Oniisan

As soon as I set foot on the shopping street's uneven pavement, the scent from a nearby cart wrapped around me - caramelised sugar, sweet red bean paste, the faintest whisper of vanilla. My breath hitched mid-step.

Dorayaki.

The memory hit me like a train - me, 8-year-old, in the miko clothes grandma sewed too big, racing barefoot through the pampas grass towards the old shrine steps. "Oniisan! Oniisan! Look!"

He lifted his head from over the broom handle - that boy, five years my senior, with the auburn hair and golden eyes I could swear sometimes narrowed into slits - and hummed thoughtfully at the sight of the pastry I clutched like treasure.

"Dorayaki, huh?"

"Yes! It's my en-gag-e-ment present! When I am big, I'll marry oniisan!"

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then barked out laughing, as if I said the funniest thing in the world, and pulled me into an embrace. "Baka-na," he murmured, though not unkindly, "you'll forget me by winter."

Some disgruntled salaryman tutted weaving around me, bringing me back to the present.

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

He was right.

I did forget.

Until now.

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