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Introduction by Emily Itami
This play begins, as so many Japanese summers do, with cicadas humming endlessly and the smell of the sea pushing through a half-open door. But beneath all that noise, there’s something else—silence. The kind of silence that grows between sisters when grief is too heavy to talk about, or when anger has been folded away so many times it starts to look like habit.
I wanted to write about that silence, not as emptiness, but as a presence. The sisters in this story are not heroic. They are flawed, funny, brittle, and desperately trying to carry on. And in that way, they are all of us.
What you’ll see tonight is not an explanation, or a resolution, but a kind of echo—the sound of people finally daring to speak where once there was only quiet.
(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event)
Act I, Scene 1 — The Call
Setting: Split stage. On one side, a Tokyo idol dressing room: mirrors glowing, makeup scattered, a silence beneath the hum of fluorescent lights. On the other, a small London apartment, laptop open on a cluttered desk, suitcase half-unpacked on the bed. Between them, dimly lit airport corridors stretch like veins, flickering EXIT signs. The chorus of cicadas fades in and out, as if the summer is already listening.
Ai (Tokyo, slumped in the chair, face washed in screen light)
It isn’t congratulations. It’s headlines, snapshots, comments that taste like iron. I open one, and it opens me.
(She shuts the laptop sharply. The glow lingers on her face, then vanishes.)
Kiki (Ikimura, on the phone, calm but firm)
Come home.
Ai (laughs, sharp)
To what? A house where every door creaks like judgment?
Kiki
To sisters who will cook rice whether you eat or not.
Ai
The rice doesn’t care. The headlines do.
Kiki
Headlines burn fast. Rice takes longer.
(Ai exhales, rubs her face. She looks younger in the half-dark.)
Ai (softer)
I can hear them through the walls, Kiki. Even with the windows shut.
Kiki
Then hear me louder. Come home.
(A pause. The cicadas swell. The airport corridor flickers into life.)
Rei (London, standing with phone in hand, suitcase half-zipped)
What’s happened?
Kiki
She can’t stay there. She’ll be devoured.
Rei
And here?
Kiki
Here she can breathe.
Rei (dry)
Breathing isn’t fashionable.
Kiki
Neither is disappearing.
(Rei looks at the suitcase, then out the window. A plane passes overhead, faint rumble.)
Rei
If I leave now, I’ll be there tomorrow.
Kiki
Then come.
(Silence. The cicadas cut out; only the sea is heard. Ai stares at her phone screen, thumb hovering over unread messages.)
Ai
They don’t want me back. They want me buried.
Kiki
Then let the sea cover you. At least it’s salt and not spite.
Ai (snaps)
You think it’s that easy?
Kiki
No. That’s why I’m asking.
(A pause. Ai pulls her hood up, like hiding from a camera.)
Ai
And Rei? She’ll come with her luggage full of judgment.
Rei (cutting in)
Or full of clothes that still smell like London rain. Don’t flatter yourself.
Ai (startled, then bitter)
So you’re already circling. Like crows.
Rei
Like family.
Ai
That word’s a costume. I can’t wear it right.
Kiki
Then wear nothing. Sit at the table. We’ll pour tea until your hands stop shaking.
(Ai presses her palms to the desk, steadying herself. The cicadas start again, soft, uncertain.)
Ai
What if I make it worse?
Kiki
Then we’ll carry worse together.
Rei (after a beat)
I’ll be at the station. Don’t make me stand alone on the platform.
(Silence. The airport corridor glows brighter, footsteps echo faintly. Ai looks toward it, like staring into the future she doesn’t want.)
Ai
Fine. But if I walk into that house and it eats me—
Kiki (firm)
It won’t. It remembers too much hunger already.
(A pause. Ai takes her suitcase from beneath the desk, drags it into the corridor. The EXIT sign hums. Rei zips her case, tight, and sets it by the door. Kiki folds a towel, sets it on the low table as if preparing a place already.)
Rei (quiet, almost to herself)
We’ll see if silence can be fed.
Ai (mutters)
It never is.
(The cicadas crescendo, then cut to a sharp stop. The sea breathes in the silence. Lights dim on Tokyo and London, leaving only the corridor glowing faintly with departures and returns.)
Blackout.
Act I, Scene 2 — The Back Stairs
Setting: A narrow concrete stairwell, fluorescent lights flickering. A green EXIT sign hums above vending machines that glow softly at the landing. Distant camera flashes flicker outside, sharp as lightning. The air is damp, heavy with the smell of asphalt still hot from the day. The stairwell becomes a hidden artery, a passage between exposure and retreat.
Ai (hood pulled low, slipping down the steps)
Even here, I can feel their lenses. It’s like carrying glass on my skin.
Kiki (at her side, steady)
Then stay close.
(They pause. A shoe scuffs below. The EXIT sign hum deepens. They wait, breathing shallow, until the sound fades.)
Rei (descending behind them, brisk)
The driver’s ready. Car’s booked. Trust him.
Ai (sharp)
Trust? That’s a word that doesn’t survive in Tokyo.
Rei
It survives in the countryside. That’s why we’re going.
(Ai glances back at her, wary, then presses forward. The vending machines glow faintly on their faces. A lemon soda hums in its slot, untouched.)
Ai (whispers)
What if I can’t walk fast enough? They’ll find me.
Kiki
Then we’ll walk together.
Rei (firm, cutting)
And not stop until you’re on the train.
(Silence, filled with the hum of the EXIT sign. Ai presses her hand to her hood, trembling. Kiki steadies her elbow.)
Ai (to Kiki)
You think rice and tea fix everything.
Kiki
Not everything. Just enough to start.
Rei (dry)
Food can’t fix silence either.
(A sharp flash bleeds through the stairwell window. Ai flinches, presses against the wall. Her breath stutters.)
Ai
It’s them. It’s always them. Even when I close my eyes, they click.
Kiki
Then keep your eyes open. Let us block the rest.
(They descend. A distant door slams, echoing like a gavel. The stairwell seems to hold its breath.)
Rei
Platform four. Back carriage. Aisle seat. Bag overhead.
Ai (half-laugh, bitter)
Like smuggling contraband.
Rei
Like survival.
Ai (stares at vending machine, voice small)
I wanted to be sweet once. Lemon soda sweet. Now I taste like rust.
Kiki (gently)
Sweetness doesn’t vanish. It just waits.
(A silence, filled with the faint hum of the vending machine. Ai touches the glass, then pulls her hand back quickly as if burned.)
Ai
You don’t understand. They’ve already written me. I’m finished.
Rei (hard)
Finished people don’t walk downstairs. They don’t pack bags. They don’t breathe this loudly.
Ai (stares at her)
Why do you sound like an accountant of existence?
Rei
Because I count what matters. Step by step.
(They pause. Outside, another flash. Then quiet.)
Kiki (whispers)
One more flight down. Then the door.
Ai (hesitant)
What if they’re waiting?
Rei
Then you’ll walk anyway. That’s what we do.
(They descend the final steps. The EXIT sign glows brighter, buzzing. The sound of the city leaks in: traffic, the faint roar of trains. The stairwell empties them out toward motion.)
Ai (breath shallow, almost to herself)
If this is survival, it feels like dying.
Kiki (steady)
Then die into something new.
Rei (curt, pushing open the door)
Or don’t. Just move.
(The door opens. Light from the street floods the stairwell, harsh and white. Camera flashes cut through the gap, quick and insect-like. Kiki takes Ai’s arm firmly; Rei steps into the light first, shielding them. Together, they move out. The stairwell is left humming, empty. The EXIT sign flickers once, then steadies.)
Blackout.
Act I, Scene 3 — Arrival in Ikimura
Setting: A small rural station platform at night. Wooden beams flake paint, an old lantern glows faintly, and beyond, the shimmer of the sea. Crickets chirp under the louder cicadas. Three sisters meet tensely under the weight of absence. At the far upstage corner, in half-shadow, an empty chair is faintly visible, the shawl across its back like a ghost waiting to be acknowledged.
Rei (stepping off the train, suitcase in hand)
This station hasn’t changed. Even the paint peels in the same places.
Kiki (already waiting, arms crossed)
Ikimura doesn’t care for change. It waits you out.
Rei (dry)
It’s winning.
(She sets her suitcase down. A beat. Ai approaches from the opposite end of the platform, hood up, dragging her bag like an anchor.)
Ai
So. Here we are. The exile returns, the accountant of silence comes home, and the jailer still holds the keys.
Kiki (frowning)
Don’t start with names.
Rei
Then start with truth.
(Silence. The lantern hums. The sea presses faintly against the night air, as if listening.)
Ai (to Rei)
London suits you. It’s cold.
Rei
And Tokyo suits you—until it doesn’t.
Ai (bristles)
That was quick.
Kiki
Enough. You’re both here. That’s what matters.
Ai
Matters to who?
Rei
To her.
(They all glance toward the faint chair in the shadows. No one moves closer.)
Kiki
She left pieces. We keep walking around them.
Ai (snaps)
Because they cut.
Rei
Because they wait.
(A pause. Cicadas falter, then start again.)
Ai (softer)
This place smells like her. Even after all this time.
Kiki
She seeped into the walls.
Rei (measured)
Or we carried her here ourselves.
(They step closer to each other but keep a wary distance. The lantern flickers once, then steadies.)
Ai (sudden)
I thought coming back would make me smaller. It doesn’t. It makes everything else larger.
Rei
Grief does that.
Kiki
So does silence.
(They face the empty chair now, still at a distance. Ai shifts uncomfortably, Rei looks rigid, Kiki exhales slow and steady.)
Ai (murmurs)
She isn’t here.
Rei (quiet, eyes on the shawl)
She is here.
Kiki
She is—here.
(A silence. The lantern hums again. The sea breathes closer, as if pushing against the platform itself. The three of them stand, not ready to close the distance, but not turning away.)
Blackout.
Act II, Scene 4 — Everyday Rituals
Setting: The kitchen of the Ikimura house. A kettle hisses softly, a rice cooker clicks, and steam curls in the air. A low wooden table is set with simple bowls, miso soup, and pickles. Three sisters move about the space, their actions practiced, almost ritualistic. In the corner, the mother’s shawl hangs over a chair, still and watchful. The cicadas sing faintly outside, threaded with the hush of the sea.
Kiki (rinsing rice, voice even)
Three washes. Anything less, it tastes unfinished.
Ai (sitting, chin on knees)
You’re still exact, like a recipe book that doesn’t bend.
Kiki (half-smiles)
Rice doesn’t forgive shortcuts.
Rei (entering, drying her hands with a towel)
Neither do people.
(A pause. The kettle whistles softly. Kiki switches it off with care. Steam fills the silence like breath they don’t share.)
Ai
The house feels smaller.
Rei
We feel larger.
Kiki
Or just noisier.
(They sit at the table. Kiki places bowls carefully, aligning them as if order might keep them steady. Ai slouches, Rei sits upright. The shawl in the corner looms quietly.)
Ai (picks at chopsticks)
I thought eating here again would taste like childhood. Instead, it tastes like duty.
Kiki (gently)
Sometimes duty keeps you alive.
Rei (dry)
Sometimes it kills the appetite.
(They eat in silence. Steam from the rice rises between them like a wall. Outside, the cicadas stop suddenly, then resume, uneven.)
Ai
Do you remember the summer festival? She made us kakigori with syrup stolen from the stand. Said it tasted better when you didn’t pay.
Kiki (soft laugh)
She called it rebellion in a paper cup.
Rei (tight)
I remember cleaning the cups afterward. She never washed them.
Ai
So you washed away rebellion.
Rei (snaps)
I washed away ants.
(A silence. The lantern in the hall hums faintly. Kiki stirs her soup, though she doesn’t drink.)
Kiki
We carry her differently. That doesn’t make one version false.
Ai (quiet, almost to herself)
It just makes her incomplete.
(She sets down her chopsticks. The sound is too loud in the small room.)
Rei
We keep circling her name like it’s forbidden.
Kiki
Because once we say it, we can’t take it back.
(The rice cooker clicks, done. The sudden sound makes them all flinch, then laugh weakly at their own reaction. The laugh fades quickly.)
Ai (leans back, staring at ceiling)
She hummed when she cooked. I hear it still.
Rei
I don’t. I hear silence.
Kiki (sets her spoon down)
Both are true.
(They fall quiet. Outside, the sea presses against the walls. The shawl in the corner seems to watch, catching lantern light in its folds.)
Ai (suddenly)
I hate that it still smells like her.
Kiki
Smell fades. Memory doesn’t.
Rei
Sometimes I wish it would.
(Silence. The kettle hisses faintly, though it’s already off—steam lingering longer than it should.)
Ai (restless, pushes her bowl away)
I can’t eat this. It’s too heavy.
Kiki
It’s the same recipe as always.
Ai
That’s why.
(She stands, pacing. Her footsteps echo lightly against the tatami. Rei watches her, then turns back to the table.)
Rei
You’ll get hungry later.
Ai
Then maybe hunger’s the only honest thing left.
(Kiki rises, takes Ai’s bowl, sets it quietly back at the table. Her movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial.)
Kiki
No one leaves the table empty.
(Ai hesitates, then sits again, folding her arms, stubborn but subdued. The shawl shifts slightly in a draft from the window. All three glance at it. No one speaks for a long beat.)
Rei (finally)
We’re pretending this is normal. It isn’t.
Kiki (softly)
That’s what rituals are for. Pretending until it feels less sharp.
Ai
Or until it cuts deeper.
(The cicadas quiet again. The sea’s rhythm grows louder, steady. Kiki refills the tea, the sound of liquid grounding them in something ordinary. They each take a sip, hands trembling slightly.)
Kiki
Drink. Even bitterness can warm.
(They do. For a moment, their breathing slows, aligned. The shawl in the corner seems to soften in the light. A fragile calm settles—not resolution, but a pause.)
Blackout.
Act II, Scene 5 — The Weight of Silence
Setting: A tatami room dimly lit by a single lantern. A low table sits at the center with three untouched bowls. Steam no longer rises; food has cooled. The sisters sit around it, each in her own corner of distance. Against the back wall, the mother’s chair waits, shawl draped neatly across the back. The cicadas falter in uneven rhythm, sometimes cutting out entirely, leaving the sea’s hush to take over.
Ai (staring at her bowl)
It’s cold already. Even the soup doesn’t want to be here.
Rei
Neither do we.
Kiki (quiet, steady)
But we are.
(They glance at each other, then at the chair. The lantern hums faintly. A draft makes the shawl stir, almost imperceptible.)
Ai (whispers)
She sat there every morning. Waiting before we even came down.
Rei
Like a guard.
Kiki
Like a witness.
(Silence. The cicadas drop out. Their breathing is suddenly too loud in the small room.)
Ai (shaking her head)
We never said goodbye. Not properly.
Kiki (measured)
Goodbye isn’t a single word.
Rei (bitter)
Sometimes it’s not a word at all. Sometimes it’s leaving.
Ai (snaps)
Don’t—don’t make it sound tidy. It wasn’t.
(She presses her hands into her lap, trembling. Kiki reaches toward her but stops halfway. Rei watches, expression tight.)
Kiki (soft)
No one here thinks it was tidy.
(The lantern flickers, shadow stretching across the chair. The shawl glows faintly in the corner light.)
Ai (voice rising)
Then why do we sit like this? Pretending we’re still her obedient little orbit.
Rei
Because some gravity doesn’t let go.
Kiki
And some we refuse to release.
(They fall quiet again. The sea pushes against the silence like a slow heartbeat. The bowls sit untouched.)
Rei (sudden, sharp)
Say her name.
Ai (flinches)
Don’t.
Kiki (after a beat, gentle)
Keiko.
(A stillness settles. Ai grips the table edge until her knuckles whiten. Rei closes her eyes, jaw set. The cicadas remain silent, as though listening.)
Ai (through clenched teeth)
It hurts.
Kiki
That’s how you know she’s still here.
Rei
Or how you know she left.
(A pause. The lantern hum deepens. A moth taps faintly against the paper shade, fragile, insistent.)
Ai (breaking, almost pleading)
What if I can’t forgive her?
Kiki (measured)
Then don’t. Forgiveness isn’t the only way to carry.
Rei (curt)
But hatred is heavier.
Ai
So what do I do with it?
Kiki
Put it on the table with the bowls. Let it cool.
(Ai looks at her bowl, then shoves it slightly away. The clink of ceramic echoes in the room. She breathes hard, then lowers her head.)
Rei (low)
I wanted her to explain. Just once. A sentence. Even a bad one.
Kiki
And now?
Rei (voice breaking)
Now I’d settle for the silence that comes after.
(They sit in stillness. The sea swells once, then recedes. The lantern flickers again; the shawl stirs in the draft like a breath being held.)
Ai (softly, almost childlike)
Mama.
(Her voice cracks. Kiki lays a hand on the table near hers but doesn’t touch. Rei stares at the chair, lips pressed tight. The moth taps the lantern again, then falls quiet.)
Kiki (whispers)
We’re saying it now. Even if no one answers.
(A long silence. Finally, the cicadas start again, thin and uneven. The three bowls remain untouched as the light begins to dim, the shawl holding its place like an anchor.)
Blackout.
Act II, Scene 6 — Cracks in the Mask
Setting: The tatami room, darker now. The bowls have been cleared; only faint stains remain on the table. The lantern burns low, throwing long, uneven shadows. The mother’s chair stands in the corner, the shawl dimly visible. The air is heavy, as if the house itself is waiting to exhale.
Ai (pacing, voice sharp)
You both sit like priests, but I’m the one they crucify.
Rei (snaps back)
You threw yourself on the stage. No one pushed you.
Ai (turns, trembling)
You think I asked for this? To be headline trash?
Rei (curt)
You lit the match.
Kiki (steps between, steady but strained)
Stop. The room isn’t fireproof.
(Ai slams her hand on the table; the lantern rattles. Kiki steadies it. Silence stretches. The cicadas cut off suddenly, leaving the sound of the sea.)
Ai (lower, almost broken)
I just wanted to be seen. To shine. For once, not to be the leftover daughter.
Rei (after a beat)
And I wanted quiet. Walls that didn’t hum with her voice. We both wanted escape. We just chose different prisons.
Kiki (to Rei, quietly)
And me? I chose to stay.
(A pause. The shawl seems to shift slightly in the lantern’s draft. All three glance at it, then away.)
Ai (to Kiki)
Don’t pretend staying was noble. You buried yourself alive.
Kiki (measured)
I kept the roof from caving in. That’s all.
Rei (hard)
And now you want medals for it?
Kiki (sudden)
No. Just recognition that it cost something.
(Silence. The lantern hums. A moth circles once, then lands on the shade.)
Ai (sinks into a crouch, whispering)
She left us with silence thicker than walls. And we’re still trying to climb out.
Rei (softens slightly)
Climbing’s all we know.
(Ai presses her hands over her face. Kiki kneels beside her, steady. Rei watches, conflicted.)
Kiki (gentle)
You don’t have to shine for us. Not tonight.
Ai (muffled)
Then who am I?
Rei (after a beat)
Our sister. That’s enough.
(Ai lowers her hands. She looks at Rei, eyes wet but defiant. Kiki exhales slowly. The lantern flickers. For a moment, the shawl seems almost alive in the corner.)
Blackout.
Act III, Scene 7 — Confrontation Around the Chair
Setting: The tatami room again, darker than before. The lantern burns low, casting ritual shadows. The mother’s chair has been pulled forward into the center, the shawl draped across its back. Beyond the open shōji, the sea whispers against the night air. The cicadas have gone silent, as if holding back for what is about to be said.
Kiki (circling slowly, voice low)
We’ve tried food. We’ve tried silence. Now it’s only this left.
Rei (dry, arms folded)
A tribunal for wood and fabric?
Ai (tight, near the door)
No. A reckoning.
(They unconsciously form a triangle around the chair. None sit. The lantern hums faintly.)
Kiki
We’ve carried her in fragments. Tonight we set them down.
Rei (sharp)
Fragments cut.
Ai (soft, trembling)
Or haunt.
(They glance at the shawl. The draft makes it stir slightly. A silence, filled with the sea’s pulse.)
Kiki
Say what you haven’t said. Even if it burns.
Ai (blurts)
I hated her for watching me fall. For not pulling me back. For making me think applause was love.
Rei (measured)
I hated her humming. I was afraid I’d inherit it. So I turned myself into stone, and still I hear her.
Kiki (after a breath)
I hated being left behind with her shadow. And yet—I clung to it.
(They stand, breath unsteady. The lantern flickers. The shawl seems to glow faintly.)
Ai (quieter)
But under the anger… I loved her so much it hollowed me.
Rei
Under mine… I was terrified of becoming her. That terror built me.
Kiki (voice breaking)
And under mine… I resented that she was the center, even absent. I’m still learning how to step out.
(They pause. The sea swells once, then softens.)
Kiki
Touch it. One at a time. Then together.
(Kiki approaches first, smooths the shawl as if taming a wrinkle.)
Kiki (soft)
I forgive you for leaving. I forgive me for waiting too long.
(She steps back. Ai approaches next, trembling, touches the fabric with her forehead quickly, almost ritual.)
Ai
I forgive you for not seeing me. Please forgive me for burning myself bright enough to blind.
(She retreats, shaking. Rei steps forward last, steadying herself with both hands on the chair.)
Rei
I forgive you. And I forgive myself for clinging to anger as if it were proof of love.
(She lets go. They all stand around the chair, breathing unevenly. A silence grows. Then—)
Ai (sudden, fragile)
We’re still separated by a river.
Kiki
Then build a bridge.
Rei (dry)
With what?
Ai
With what’s broken. It stacks better.
(A pause. Then, slowly, they each reach out, overlapping hands on the shawl. For the first time, their touch unites. The lantern glows warmer. The sea hushes.)
Kiki (eyes closed)
Keiko.
Ai
Keiko.
Rei (after a beat)
Mother.
(They hold the silence. The cicadas return in a faint, uncertain rhythm, as if testing the air. Finally, Kiki lifts the shawl gently. They fold it together: Rei aligning corners, Ai tucking edges, Kiki smoothing. They place it on the cupboard shelf. The chair remains, plain wood again.)
Rei (softly)
Now it’s just a chair.
Ai (almost a smile)
And still, it waits.
Kiki
Like grief that learned manners.
(They breathe. The lantern hums, the shawl hidden now, but the weight in the room feels lighter. They look at each other—not whole, but closer.)
Blackout.
Act III, Scene 8 — Small Healings
Setting: Morning light filters into the tatami room. The table is reset, this time not with rice or soup but bowls of shaved ice piled high, colored syrup glistening in green, red, and gold. Cicadas hum steadily outside, softened by the sea breeze drifting through the open shōji. The shawl rests folded neatly on a cupboard shelf now, visible but no longer presiding. The air feels lighter, as though the house itself has loosened its grip.
Ai (digging her spoon into the ice)
Melon green, strawberry red, lemon gold. A rainbow of sugar for three women who should know better.
Rei (taking a bite, wincing at the cold)
Apparently, we don’t.
Kiki (smiles faintly)
We did this every summer. She said kakigori was cheaper than forgiveness.
Ai (laughs, a little too loud)
And twice as sticky.
(They eat. Syrup drips down Ai’s spoon; she licks it quickly before it stains her sleeve. Rei takes a slower bite, then shivers with sudden brain-freeze. Ai bursts into laughter. Even Kiki chuckles softly, the sound rare and warm.)
Ai
You should see your face, Rei. You look like the statue of Justice got punched.
Rei (grimacing, then smirking despite herself)
Better than looking like the criminal.
Kiki
Or the jury.
(Their laughter overlaps briefly, then settles. A cicada buzz cuts close to the window, then drifts away.)
Ai (quieter, thoughtful)
Funny how something this simple feels like air after drowning.
Kiki
That’s what ritual does. It turns survival into something almost sweet.
Rei (careful)
Until the sweetness runs out.
Ai (nudges her bowl toward Rei)
Then steal some of mine. She would have approved.
(Rei hesitates, then takes a spoonful. Ai watches, eyes bright, before turning back to her own bowl. The silence that follows isn’t heavy; it feels shared.)
Kiki
She always claimed flavors had personalities. Melon for the quiet ones, strawberry for the reckless, lemon for the stubborn.
Ai (points at Rei’s bowl)
Then that’s yours. Stubborn lemon.
Rei (arches an eyebrow)
Better lemon than reckless strawberry.
Ai (grins)
And poor Kiki, left with quiet melon.
Kiki (accepts calmly)
Quiet keeps people alive.
(They eat again, slower now. The bowls are half-empty. A small draft makes the cupboard door creak slightly; the folded shawl inside shifts. All three glance at it, but without fear.)
Ai (soft)
It feels different now. Not lighter, exactly. Just… less sharp.
Rei (nods)
Edges dull with use.
Kiki
And with love. Even the messy kind.
(They fall into silence. This time, it feels companionable. The cicadas hum steadily, the sound no longer oppressive but like background music to summer. Ai scoops one last bite, lets the ice melt in her mouth before swallowing.)
Ai (smiling faintly)
I could almost believe we’re ordinary.
Rei (after a pause)
Almost is enough.
(They share a small, knowing look. For once, none of them look at the chair. The light through the shōji grows brighter, filling the room with warmth.)
Blackout.
Act III, Scene 9 — The Shoreline Goodbye
Setting: A twilight Japanese beach. The sky deepens into indigo, streaked with the last gold of the horizon. Waves glow faintly as they break against the sand. The cicadas are gone, leaving only the rhythm of water. Three sisters stand barefoot at the edge, the mother’s shawl in Kiki’s hands. The air carries both salt and farewell.
Kiki (holding the shawl)
It’s lighter than I remember.
Ai
Or we’re heavier.
Rei (quiet)
Both can be true.
(Kiki smooths the fabric once, then lets it rest between her hands. The wind tugs gently at the edges.)
Ai (hesitant)
What if letting go feels like betrayal?
Kiki
Then think of it as trust.
Rei
Or necessity.
(They step closer to the tide. Water laps over their feet, cool against skin still warm from the day. The shawl flutters, as if impatient.)
Ai (sudden)
I don’t want it to vanish.
Kiki
It won’t. The sea keeps everything.
Rei (measured)
It changes what it keeps, though. That’s the point.
(A silence. Only the surf speaks, steady and endless. Finally, Kiki holds the shawl out. The three sisters place their hands on it together, then release. The fabric drifts into the tide, caught in a slow pull outward. It glimmers once, then darkens with the water.)
Ai (softly)
It’s returning.
Rei (after a pause)
Yes. To somewhere we can’t follow.
(They stand, watching. The shawl lifts and sinks, each wave carrying it farther. Their feet sink deeper into the sand as the tide recedes, holding them steady.)
Kiki (whispers)
Goodbye.
(The word is carried off by the wind, but the other two echo it silently, lips moving without sound. They stand together, shoulders nearly touching, their silhouettes outlined against the last band of gold on the horizon.)
(Slowly, the indigo sky deepens. The waves glow faintly in moonlight. The shawl disappears into the sea. The sisters remain, quiet but unbroken.)
Blackout.
Final Thoughts by Emily Itami
When the sisters let their mother’s shawl drift into the tide, it is not a tidy ending. Grief never is. Silence doesn’t vanish, it shifts. It becomes softer, more livable.
I wrote this story because I know what it is to hold your breath in a room where nothing is said, and to feel words thicken like heat around you. But I also know what it is to laugh over something small, to share shaved ice that melts too quickly, and to realize that these small, ordinary acts are how we survive.
If this play leaves you with anything, I hope it is the reminder that silence is not absence. It is waiting. And within it, we can choose—again and again—to stay, to speak, and to love each other in our imperfect, ordinary ways.
Short Bios:
Emily Itami
Emily Itami is a Japanese-born, London-based writer whose work explores love, silence, and the fragile bonds of family. Her debut novel Fault Lines received international acclaim for its wit, lyricism, and honesty. Kakigori Summer draws on her interest in how ordinary rituals—meals, memories, and unspoken words—shape the lives we carry.
Kiki
The steady middle sister, Kiki remained in Ikimura to care for the family home. Nurturing and practical, she has quietly sacrificed her own desires to hold the family together. Her rituals of cooking and caretaking are both her strength and her burden.
Rei
The eldest sister, Rei built a life abroad in London, distanced from her family but never free from its silence. Precise and restrained, she hides grief behind control. Her return forces her to face the emotions she has carefully avoided.
Ai
The youngest sister, Ai is a former Tokyo idol whose sudden fall from fame drives her back home. Charismatic yet fragile, she struggles with shame and the weight of public scrutiny. Beneath her anger lies a desperate need for acceptance.
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