Roses. Rose-red, blood-red, they scatter across the hallway, a trail left from the hand of a deceitful god. Everywhere, everywhere, the gentle prick of thorns in the shape of a crown.

The steel of his gun is heavy and reassuring at his hip, both an anchor and a reminder. His badge ties him to the world and gives him a purpose. Ide is alive.

"Matsuda?" he calls. "Matsuda?" The walls, they tremble from the intrusion, petal-thin and translucent.

Matsuda is alive. He visits this place often, to listen to the haunted echoes of a god killed long ago. The roses whisper, and Matsuda, he listens, cheek pressed to the cold warehouse floor.

"Matsuda." Ide crouches beside him. "Let's leave."

Matsuda shakes his head, yes, no, and closes his eyes. There were truths, once, long ago. Simple lives, and directions easily followed. Do this, God would say, and Matsuda would do it. No longer, no longer, and now his forehead is bloody from the bite of tiny thorns.

Ide touches Matsuda's hair. "Let's go." God was only ever a pretender to the throne, gilded and masked. Leave him. We will make our own way.

A saltwater tear spills to the floor, thick with repentance. Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned, and now I lay me down to sleep. Matsuda, he still listens to the gunshots ringing.

The silence between words betrays the roses' sighs. Ide pulls at Matsuda's hand, warmth against warmth. "Come on." There is no time for sinners to rest, no time to repent. There is only time for breathing, loving, living.

"Matsuda. Let's go." Flesh to flesh, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; thou shalt not worship false gods, amen, and the roses with their bloody petals fall silent. Ide pulls Matsuda to his feet.

They are alive.
 
Outside, far away, summer begins to blossom.