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ArabicHonkai Star Rail: My Death Feeds Their Madness — Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Where My Heart Belongs
The thick woven blanket slipped quietly from her shoulders as Clarice stirred. She caught the edge of the fabric, her fingers gently brushing against the residual warmth trapped within its threads. A soft, tender light flickered in her eyes as she looked up.
“You’re awake,” a calm voice drifted from across the room. “Breakfast is on the table.”
“…I know,” she murmured, a faint smile gracing her lips.
Though this was far from the first time she had woken up in his care, Clarice felt her affection for Mr. Kagashi deepening with every passing day. Strictly speaking, their dynamic was clearly defined: she was merely the family member of his patient, and he was the doctor. Yet, his quiet gentleness effortlessly shattered those clinical boundaries. He never had to go to such lengths to accommodate them. Why did he?
The young girl let her thoughts wander as she washed up. Afterward, she took her seat at the dining table, obediently taking small, deliberate bites of her meal. She chewed slowly, knowing full well that if she skipped breakfast, she would inevitably hear Mr. Kagashi’s mild reprimand: ‘Skipping meals is bad for your health.’ She craved his attention, but she didn’t want to rely on deliberately eliciting his concern through self-neglect.
Mr. Kagashi’s home was filled with quiet miracles. Take this dining table, for instance. A bowl of hot soup placed upon its polished surface wouldn’t lose a fraction of its heat even after a full day and night, and freshly cut apple slices remained crisp, completely untouched by oxidation.
Setting down her spoon, Clarice glanced at the wall clock. Several hours still remained until her mother’s daily treatment session concluded. She watched as the empty tableware sank smoothly into the ‘belly’ of the table, swallowed whole by the automated cleaning and disinfection mechanism. Her gaze then swept across the pristine, tranquil interior of the Bamboo House. Her heart beat with a helpless, restless rhythm; she desperately wanted to assist Mr. Kagashi, to prove her usefulness, but there was simply nothing left to clean.
There was, however, one specific chore Mr. Kagashi always handled personally. It had fueled her curiosity for a long time.
After a brief internal struggle, Clarice finally decided to voice the question that had been weighing on her mind. She approached him, standing gracefully with her hands clasped in front of her, maintaining a flawless ladylike posture.
“Mr. Kagashi… there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you for quite some time.”
“Feel free to speak,” he replied, his tone as even and soothing as still water.
“That residence not too far from here… is that also your home?”
Over the past five years of visiting the Bamboo House, she had frequently spotted him walking toward that distant building with cleaning supplies, or returning from it at dusk. On other occasions, she would find him carefully trimming the dense, overgrown vegetation along the winding dirt path that connected the two properties. That path also led directly back to the Bamboo House.
Kagashi fell silent for a long moment. He slowly shook his head. “…It is not my home.”
Clarice wasn’t entirely surprised. She had suspected as much; if that beautiful estate belonged to him, why would he confine himself to this humble Bamboo House?
“Then… why do you clean that residence so frequently?”
“That is my teacher’s home,” Kagashi explained softly, his gaze drifting toward the window. “A long time ago, she used a special method to transplant her entire residence here. But now… she has forgotten to take it away.”
Clarice followed his line of sight, realizing he was staring directly at the distant silhouette of the building. His phrasing, however, left her slightly bewildered. ‘Forgot to take it away?’ Did he mean she had uprooted an entire architectural structure like a piece of ordinary furniture?
“And trimming the vegetation along the path…” Clarice pressed, tilting her head. “What is that for?”
It certainly wasn’t to help visitors find the Bamboo House. Though she didn’t fully understand his past, she knew Mr. Kagashi was a recluse who rarely stepped beyond the boundaries of this secluded sanctuary.
“I am afraid my teacher will forget the way home,” Kagashi said.
Clarice froze, completely stunned. Beneath the calm surface of his words, she detected a deep, unmistakable sorrow. Why was he so deeply saddened? Could it be that his teacher had passed away? ‘No, that cannot be it!’
Just as she was about to shake her head to dispel the morbid thoughts, she felt a sudden warmth. Mr. Kagashi had rested his broad palm gently atop her head.
“In the process of chasing a certain ultimate destination, Teacher lost and abandoned many things,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of years. “Perhaps… that includes her home.”
He paused, his fingers lightly brushing her hair. “But I firmly believe that if she one day achieves her wish and reaches that destination, she will remember the things she left behind. She will surely come home. I cannot help her reach her goal; the only thing I can do is look after her home until she returns.”
Basking in the comforting warmth of his hand, a sudden, inexplicable surge of envy welled up in Clarice’s chest. She was jealous of this mysterious teacher. Yet, seeing Mr. Kagashi reveal such a vulnerable, sentimental side only made her heart ache with affection. She truly liked him.
“Your teacher must be very important to you, right?” she asked softly.
“Of course,” Kagashi replied without hesitation. “If it weren’t for Teacher, I would have died in a pile of corpses long ago.”
‘No wonder.’ Clarice’s breath hitched, and the petty jealousy instantly evaporated. To have nurtured someone as extraordinary as Mr. Kagashi, and to have saved him from such a grim fate, his teacher had to be an unmatched figure.
“Then… where is your hometown, Mr. Kagashi?”
“It turned into cosmic dust long ago,” he answered, his expression placid, betraying no grief over the planetary destruction. “Where my heart belongs, that is my home.”
“So that’s why you were so happy yesterday when you said my mother and I could finally go home?”
“Pretty much.”
Clarice couldn’t help but sigh inwardly at his answer. ‘Oh, Mr. Kagashi… my heart has already chosen this place as its home. Not that cold, empty estate I used to call a hometown. It is just… you do not know that yet.’
“Let’s stop here for now. I need to head to the back mountain,” Kagashi said, glancing at the clock before issuing his usual instructions. “If any complications arise before Ms. Durand’s treatment ends, notify me immediately. I will return right away.”
Clarice blinked, snapping out of her reverie. Right. Every year around this time, Mr. Kagashi would venture to the back mountain to mulch the soil in the plum grove and carefully prune the dormant branches. Then, on a specific day the following year—a day he referred to as Great Cold—he would harvest the blooming plum blossoms to brew his signature wine.
She had tasted that wine on several occasions. Each sip left her craving more; it possessed a extraordinary flavor capable of washing away all worldly troubles. If anyone ever asked her to name the most unforgettable drink in existence, she would undoubtedly choose Mr. Kagashi’s Plum Blossom Wine.
It also happened that the day of Great Cold was Mr. Kagashi’s birthday.
“Let me help you, Mr. Kagashi,” she offered eagerly, taking a step forward.
“No need,” Kagashi smiled softly, gracefully declining the girl’s earnest kindness. “That long dress of yours isn’t suitable for trekking through the back mountain. It is better for you to stay here and look after your mother.”
Clarice looked down at her elegant, sweeping hemline and nodded helplessly. Yesterday, her mother’s cognitive illness had flared up violently, erasing all her memories save for her daughter. They had fled to the Bamboo House in such a frantic hurry that Clarice hadn’t packed any practical clothing.
Kagashi unbuttoned his white lab coat, slipping it off his shoulders and hanging it neatly on the wooden coat rack. He glanced at the digital weather forecast projected on the wall, habitually tilting his head to offer a gentle reminder.
“The temperature is dropping rapidly. In a few days, it won’t be suitable to wear thin dresses anymore. You will easily catch a cold.”
“I know, but Mr. Kagashi, you…” Clarice hesitated, swallowing the rest of her sentence. “…It’s nothing. Please be safe. I’ll wait for you to come back.”
Kagashi gave a brief nod and walked straight out the door, heading toward the frost-covered trails of the back mountain.
Watching his tall, solitary figure slowly disappear into the wintry landscape, Clarice’s thoughts churned. She never understood why, no matter how harsh the winter became, Mr. Kagashi would only ever wear a thin jacket or his lab coat. He never layered up. At first, she assumed his constitution was simply strong enough to ward off the severe cold. But later, she accidentally brushed against him during a snowstorm and discovered his hands were freezing—as cold as solid ice.
Evidently, he wasn’t immune to the biting chill at all.
Watching the snow begin to fall outside the window, Clarice made a firm decision. She was going to enroll in a handicraft class. This year, for his birthday, she would hand-knit him something warm.
A thick, cozy sweater, perhaps. And a long scarf to keep the winter winds at bay.