His arms are tired.
For someone with such domain over the wind, his lungs scream for more air, air that they are unable to take.
And yet, he maintains himself atop the lighthouse, redirecting the red mist as he had been all night long.
He hears the distant helicopter flying, notices its light. They are filming him. He swallows.
Repetitive noises. Cameras. Television screen.
He closes his eyes then, trembling where he stands, and does an exercise his therapist recommended.
How's the weather, Yoarashi-kun?
"Sunny. I make it windy."
What day is today, Yoarashi-kun?
"September 26th. It's thurs-"
Inasa blinks. September 26th.
He takes a deep breath as he redirects some more wind to move the incoming mist. His voice, when he opens his mouth, is low, hoarse, and attempting to sing-song.
"Happy birthday to me...."
