Hazuki called today for the first time in months. My return greeting was mostly composed of an irregular, shocked stuttering at my cell phone; I was torn between bewilderment at why she was suddenly calling me on the one hand, and relief that she was still even willing to do so at all on the other. Up until this morning, the most I’d ever gotten out of Hazuki all year were the terse e-mail replies of a harried computing researcher: “@conference for week, presenting latest project on data mining. returning fri. will call soon after (promise).”

A swell of happiness built in me when I finally heard her voice — a glimmer of hope that maybe we could draw ourselves back together after she had drifted out under a torrent of academic symposia and grant proposals. It took no less than thirty seconds for that optimism to collapse like a sand castle dashed in the tide.

“We finally got the go-ahead for our project on information flow in isolated networks,” Hazuki told me in a voice whose regretful tone crushed whatever sense of accomplishment she was trying to convey. “Hisashi’s already gone with a team to build our station in Keien. I’m going to be leaving as soon as he tells me we’re ready. Within a month, probably.”

I nearly panicked. Keien might as well be the loneliest island in the sea: a literal walled fortress sitting a hundred miles inside the desert that runs up against the edges of our city, with trade and communications embargoed so heavily they may as well not exist. I’m losing my only sister to a black hole.

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“We’ve got funding for a full year,” she said. “Maybe longer, if we get renewals.”

There’s a picture of Hazuki and me sitting atop my desk right now. We took that at Kayou Gardens last spring — the pink petals of cherry blossoms are falling all over the frame, underneath the bridge on which we’re standing into the brook below. It hasn’t even been nine months yet, but it feels like an eternity.

“A year…” I remember dazedly mumbling into the phone.

“Michiko,” my sister called to me, as if trying to snap me out of a bad dream. This is a bad dream, isn’t it? In a few minutes, I’ll wake up and stumble downstairs for breakfast, where I’ll nearly collide with Hazuki as she yells “you’re going to be late for school if you don’t get up earlier!” She’ll then joyfully hum to herself about the hairpin she just got from her latest boyfriend, prominently clipped near her ear, as she runs into her room. All of this business about her not caring for relationships any more is just a bad feverish vision — a delusion concocted by a mind out of joint.

“Michiko,” she repeated. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. Really, I’m not even sure if this is what I want. For now, though, this is where I’m going. Don’t worry too much about me. You already have so much to keep track of yourself.”

I made a quiet sound of assent. “You’re right,” I said, but now that I think about it, she isn’t. It’s not the worry that makes me want to cry — it’s the prospect of separation, of not seeing her for years at a time. I went into my sixteenth year as a girl, and left it as a young woman. If my sister leaves me now as a young woman in her own right, who’s to say what she’ll be when she returns? Didn’t we say we’d be there for each other forever, Hazuki? Can you be here for me when you’re not here?