For the rest of the day you spend your time in either the drawing room or your bedroom. It isn't all that hard to find things to do-- the harder part is avoiding the brothers while doing it.

Still, the day passes without anymore trouble.

The next morning is when your surprise comes.

"They went out?"

Kyouya inclines his heads as he retrieves your breakfast dishes. "Master Asahi works today, and the other young masters had business at the university. They apologize for leaving you alone, but they didn't wish to wake you."

"I thought it was break," you recall aloud.

"The masters have recently donated a large sum to the university," he says. "There has been talk of appointing one of the masters, Master Touma, to the board post graduation. It has been suggested that in order to combat his age preventing the appointment he sit in on meetings. Master Itsuki's club has been discussing travel in order to view an upcoming eclipse and he, being one of the more invested members, was requested to attend a meeting on the matter."

You blink in surprise. "You know a lot about their schedules and lives, Kyouya-san."

He starts to the door with the tray, once again inclining his head in acceptance of your words.

"It is my duty to know of what goes on in their lives," he explains. "Otherwise I could hardly do my job to the best of my abilities."

"I see..." you muse, then offer Kyouya a faint smile. "You're quite amazing."

He freezes in front of the door. "I beg your pardon?"

The stiff surprise on his face is as close to a deer-in-the-headlights look you can imagine Kyouya can wear. It prompts a giggle to your lips, which in turn sends heat to his ears.

"Young mistress?" he presses.

"I just think it's rather amazing that you can do all of this," you say. "You've been taking care of me, handling your brother, and caring for the others without as much as a single mistake. You're quite talented, Kyouya."

He raises a hand from the tray, using his pointer finger to press back on the bridge of his glasses. You've come to recognize the action as a habit. It seems to hold many meanings. Occasionally, it's used to buy him time to respond to a comment he's unsure about. You've also seen him do it when he was feeling particularly irritated with Kouta.

This time, however, you have the distinct feeling he's using the action to cover for the utter embarrassment staining his face a very faint pink.

"Yes, well," he says, clearing his throat. "It is nothing particularly peculiar, Young Mistress. I am only doing my duty. If you'll excuse me."

As Kyouya slips out into the hall you have the distinct feeling that this time it's him who's escaping you. You feel quite pleased with the situation; it's nice to be on the opposite side of the whole "fleeing" matter.

After changing into the clothing Kyouya has laid out for the day you spend the majority of the morning pondering the book selection in your room. You feel that these must have been your favorites given how out of the incredible selection of books in the household these particular novels are the ones you chose to place in your room. You hope that flipping through them will provide you with some hint of whom you'd been before your fall.

All it does end up providing you with is faint entertainment. You suppose there's benefit in having lost your memories-- you can enjoy these novels as if this were the first time you'd read them. Just as you'd finished flipping through a particularly heated romance novel, your eyes catch sight of a crimson bound book settled on the bottom shelf. There is no title nor author on the spine.

The moment you have it in your hands you realize why-- it's an album.

A mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and excitement flutters through you as you flip open the cover. The first picture instantly captures your attention. The small, black-and-white image shows what must be a younger you standing between two of the brothers. Standing behind you is the third brother-- Asahi, perhaps?-- and two strangers. Then there are two more strangers settled in seats to the left and right of the small group. You find yourself tracing your fingers over the stranger standing behind you.

Was that... your father? What of the woman sitting to the right? Is she your mother? Or is that the woman sitting to the left?

It takes some effort, but you manage to extract the photo from the plastic it's pressed behind. The small characters on the back read, "seated right: Koizuma Nene; front row: Matsumoto Touma, Koizuma Himari, Matsumoto Itsuki; back row Koizuma Koishi, Matsumoto Asahi, Matsumoto Tougai; seated left: Matsumoto Ayami."

Koizuma Koishi. So... it is him. And the one to the right... that is your mother. This photo must be from shortly before she died.

The woman is thin-- extremely so. You can tell despite the flowing shape of her dress from the way her cheeks are drawn in. Despite her obvious health troubles, the woman's hair runs to the mid-back of the chair she's seated in and is a thick, dark color. There is a calm smile on her face, her hands clasped in her lap.

The man-- your father-- has his hair pulled tightly against the top of his head, the gathered hair hidden behind his head. Perhaps he was a bit of a rebel? You're faintly aware that topknots were no longer popular but you get the distinct feeling this photo is from before that was the case. His strict, sharp face is a match to your developing mental image of this man. There's a affectionate smile on his lips, however, and his left hand is clasped lightly over your shoulder, the right tucked behind your mother's chair.

Your own smile is quite bright in the photo.

The three of you.... You really must have been fond of each other.

You shake your head to cast off the sudden, dark mood that had settled in the air; you had no wish to shed the tears you felt building behind your eyes. This in mind, your replace the photo into its plastic sleeve. Just as you're about to turn the page, your eyes are drawn to several characters inked onto the back of the cover. It is only at that moment that you realize that the neat, tiny characters were most likely written by your own hand. They have a distinct, feminine style and honestly feel more familiar than the photos themselves.

The note is simple.

Photos within: 1911--1920

Dear whomever is holding this album,

If Touma-- no, I do not think you have grown any less cute than you were when you were younger. There is no need to drag this to me and ask for the thousandth time.

If Asahi-- please quit showing this to our friends.

If Itsuki-- no, you're not allowed to remove the "embarrassing" photos of you. The same goes for Kyouya; although I doubt you'd try it.

If Kouta-- get out of my room. Now.

If me...

Things were pretty great back then, weren't they?

If only we could go back.

The word "great" has a distinct smudge to it. You are rather certain a tear must have escaped the old you while she was making this. What was she thinking about as she wrote the note? The death of her parents? Whatever had happened in this house to make the strange atmosphere it held?

You shake your head, flipping the page. The next few photos are of you and the brothers doing various things. In all of them you're wearing bright smiles, Asahi calm ones, Touma ecstatic, and Itsuki a mixture of reluctant smiles and scowls. There are even a few photos where Kyouya has been dragged into the frame-- to his obvious displeasure-- or with Kouta grinning. Most of the ones Kouta appears in has him either standing with an arm tucked over Itsuki's shoulders or with him next to Asahi.

His smile next to Itsuki seems genuine; his smile next to Asahi seems wry.

None of the photos show Kouta and Kyouya voluntarily next to each other.

The next one to fully hold your attention depicts a crying Touma and a scowling Itsuki bandaging Touma's knee.

'Quit bawling you baby, it's not that bad.'

The album slips from your hands as pain slices through your mind.

'Himari! You can't take a picture of me like this!'

'But it's you're so cute, Touma! Your crying face is the best!'

You... you remember this?

That's the only thought that can make it's way past the pain halting your mind. A pain that sends you to the floor, hands cradling your aching head. It's as if the photo forced one of the cabinets holding your memories open-- no key needed.

Who knew remembering would hurt this much? 

A/N: Short, I know, but I thought you guys deserved an update after all this time. I've gotten distracted by school so I've had a bit of trouble getting into the writing zone. Sorry!