Dear Fuki,
I’m so glad to hear your moon is back to normal. When I heard a pebble had struck it and split it clean in two, I admit I was on edge myself, all the way over here.
Then again, your moon was patched together from scraps to begin with, wasn’t it? Crack it, and the pieces just gather themselves back by morning, cool as anything. Quite the trick.
Mine isn’t built that way. It’s the genuine article — solid stone since the day it was born, a proper white moon with a pedigree. It’s even listed by name in the old town ledger.
Forgive me, I do go on. Until next time.
Tsuya
Dear Fuki,
No need to write back.
But I did hear the news. Your moon split into three this time, and pulled itself back together in three days. You’ve probably lost count of which generation it’s on by now. Patched together, made of scraps, a rather unsightly moon, if I may say so.
We’re having the moon inspector come by soon. A moon with real pedigree, an original like mine, gets a gold nameplate. Not something you’ll ever have to worry about, I imagine.
Do try not to be jealous.
Tsuya
Dear Fuki,
This may seem like an odd question.
Before the inspection, I wanted my moon looking its very best, so last night I polished it more thoroughly than usual. I may have pressed a little too hard. Just a slip, really.
And then a crack ran clean across it. …I’d rather not describe what happened next. White fragments are scattered all through the hollow in my yard.
So, Fuki. How exactly does your moon put itself back together? How long does it take before the pieces gather on their own?
Tsuya
Dear Fuki,
Could I borrow your broom?
Tsuya
The next morning, a broom stood leaning against the fence between the two houses. Fuki had lent it without a word.
Tsuya crouched in the hollow of her yard, sweeping the white fragments together, bit by bit, toward the center — using the very same patchwork method she’d once looked down on.