Author’s Note: I would like to thank Sakamoto Maaya and Steve Conte for the song this piece gets its name from. I bow to your talent.

Here you are
Daylight's star
Made out of miracles

Perfection
Of your own
You alone
O so incredible

Each atom
Sings to me
Set me free
From chains of the physical

O free me, O free me

-The Garden of Everything; Sakamoto Maaya feat. Steve Conte

The window looks out onto the vastness of the city, an emotionless landscape of metal and glass, both menacing and reassuring in its impassiveness. She opens it slowly, to feel the cool nightly breeze on her cheeks. It will be dawn soon, and she can almost see, or maybe imagines, the first rays of daylight creeping up the skyline. She sets her hands on the windowsill and feels the dampness of dew beneath her hands. She wipes the drops away, watching them fall for what could seem like eternity down onto the street below. The city seems strangely quiet this morning, almost peaceful, as if everyone had stopped they’re usual rush to simply contemplate the miracle of the sun rising in the morning. She sees the rays of light creeping out from in-between the silhouettes of the titanic buildings. In that moment between night and day, of the cool breeze mixed with the gentle light, she feels an unexpected happiness. She recognizes the beauty of what she has before her and it fills her, contemplating this piece of nature’s art. She holds on to it, struggling, desperately, to hold the feeling, but it’s of no avail. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands it trickles away into nothingness, leaving her trying to grab onto an illusion, a memory, not even that. She can’t even recall the feeling, the sun rises up like a hostile being behind the alien structures of cold metal, the light sears her eyes. She turns away, around. The beauty of the world has drained away, leaving only a gaping void, the emptiness, the purposelessness of her life. She lets herself slide down into a heap on the floor; tears dampen her cheeks, mourning what she doesn’t realize she’s missing.

On the other side of the world, someone very different watches the sunset, with very different things on his mind. His arm cradles lovingly the body of a blonde girl in an evening dress. Her dress is beautiful, and so is she. The taste of her lips is as sweet as the rose wine that lies in the glass he holds with his other hand. Her breathing is as gentle as the last rays of the sun that make the world glow in a rainbow of purples, reds and oranges before being swept over graciously by the mantle of night. He is content, deep in the soft haze of happiness given by a fulfilled life, a fulfilled moment, so he is all the more surprised when it hits him. Like an icy dagger piercing his heart, a small but powerful shard of immense sadness and desperation lodges inside him, and he can almost hear a tearful cry coming over the waves, whether of frustration, pain or simply a cry for help, he cannot discern. A shiver runs across him and then, like the moment of waking after a nightmare, it is gone. Startled into sudden awareness, he sits upright. It’s night already. The beautiful girl beside him looks up, drowsily.

“Is something the matter?” she asks, the genuine worry, even if slight, in her voice reminding him how lucky he was to have her. He smiles.

“Nothing, dear, it’s just cold out here,” he answers. It’s not a lie, the night is chilly, and, anyway, the feeling has passed, gaining the ethereality of a dream half-remembered.

He stands up, gently taking her hand and helping her up after him. He takes her from the wooden bench on the terrace towards the glass doors that lead into the house. Then he stops, because something is wrong. The reflection on the glass doesn’t show the beautiful face he’s used to seeing, in her flowing white dress. Instead, he is holding the hand of a smaller, oriental girl with uncombed jet black hair, standing in a light pink sleeping gown, the colour of cherry blossoms. Her eyes are filled with tears and she silently mouths one word while looking into his eyes:

Tasukete.

The warmth of bodies pressing together brings him back to reality, and he looks down at who is really beside him.

“What is it?” she asks, looking at him curiously, “an inspiration?”

He glances back to the glass; of course, it’s the same person in the reflection as in reality. Shaken, he looks back.

“Maybe,” he starts to answer, and the strange feeling is again washed away by the simple warmth of love. He leans down slightly and kisses her forehead. “You were always my best muse, love.”