Moonia Chloris-Goddess of Moon Blossoms-

Moonia Chloris

“Hey. How are you?”

“Same as always, Kaizuka Inaho.”

“I was asking how you were.”

“You can see for yourself.”

“I’m asking because I can’t see.”

“You’d still ask even if you could.”

Slaine twisted the dial on the console, fine-tuning the frequency.

“How are the flowers?”

Inaho’s voice, slightly clearer now through the static.

“They’re doing well. The soil, water, air—all adapted nicely.”

“I know that already.”

“They’ve grown beautifully.”

“I see.”

He pulled out the chair and sat down. The five castor wheels scraped softly against the floor.

“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Shuttle’s scheduled.”

“Work?”

“Kind of. But I have a day off.”

“Hm.”

Slaine glanced at the timestamp on the monitor’s corner. —2025/07/01–00:23–

“Show me around a little, will you?”

“Not much to show.”

His terminal displayed both local time and JST. Where’s he calling from?

“How long has it been now?”

“Three years, I think.”

“Three years, six months, and eleven days.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

So, January 20, 2022. He suddenly recalled the burst of party poppers in the visitation room, the cake, the juice, the books. Maybe that had been Inaho’s way of saying goodbye. Only now did it occur to him.

“This’ll be my third time.”

“Your third what?”

“Trip to the moon.”

“Oh, right.”

“The first time, I shot at you.”

“Of course you’d count that.”

“Anyway, I’ll drop by. Let’s go somewhere.”

Slaine contorted his face in a lopsided grimace. He knew Inaho couldn’t see it—but he made it anyway.

“Got it. I’m cutting the line.”

“10-4, Slaine Troyard.”

“The lunar plantation project. Keep it in mind.”

In the underground corridor of the detention facility, Kaizuka Inaho reminded me. I had just changed into my prison uniform.

“It’s not really something I can just ‘keep in mind,’ you know.”

I looked up at the barred window. The moon wasn’t visible in the midday sky. Its nighttime glow never reached the solitary cell.

—To reconstruct the ruins of the lunar base as a peace memorial.

The lunar base. The place I destroyed in the final stages of the Second Interplanetary War. I destroyed the civilization we had built on the moon—by my own hand, with the press of a button.

Now they ask me to return and plant flowers there with the same hand.

Do I deserve that?

“…This might not be the most elegant way to say it,” Inaho said, choosing his words with care.

“The lunar plantation—Moonlight Garden—was approved by majority vote. The political decision, on both sides, was that a peace memorial on the moon is a more appropriate detention site than a secret facility on Earth.”

“You were the one who proposed it, weren’t you?”

“I don’t have that kind of influence. I’m just another soldier.”

But then he added quietly,

“I wasn’t the only one. Others raised their voices—people who wanted this too.”

— Constructing a plantation within the ruins of a lunar base —

The first time I heard of such a plan was a few years ago, while riding along a coastal highway in the height of summer.

“What do you think?”

“Huh?”

When I replied, Kaizuka Inaho, sitting in the driver’s seat, deliberately turned his head toward me. With only one eye, glancing away from the road seemed risky—but it wasn’t my place to scold. I turned toward the passenger window. The waves glittering in the summer sunlight scattered like shards of shattered mirrors, dazzling my eyes.

“Nice car.”

“It’s six years old.”

“I wasn’t talking about its age or features.”

“Then what?”

“The color. And the design of the Julie can.”

“Good eye. I think you’ll like the name, too.”

“Oh?”

Beside me, he tapped the steering wheel with a soft tat-tat.

“Why don’t you do it? You, I mean.”

“Do what?”

“The job. At the botanical garden.”

“What are you talking about?”

Startled, I turned to face him with a raised voice. Inaho glanced at me again—just once. His expression as unreadable as ever. Leaning deep into the seat, elbow resting against the door’s pocket bulge.

“Why me?”

“You know your stuff. About flowers.”

“Well, more than you, at least.”

“You raised them on the Landing Castle, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And birds, too.”

“The birds didn’t quite reach the breeding stage.”

“You like nature.”

“I’ve never really thought about whether I like it or not.”

“But you’re suited for it.”

“You think so? Kaizuka Inaho?”

The whirring of the air conditioner and the hum of the engine. Through the windshield, the orange centerline continued endlessly ahead.

“I do.”

“Hmm.”

“Want to know why?”

“...Another time.”

He looked like he wanted to talk more, but I slowly shook my head.

—— [excerpt omitted] —— 

Slaine brought the edge of the pizza to his mouth, took a generous bite, and chewed slowly. He washed it down with a sip of beer—his Adam’s apple bobbing with a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial.

“So,” Inaho said, setting down his own glass. “The shipment of ceremonial flowers is due tomorrow, around noon?”

“That’s right.”

“We might run into each other by chance then.”

“Hmm? I thought you were stationed far from the venue.”

“Not me.”

Slaine blinked a few times, then widened his eyes, understanding beginning to dawn. Without a word, he raised the bottle to his lips and drank straight from it, without bothering to pour it into a glass. Inaho noticed but didn’t comment, even though a teasing remark—That’s what we call “rappa-nomi,” you know—sat right at the edge of his tongue.

With a soft thud, Slaine placed the bottle on the table and slowly shook his head. His silver-blonde hair caught the light from above, scattering glimmers like fragments of some rare mineral.

“That kind of dream… sounds too good to be true.”

“Does it have to be true?” Inaho murmured. “Sometimes dreams are enough.”

He poured his own Blue Moon into a glass. The golden liquid shimmered as it foamed, unremarkable in color, neither luminous nor strange—just real. Tangible.

“At the very least,” Inaho added gently, “your flowers will reach her hands.”

Looking up, he saw Slaine glance away, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate circuit around the room before returning to rest on the table. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm—ton, ton, ton—as if echoing some far-off memory.

“Then… I’ll have to remove the thorns before I give them to her,” Slaine said, a quiet laugh tucked behind his voice.

Inaho gave a single blink, then shrugged with a ghost of a smile.

“That’s exactly it.”

“What is?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He took another sip. Beer tastes bitter, no matter where you drink it, he thought.

—— [remainder omitted] ——