‘Mara, I’m not sure it’s polite to leave your parent’s out there like this.’ Haru said, as they walked in her small Art studio. She had brought a plate with slices of cake and cookies her mother had baked and brought over. She grabbed a notepad from the drawing desk and wrote: ‘Trust me, this is for the best. They only came to see the flat. They will look at it now without us getting in the way.’

‘I’m sorry. I agreed to come over, and I thought it would lighten the mood, but I feel like I’ve made it worse.’ Haru offered a clumsy smile.

‘Why should you be sorry? I’m the one with the religious, zealot-marriage-hunter of a mother.’

Haru chuckled. After a small silent moment, he reached for his phone and typed, and then showed her. ‘You spoke out loud back there.’ It showed.

She read it but didn’t make efforts to reply. He spoke to say the next.

‘That is a tremendous step, Mara. You should talk more aloud. Even if it’s just with me for now. And I really don’t mind hearing you.’

She shook her head and gave him a small smile before she wrote again: ‘I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don't want people to think I'm strange and focus on what’s wrong with my voice.’

Haru fumbled with his phone in thought. He touched her arm, as he often did to get her eyes on him. He wanted his intent to come through. ‘What happened to you when you were in school was horrible. Those things are difficult to forget. But Mara, that happened many years ago. You are a grown woman now, a talented artist and a respected professional. People are more open-minded than you think. No one will be thinking of your voice when they see your work.’

Mara looked away with some discomfort. He was right in everything he said, of course, but every time she had let her voice out in public, it never ended well for her. Now she was about to embark on a whole new phase and expose herself to the world. Putting her face in front of her work was already going to be a massive endeavour; having her voice in the mix was just something she wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

‘I’m sorry. Just for now, I still prefer this way.’ She showed him her note.

Haru nodded as they understood each other. ‘You should know, my sign language lessons are not going well.’ — His smile too apologetic again, — ‘We’ll have to get a sign language translator at the event.’

She smiled in response, grateful that he didn’t push further.

He then sighed in recollection. ‘Can you imagine the look on your mother’s face if I told her the real reason I’m not married?’

Mara wrote, ‘That you’re gay? She would probably pass out from the initial shock, but you’re welcome to. I only stopped you because you said you didn’t want them to know.’

‘In the end, it was easier to tell a small lie. Your parents sort of remind me of my family.’

‘I know it is hard for you.’ Mara pressed his hand.

‘Not really, not anymore. It’s on rare moments like these that I think of them. I’m usually OK with telling other people. It doesn’t mean much, but I think your mother would probably make that same face my mother made when she realised. That is always very painful to see. I don’t want to disappoint your mother too.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Since I’ve seen them?’ He then attempted to sign in response.

Mara wrote ‘That’s 80 years…’

Haru shook his head, pushed his glasses up, and ungainly attempted to correct himself. He was awful about it, but it was endearing seeing try so hard. He then came to terms to just hold up eight fingers. Mara smiled in understanding and squeezed his hand. She wrote on her pad, but this time she ripped the page in half and handed him a piece.

It read: ‘You have me now. I’m your family.’ Haru’s most genuine smile warmed her heart. She blushed then wrote, ‘You’re right. Your sign language lessons are not going well.’

Haru laughed, and then asked, ‘Alright. What have you to show me today?’

Mara sprung from her seat, grabbed a slice of cake, and took a big bite, and only after she uncovered the three paintings in front of him.

‘Three? Three new pieces. When did you manage them?’

She shrugged her shoulders and gave the rest of her attention to the slice of cake. Haru, clearly dumbfounded, moved closer to the pieces. He had only seen her a few days ago and now she delivered this? Had she been working during the night?

At first glance, the closest painting appeared to be an intricate abstract with a mix of black and red colours. But if one stared long enough, and at a certain angle, it was actually the blurred face of a young man with read eyes; a much younger boy, a child, dressed in a traditional, royal Kimono with black and white colours, was in the second painting. She purposely blurred his face, but was something about his expression brought him to life. His eyes and the lonely, but serious expression in them were hypnotising; the last painting was of a young man who resembled the one in the first painting, though this one had horns and a prominent scar on the left side of his face. She blurred the face like the others, but again, the eyes gave away the very distinct sense of solitude and a weary emptiness, as if reaching into one’s soul. They were different versions of the same young man.

‘So you still dream of him?’ Haru said as if to himself as he studied the paintings. He wrote using his phone. ‘Mara, these are incredible! Let’s definitely add them to the exhibition. I’ll work out the details with the curator.’

Mara shook her head and wrote. ‘I’m not finished with them yet.’

‘They look ready to me. But I know what you’re like so I’ll let you do your thing. Trust me though, people will love these.’ He said. When she didn’t react, he hesitated before writing again. ‘Tell me, are you still having those strange dreams?’

She paused and avoided Haru’s gaze with the pretence of covering the paintings again. She just nodded cautiously.

Haru touched her shoulder so she could see him speaking. ‘Are they him, in these paintings?’

She shrugged, then wrote on the notepad. Her shoulders were heavy with resignation. She knew Haru would be worried.

‘I’m not sure. I told you before, I remember little from those dreams.’

‘But it’s always the same boy?’ He insisted.

Mara nodded with some hesitation before writing again: ‘I feel it helps to paint him. It’s hard to explain, but it’s the feeling I get of what he looks like.’

‘You’ve said.’ — Haru reflected for a moment before continuing. — ‘It’s just strange that he’s been plaguing your dreams for as long as I’ve known you. For weeks at a time sometimes. What’s stranger still is that you dream him, but you remember nothing after. I mean, it’s normal for most people to not remember their dreams, but they usually do when they’re having recurring dreams like you.’

‘I get some glimpses here and there.’

‘At least you’re channelling it through your art now.’ — Haru gave her a comforting smile, a poor attempt at hiding his concern. — ‘I’m happy that you will share these in your exhibition.’

Mara hesitated, but nodded, and with a smile she reached for another slice of cake.