The Forever Garden

The cherry blossoms fell like soft whispers, drifting through the still air and settling upon the mossy stones and earthen paths. The garden was alive with vibrant hues—scarlet camellias, pale blue hydrangeas, and golden chrysanthemums, each bloom pristine, untouched by time. The koi pond mirrored the blossoms, its waters so still it seemed more a painting than a reflection of life. A gentle breeze stirred the branches, scattering more petals across the pond's surface, but no ripple disturbed the water's glassy calm.

This was Purgatory, a place of neither progress nor decay. Here, the world was trapped in eternal stillness, a beautiful prison hidden beneath the veneer of peace.

Tagitsa Origumaru knelt by the garden bed, his white hair catching the soft, diffused light filtering through the cherry trees. His emerald eyes, sharp and piercing, were fixed on the soil as he worked. His gloved hands moved with calm precision, pulling weeds that did not truly grow and pressing fresh earth around flowers that would never wilt. He wore a simple dark coat, its fabric faintly dusted with pollen, and a long scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, its ends trailing as he shifted positions.

He adjusted the scarf with one hand, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric. Beneath it lay scars—jagged and uneven, their origin a mystery he did not care to solve. He had no memory of where they came from, only the sense that they were part of him, like the garden, like the endless silence of Purgatory. He had lived here for what felt like centuries, though he no longer counted the years.

The garden's tranquility was broken only by the faint sound of his tools as he worked: the soft scrape of metal against earth, the whisper of petals brushing his coat. It was a silence he had grown accustomed to, though it carried an ache he could not name. There was no chatter, no laughter, no life but the flowers and the koi. Yet it was all he had known for so long that the absence of sound felt natural, even comforting.

Tagitsa leaned back, wiping his gloves against his coat before rising to his full height. He stood tall, his movements deliberate and measured. His emerald eyes scanned the garden, lingering briefly on the koi pond and the wooden bridge that arched over it. The world beyond the garden was a shadowed blur, its empty streets and abandoned buildings shrouded in an eternal haze.

His gaze returned to the garden bed, but he did not see the flowers. He saw only the dirt beneath his feet, the same soil he had tended for lifetimes. He had once thought the act of caring for the garden might give him purpose, but now it was simply routine, a task to fill the endless hours between the arrival of the dead.

"They'll come soon," he muttered, though his voice carried no inflection, no anticipation or curiosity. It was a fact, no different from the falling of the petals or the blooming of the flowers. They always came.

The scarf tightened slightly as he adjusted it again, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn't discomfort—it never was—but a subconscious gesture, as if to ensure the scars were still hidden. He did not fear them, but he knew they would frighten others, should they see.

As he turned to retrieve another tool, a faint sound caught his attention. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like a distant chime or the ripple of water far away. He paused, his hand resting on the wooden handle of a trowel, his gaze shifting toward the center of the garden.

The air felt different now. Not heavy, but charged, as if the garden itself was holding its breath. A breeze stirred the petals once more, scattering them across the path.

Tagitsa's expression didn't change, but he stood still for a moment longer, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly. Then he resumed his work, brushing the stray blossoms from his coat as though dismissing the thought entirely. Another soul would arrive soon—it was inevitable. But for now, the garden required his attention.

Tagitsa's Role in Purgatory

Tagitsa pressed his gloved fingers into the soft earth, ensuring the roots were buried deep, secure against the unchanging seasons of Purgatory. His motions were steady, unhurried, as if time itself had no meaning—a truth he had long since accepted. The flowers thrived under his care, their petals vivid and flawless, yet they bloomed without purpose. They would never wilt, never seed. They were static, just as the garden itself was a prisoner to its own beauty.

He moved along the garden path, adjusting a wayward branch here, brushing off stray petals there. Each task was performed with the same meticulous precision as the last, though he never questioned why. There was no reason to; questioning served no purpose. The garden had always been, and he had always tended to it. His role was simple—maintain the blooms, keep the paths clear, and wait.

Wait for the souls.

Tagitsa's gaze lifted briefly to the center of the garden, to the small patch of earth where they always appeared. The soil there was untouched, unmarked by time or decay. It was an unassuming space, and yet it held the weight of countless arrivals and farewells. Or perhaps not countless—Tagitsa knew exactly how many souls had passed through.

418,290.

The number was etched into his mind, as clear as the lines on his palms. He had watched each one arrive, listened to their stories, guided them through their regrets, and sent them to whatever lay beyond. Each passing had been a moment he observed without attachment, cataloging their existence like petals falling from a tree. He never forgot, though he often wondered why he remembered.

The garden thrived beneath his care, but it offered no comfort. Its beauty was undeniable, with every petal and blade of grass in perfect harmony. Yet its vibrancy felt hollow, a façade of life in a place where no life truly existed. The flowers were not for anyone to admire, nor for any celebration. They simply were. Much like him.

He reached the edge of the koi pond and paused, staring down at the still waters. A single cherry blossom floated on the surface, its reflection so sharp it seemed like a twin flower trapped beneath the surface. For a moment, Tagitsa's gaze lingered, his emerald eyes unreadable. Then, with a quiet motion, he knelt and scooped the petal out, discarding it into the bushes.

"418,290," he murmured, his voice low, almost to himself. "They come. They go. And I remain."

He straightened, brushing the dirt from his gloves. His words were not resentful, nor wistful—they were simply fact. For as long as he could remember, his existence had been one of repetition. He guided souls to whatever lay beyond, but he had never followed them. He had no desire to. It was not his purpose.

He thought briefly of the souls he had seen—the broken and the burdened, carrying regrets they could no longer amend. Each one brought their pain to him, and he offered them closure in return. Yet their struggles meant nothing to him. He felt no sorrow for them, no joy when they passed on. They came to him as shadows, and he sent them off as memories.

Occasionally, they had tried to ask him about himself. Why he was there. What his purpose was. He had no answers to give. Their questions hung in the air like petals caught in the wind, fleeting and easily forgotten. He had stopped thinking of himself long ago, for what was the point? He was here, and that was all that mattered.

Tagitsa turned from the pond and began to make his way back to the center of the garden. The path was lined with blossoms, their colors vibrant against the muted backdrop of the gray sky beyond the trees. He paused to adjust a branch of wisteria, its lavender blooms cascading like a frozen waterfall. Everything was in place, as it always was. As it always would be.

The stillness was broken by a faint sound, barely audible—a ripple in the air, a whisper of something approaching. Tagitsa stopped, his gaze lifting toward the center of the garden. The patch of soil was as empty as it had been moments ago, but the air around it seemed... different. Charged.

He adjusted his scarf and resumed his walk. Another soul was coming. 418,291. Another story, another regret. They would arrive, and they would leave. And he would remain. It was the way of things.

The garden stood as the heart of Purgatory, a vibrant oasis of color and life in a world suspended in stasis. Beyond its blooming expanse lay the town—a quiet, unchanging relic of a time long forgotten. The streets, paved with smooth stone, wound between wooden houses with sliding doors and tiled roofs. Paper lanterns hung motionless above alleyways, their soft reds and yellows forever untouched by flame or light. A gentle mist wove between the buildings, blurring the edges of the world as if it were a half-forgotten memory.

Tagitsa occasionally left the garden, not out of curiosity, but out of habit. His footsteps echoed faintly in the silence as he walked the empty streets. The town was vast, yet its boundaries were unclear. No matter how far he wandered, the paths always seemed to loop back to the garden. He never encountered another living being, only the endless repetition of structures, bridges, and stone paths. The stillness was absolute, broken only by the sound of his boots against the cobblestones and the occasional rustle of cherry blossoms in the breeze.

He stopped at a weathered torii gate that arched over the entrance to a long-abandoned shrine. Its scarlet paint was faded, but the wood remained sturdy, immune to decay. He stared at it for a moment, as he had countless times before, his emerald eyes scanning the intricate carvings etched into the posts. The gate, like everything else, bore no answers. It simply existed, as he did.

Tagitsa passed under the gate, his scarf brushing against the wooden beam as he moved. Beyond it, a small courtyard opened to a stone altar. A carved phrase was faintly visible along the base, its kanji worn but legible:

"Why are you here?"

He paused, his gloved hand resting lightly on the altar's edge. The question was one he had seen before, scrawled on stone walls, etched into wooden beams, even whispered in the faint rustle of leaves in the garden. It appeared without warning, always subtle, always cryptic. He never dwelled on it. He had no answer to give, and no inclination to find one.

"Why are you here?" The words lingered in his mind as he stared at the altar, but they carried no weight for him. He brushed his fingers over the worn stone as if to dismiss them physically, then turned away. The question followed him as he walked back through the gate, faint and persistent, like an echo that refused to fade.

Farther along the path, he passed a small teahouse, its sliding doors slightly ajar. Inside, the cushions were perfectly arranged around low wooden tables, and ceramic teacups sat untouched, filled with nothing but air. Outside, a wind chime hung motionless, its bells waiting eternally for a breeze that would never come. He paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly as he gazed at the chime.

"Your purpose," a whisper seemed to say, faint as the sigh of wind that never stirred the bells.

Tagitsa adjusted his scarf, the movement automatic, and continued walking. The words—like all the others—held no meaning for him. Purpose was a concept he neither sought nor rejected. It simply wasn't part of his existence.

The streets wound on, leading him past a still canal lined with sakura trees. The petals floated on the water's surface, forming a delicate, unmoving mosaic of pink and white. He stopped at a stone bridge and leaned on its railing, staring at his reflection in the water below. His white hair shimmered faintly in the gray light, and the emerald of his eyes was sharp against the monochrome backdrop. For a fleeting moment, his gaze wavered, as though he sought something in the ripples of his image. But it passed quickly, like a shadow across his mind.

"They come, they go," he murmured to himself, his voice low and even. "And I remain."

The cryptic whispers, the carved words, the eternal stillness of the town—they were all pieces of a puzzle he did not care to solve. His place was in the garden, and that was enough.

The faint shimmer of light caught the corner of his eye, pulling his attention back toward the garden. His posture straightened as his hand fell away from the bridge's railing. Another soul had arrived. 418,291. He turned without hesitation, retracing his steps along the quiet streets, the mist curling softly around his boots.

The whispers stayed behind, unanswered, their questions as eternal as the town itself.

The faint shimmer of light was subtle at first, barely more than a ripple in the air at the center of the garden. Yet to Tagitsa, it was unmistakable. He paused mid-step, his gaze shifting toward the source. The soil in the arrival point remained undisturbed, its surface smooth and pristine, but the energy that radiated from it was palpable—a quiet hum that resonated through the stillness.

Without urgency, Tagitsa began walking back toward the garden's center, his boots crunching softly against the gravel paths. His expression remained impassive, his emerald eyes unchanging. There was no curiosity in his step, no anticipation in his movements. This was routine, as unremarkable as tending to the flowers or clearing away fallen petals.

The air around the arrival point shimmered faintly, like heat waves rising from asphalt on a summer's day. Tagitsa came to a stop a few feet away, standing tall with his hands resting lightly at his sides. He adjusted his scarf instinctively, though there was no one yet to see the scars it concealed. His gaze fixed on the space before him, calm and unwavering, as though watching a clock tick toward the inevitable.

The shimmer grew stronger, condensing into a faint glow. The garden seemed to hold its breath, the ever-present rustle of cherry blossoms falling silent. Even the koi pond, so still it often seemed unreal, mirrored the glow in its surface like a captured star. Tagitsa did not react. He had seen this countless times—418,290, to be exact. There was nothing new in the sight.

The glow began to take shape, faint outlines coalescing into something human. It was still indistinct, a mere suggestion of a figure, but already the presence of the soul was tangible. Tagitsa felt it as he always did, a subtle weight in the air, like the first few drops of rain before a storm. Yet it carried no meaning for him beyond the task it represented.

"They'll have their story," he murmured to himself, his voice low and even. It was neither a statement of interest nor indifference—just fact. Each soul brought its regrets, its burdens, and it was his role to guide them to the answers they sought, to whatever lay beyond.

As the figure began to take on clearer form, Tagitsa's gaze didn't waver. His stance remained steady, unbothered by the life—or rather, the echoes of life—that was about to materialize before him. He had seen every kind of person pass through this place: the grieving, the enraged, the hopeless, and the indifferent. Their reasons for being here were as varied as their lives had been, but their endings were always the same. They came, they unburdened, and they left. And Tagitsa remained.

The glow dimmed slightly, condensing into sharper lines. A hand, faint and translucent, became visible first, followed by the outline of a head and shoulders. The figure seemed hesitant, caught between two states of being. This moment always stretched the longest, the soul suspended between its past and the reality of Purgatory. Tagitsa watched with the same detached calm he had always maintained, his thoughts quiet and still.

He shifted his stance slightly, adjusting the scarf around his neck as the figure's features began to emerge. For a fleeting moment, he wondered, not who this person was, but how long they would remain before passing on. A question without meaning.

"Another one," he said softly, the words slipping into the still air like the final note of a melody.

The figure's face began to materialize—blurry, indistinct, yet unmistakably human. Tagitsa didn't move closer, nor did he step away. He simply stood there, waiting. He had done this so many times before, and he would do it countless times again. There was no end to it.

The light flickered, and the air seemed to hum with anticipation. The garden's silence was complete, save for the faint whisper of the cherry blossoms stirring on the breeze.

The soul was here.

And Tagitsa, as always, was waiting.