, he turns his palm over.

A note, tied into a simple scroll, the ribbon worn and tattered, as he takes the note.

Otousan grips Ren’s wrist with a guardian’s touch, guiding his precious treasure to a place of unspoken solemnity.

A hesitant murmur leaves Ren as he unfurls the note.

Parchment stained an ancient cream, and ink reduced to a fade.

And yet, Ren can read every word.

His face tightens into a canvas of all emotions poured into one singular expression.

And then, it embraces him with a love he has never felt before.

“You shall go far.”

Even without a voice to speak the praise, Ren’s soul bloomed into a million petals.