u/Hot-Obligation7735

I mean the Umas of the SS world live in a universe very similar to our own (at least compared to the PD world). Umas there are born from two Umas mating, whereas in the PD world, Umas are born from an Uma Musume (horse girl) and a male human (Umas can also be born from two humans but it is much more common for it to result in a human girl)

Like for them, it’ll be as if in our world, a human and a horse (the literal animal) had a child (who can either be a human boy or another horse). Or, that two humans can sometimes give birth to a horse. Won’t that be weird for the SS Umas, like eye-brow raising weird?

The soft clatter of rain clouded the night sky, it was starless and heavy. Such a thing felt fitting for the mood of the dark-haired Uma running through the hail of droplets. 

The sound of his shoes impacting the pavement below synchronized with his rapid heartbeats.

Elsewise the world went quiet, only the view ahead being the only thing Sunday Silence could focus on.

His breaths came out as vapor, as the heat of it cooled by the surrounding rain.

He felt cold…so cold…

Sunday’s crimson and pale gold eyes immediately locked onto the hospital coming into view. It’s bright white lights illuminating the area like a beacon.

~~Huff~~Huff

And not a moment too soon he is here.

The sound of the automatic sliding doors and the resulting sounds of patients once inside became background noise. Sunday immediately bolted towards the receptionist, his face a mask of desperation.

“Where is Wishing Well?” Sunday’s voice came out as direct as possible.

The receptionist jumped on her chair, caught completely off guard by the large Uma seemingly appearing in front of her as if from nowhere. She adjusted her glasses and calmly tried to keep her voice steady.

“M-Might I ask the reason for your visit sir?” 

Sunday’s eyes narrowed, quite annoyed at his question being ignored. However he reeled in his anger, realizing that his emotions are clearly frayed from his lack of sleep the past two days.

The long trip from Japan to Ireland, especially at the rush he was going. Though, he doubted sleep would have found him either way.

Because-

“I am Sunday Silence- Wishing Well’s son, and I wish to see her,” Sunday’s voice came out a little sharper, not yet a shout, but his patience is clearly at a knife’s edge, “Where is she currently being kept at?!”

The receptionist's eyes looked down, whether out of understanding or fear, the Black Beast found himself caring little. Just as it seemed Sunday’s temper was about to reach its fever pitch, and he was about to storm off on his own to look for the answers himself; the receptionist let out a weak stutter.

“R-Room 86, Floor 3-”

Sunday Silence did not even deign to remain for the rest of the statement, once hearing the floor, and room number he ran with the urgency of a dying man. As he made his way, dodging and maneuvering through the incoming passengers. 

All he could think of…was his mother.

As he ran up stairs and hallways, he found himself in front of the room that…she now rests in. He found himself hesitating, unsure of how a reunion with his mother would go.

They…drifted apart after she was moved to Ireland. This would be the first time they spoke in many years. Perhaps he should have called her but when he heard the news from Yoshida, all he could think of was rushing to her side as soon as possible.

Stupid- perhaps, and reckless too as he only gave a halfhearted notice but…

He was scared of not being here fast enough

He was scared of not having enough time.

Quite ironic isn’t it, now that he is here, he finds himself hesitating. Does…Does she even want him here. 

Sunday finds his hand hovering from the door. Then, a moment later he knocks. As the saying goes, there is only one way to find out, his answers won’t come from a piece of wood. 

For a second, there was silence. For a moment, Sunday’s heart dropped as he wondered if he was once more too late.

Then, a sweet voice called out.

“Yes…Who’s there?”

Sunday’s throat started to feel dry as he replied in a subdued tone, “I-It is me mother…I’ve come to see you.”

In the back of Sunday’s head, he wondered if he should’ve said his name. Surely his mother would mistaken him for any of his half-brothers, colts she actually had the chance to love-

Certainly more than the ash haired, mangled thing that was-

“Sunday…Sunday Silence, is that you my child?”

The creaking of the door echoed throughout the room, as the black haired Uma moved towards the hospital bed stationed near the window. Decorating the room were the occasional flowers, letters and a few pictures hidden from his view.

And resting on the bed was a comely brown-haired Uma with gentle eyes. Eyes that watered when staring into his own.

“I-It is really y-you…my baby boy…”

Sunday could feel tears building up in his eyes as his voice came out broken, “Hey m-mom, yeah…yeah it is me…”

Sunday found himself speechless, unable to come up with much of a coherent sentence when in front of his mother. Wishing Well for that matter, was radiating with joy and energy despite her weak frame.

She held his face softly, her tone came out just as much, “You’re so grown up…have you been resting well? You have bags under your eyes.”

Sunday chuckled as tried to keep his throat from welling up, “Well you know busy life can be…I am doing…good mom. Promise.”

Wishing Well smiled yet it held an undercurrent of sadness, whether she could tell that her son wasn’t being fully truthful or because of her current condition is something we’ll never know. 

Nevertheless, Wishing Well could not hold her excitement as she bombarded her son with questions. Seemingly making up for the years that they had last spoken.

“How are your children? Are they in good health, are they being taken care of properly?”

“Well yeah they are-”

“Are they misbehaving, are they giving you trouble of any sort?”

“N-No no, they’re good kids-”

“What of any mares that have caught your fancy? I-I don’t mean to pry after…but if you find a good woman for you then I trust you to handle it properly.”

Sunday sucked in a deep breath, finding himself in a rare moment of being overwhelmed, by his own mother nonetheless, “…Mother…please…”

Soccer Boy would have had a field day.

Then, after a second passed both bursts into laughter. Clearly something either of them needed as both found themselves enjoying a moment of tranquil silence between them.

Sunday looked at Wishing Well with a deep wistfulness and pride in his voice, “My children, they are my everything to me. My hopes, my dreams. To see them happy…free from everything I-…

…

 “I don’t want to see them suffer,” Sunday ended it in a somewhat somber tone.

Wishing Well seemingly adopted her son’s mood, however a clear proudness can be felt in her words,“…Then you are doing better than most.” 

Then, she turned wistful as well.

“What I would give to see those wonderful bundles of joys myself…alas-“, Wishing Well looking at the tubing that connects her arms to the machines and medicines that currently sat near her bedside, “-I don’t think I’ll get the chance to.”

Sunday felt the mood drop, as well as the world around him. The lighthearted atmosphere that they had created was now parted to the reality that laid before him. His mother-

“I am dying Sunday.”

Those words felt like hammers to his skull two days ago, reverberating throughout his head like a curse that weighed heavy on him. Now, hearing them from his mother’s mouth felt like nails to a coffin, no longer did it bring the same earth shattering impact as before, but it carried a sense of finality, as if anything else was just white noise.

Sunday didn’t know which felt worse but he could say confidently that neither brought him comfort.

As he found himself spiraling deep in his own mind, he felt a warm touch on top of his hand. His eyes blinked and what came to him was the heartbroken face of his mother.

Wishing Well took a deep breath, and sighed with a sense of heaviness that both understood, “Please Sunday…don’t blame yourself,” She tried to keep as much of a comforting smile as possible, “I am old, this is only natural.”

Sunday, however, was never one to be easily placated, especially in matters such as this, “Do not treat me as a child mother…you are dying.”

Sunday said those final three words with a sense of hopelessness that cannot be simply measured. It held a sense of grief, pain, and longing all in equal measure. Wishing Well could only look on, hoping to connect with her son’s heart for…the first-

-and the last time.

“That may be so, but you are my child. In spite of how I had made you feel otherwise…you are mine.”

Sunday could only close his eyes in defeat, “If only I could find in me to believe that.”

Wishing Well could only give a sad smile, “I know, I have been a bad mother to you haven’t I- no…that would be incorrect for me to say. I was never the mother you should’ve had…”

A bad mother, however cruel her actions are, is a mother that was there. A mother who wasn’t, doesn’t have the right to call herself one.

Sunday could not find himself to respond nor deny his mother’s claim. Both know, however painful it must be to admit for either of them, those words held far more truth than not. 

All that was left was a question that lingered in his mind ever since he boarded that plane.

“Why…”, Sunday felt the hand that grasped him tighten in a comforting manner, “…Why then…does my chest hurt despite all of that. Why when…when I heard the call of your impending death did I come here as if my life depended on it.”

Wishing Well continued to smile, yet this one was a tad bit brighter, “Because Sunday…you have a good heart.”

Sunday paused, “Me…a good heart?” He whispered as if finding the concept so utterly alien.

Wishing Well at this moment could only blame herself for her son’s confused expression. With a heavy heart, she vowed to do this right by him…even if it is the last thing she’ll ever do.

“You do, no matter what anyone says…you are not your father’s shadow. You are special, and I hope someday someone will tell you as much so that you’ll never doubt it.” 

Sunday could only blurt out his next sentence instinctively, as if his heart sought the question before his mind could reel it in, “Then why did you not ever tell that to-“

Me. That word remained unsaid but was heard nonetheless.

Sunday gave a sardonic smile, forcing himself to find some manner of humor before his ache in his chest becomes too terrible, “What, was I such an unbearable creature that you would have rather left than suffer the sight-“

Sunday felt himself being pulled into a warmth that he never felt before. Yet that was not his focus, rather it was the soft sobs emanating from his shoulder as well as the shaking arms that cradled his head. 

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry that I was not there for you…,” Wishing Well cried as she held her son close, hoping for once that her love could find a place in his hurt heart.

“It wasn’t you…It was never you…It was me, I was so ashamed…so ashamed…of myself. When you were weaned, not even a year old yet, you were sick…so sick that the doctors said that you would die.”

Sunday’s eyes widened for a moment, the memories of it are somewhat vague given it occurred when he was so young but he could never forget it. As a young foal, he suffered a severe weaning illness that caused a deadly case of diarrhea and a viral infection.

He lived, but he hazily remembered that moment being the spark that lit his desire for victory ablaze.

Yet at this moment, all he could focus on were the tender words that his mother uttered. Filled with so much guilt that it only made him tighten his hold on her.

“I left you…however much I tried to justify it in my head at the time…I left you to die on that field. It broke my heart…I have lost children before and it nearly killed me then…”

Wishing Well looked into Sunday’s eyes and held his face with her hand. Tenderly rubbing as if memorizing the sensation with a love she felt woefully unearned. 

“I could’ve fought harder- I should’ve fought harder…”, Her voice continued to break, as she battled through her sobs, “But I let you all on your own…to fight for your own survival. I…what mother would do that?” 

Tears fell from her face as she let the words she should have said long ago come out like a torrent.

“…When I saw you running in that field the next day, how could I look at you? How could I stare at the face of my only son and pretend like I didn’t damn you to death? How…”, Wishing Well’s eyes closed, envisioning little Sunday’s smiling face and finding the shame wash all over her again.

“How can I not be ashamed? But it was never because of you my son…It was never you…” 

Sunday became silent at his mother’s admission, finding himself at a loss of words. His body was as still as a statue, if not for the sound of his breaths then he might have been one. His thoughts swirled with questions, remarks, denials, and hopes all moving around in his mind like a lake that would not settle.

What broke him out of his trance was the sound of coughing. His eyes came back to reality as the feeling of his mother’s hand left him. Seeing her heave heavily, he gently laid her back on her bed trying to stabilize her condition.

“Mom…”, He called, “I’m going to call the doctors, you stay right-“

“-No!” Wishing Well called out with all the strength she can muster.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stop Sunday in his tracks.

Sweat began to build on her forehead, and while Sunday tried to wipe as much of it as possible; It was clear to both of them that Wishing Well’s strength was beginning to fade.

“I d-don’t want you to hate yourself because you believed you did something wrong. I know…that beneath that tough persona you put on is a truly gentle and kind Uma…”

Her breathing turned harder, her face turned paler and her voice grew ever more weaker.

“I don’t want you to go, without you knowing how much I love you, and how much your happiness means to me…”

“Mom…please,” Sunday tried to plead, to beg if he needed to keep his mother from wasting her strength, and rest.

“I don’t care however successful people judge you to be, I don’t even care how much children you sired if it means that…you are not happy with yourself…”

Wishing Well could only look to her son with pride and joy even as she felt the world around her growing colder.

“Because your happiness is all that matters to me…,” Her voice now coming as more of a whisper yet Sunday could hear it as clear as day, “Promise me Sunday, promise me that you’ll forgive yourself and find a happiness that will last a lifetime.”

Sunday could only numbly respond with, “Mom…”

…

“Promise me…” 

…

“I promise.”

Wishing Well smiled, she smiled as she gently closed her eyes, and she smiled as she felt the void of death beginning to welcome her. Yet in this final moment, she found the strength to say these last few words.

“I love you…” 

…

All that was left in the room was the sound of a flatline, the constant blaring sound being the only thing that he could focus on, was the smiling face of his still mother.

Mom…wake up mom…please…wake up…

But she never did.

Soon the sound of footsteps grew closer, and with a loud bang a doctor quickly entered the room. At first he and the nurses behind him were shocked at the seemingly stranger sitting beside their patient. 

However, beyond a cursory glance, even the blind can tell that this Uma had a connection to the woman laying on the bed based on both of his hands clutched one of hers.

Why? The answer became obvious once the doctor observed the flatline on the heart-rate monitor. After feeling the pain of a patient passing wash over him, the doctor knew that he needed to address the stranger.

“Ahem…excuse me sir but who are you, and what is your connection to Ms. Wishing Well.”

For a moment, not a word was heart. The doctor was about to repeat himself, fearing that the stranger did not hear him but unknown to him, the stranger did hear and responded in a hollow tone.

“My name is Sunday Silence, and Wishing Well…was my mother.”

The doctor nodded, sending Sunday a sympathetic look. He heard of the name Sunday Silence before when Wishing Well was speaking to him candidly a week beforehand. Though it was only a passing comment, the doctor deduced that the stranger is truly what he says he is.

Before he could respond, Sunday quickly cut him off with a command.

“Prepare her body for burial…If there’s anything regarding money, I’ll handle it…”

Sunday did not even wait for a response as he quickly made his way out of the room. He felt like if he stayed there any longer than he would not find himself able to walk. The room felt heavy, he felt heavy, the world became a distorted place as the moment of his mother’s passing had not yet hit him.

As he moved to the entrance of the hospital like a machine running on its programming, no thought to his action, just the mechanical turn of his legs carrying him along aimlessly.

Death…what an abstract yet familiar concept. 

A year ago, he had to bury Suzuka, now he had to bury his mother.

The sound of automatic doors opening signaled that Sunday was out of the hospital’s premise yet it was doubtful that he even registered it. Too caught up in his own head to even notice the cold winds chilling his body.

The howling rain poured from above, soaking his body from head to toe yet he kept on walking.

~~Pit~~Patter~~Pit~~

The sound of the rain and his shoes symphonised into a chorus of his own madness. Perhaps it was all madness, a cruelty on the world placed upon him like some sick amusement. 

…

His movements swayed as he felt himself loose whatever control he still had to his body.

…

All the memories replayed in his mind, good memories, bad memories, but memories nonetheless he cherishes.

…

Yet he doesn’t have any noteworthy memory of his mother.

…

No laughs in moments of joy, no tears in moments of sadness, no hugs when he needed it most.

…

He thought he could never have it, until the moment she did give it to him. A memory worth remembering.

…

Then, she died…

…

~~Drip~~Drip~~

The feeling of something hot and painful falling from his eyes became known to him. His vision turned blurry as the sensation on his face mixed with the rain. Yet it kept coming even as he tried to wipe it away.

~~Ba Bump~~Ba Bump~~

He clutched his chest as a pain that he never felt before strangled his heart. It felt so familiar, so familiar, but why did this one hurt so much more.

Maybe, maybe because the more you hold that pain down, the more it’ll hurt when it comes back.

…

“Hic…Ah…Ah ah…Ha…Hic…Ahhh!” 

~~Drip~~Drip~~

“Sniff…Ah…Ah…Ha…Haaa…Ah…!”

Sunday cried, for what he didn’t know specifically, but he cried, for Suzuka, for Campaign Girl, for his mother, even for himself. He cried, he grabbed his chest tighter as he let himself fall on a nearby bench, and cried.

Till not even the rain could numb his pain. 

He felt so cold…so cold…

…

However much passed, he could hardly bother to care. When did he stop crying, perhaps when his body no longer had any tears left to shed. How long does he plan to sit here…he doesn’t know.

All Sunday does know is that he’s tired, perhaps in the rain where nobody could see his tears is where he is meant to be.

Perhaps the promise he made to his mother meant nothing because he in his heart was nothing left to promise to.

…
 
~~Pit~~Pa-

Suddenly Sunday felt the rain stop falling on top of him. Confused, he looked around as he doubted that such a storm could have ended so abruptly. It didn’t take long for him to notice that he was under an umbrella.

An umbrella carried by a dainty hand.

Looking above, Sunday noticed the features of the Uma standing before him. Free brown hair fluttered at the wind, a pair of glasses hiding kind green eyes, and rather thick clothing covering a mature figure.

And yet the only thing Sunday can gravitate towards was that gentle smile.

“You shouldn’t stay in the rain too long or else you’ll get a cold.”

Her voice was a warmth that clashed with the coldness that surrounded him. Even as she gazed at his disheveled self, she did not act put-off or scared- though he would not have blamed her if she did.

Despite lacking a mirror, Sunday doubted his now soaked, teary-eyed half-dead frame being one that is inviting.

Yet strangely, even as stared at this strange Uma with tired eyes, he felt himself compelled to respond.

“You don’t have to…The rain never bothered me much anyway.”

‘You can leave…’, Being the unsaid words, even as Sunday deep down wanted the opposite. To grasp at that warmth like a man at sea clinging to his saving grace.

He did not want to be alone…

But he didn’t want to drag anyone else into his miserable state…

The brown-haired Uma however seemed to look beyond his callous words to see what he truly wanted. She took the seat right next to him in silence, allowing him to soak up her presence like a sponge.

Despite her saying nothing, he did find herself finding some measure of comfort by her being next to him. 

And so they continued to sit in silence. 

…

Then he heard a soft hum, a gentle tune that captivated his ears, blocking the constant sound of rain around him. He looked to his side to see the culprit, eyes-closed with a peaceful smile adorned on her face.

He did not speak, unwilling to break this rare moment of peace. 

Where the beat of his heart settled…

Where the cold around him receded even a little…

Then he noticed something. Seemingly, when the brown-haired Uma was moving to sit beside him, a bit of the rain water fell on her hair. 

Feeling himself somewhat responsible, he gently moved the wet streak of white hair away from her face. He did not know if it was the strange sense of connection that had enveloped his heart to do such daring action.

It is as if without saying anything, he found himself gravitating towards her.

Whether that connection was one-sided would soon be determined by whether she would recoil from him in disgust…

Yet she did not recoil, merely opening her eyes in shock. Then she looked at him softly, and he found himself unable to speak. 

But he eventually did find his voice.

“My name is Sunday Silence, what is yours?”

And hers came with a smile that would last a lifetime.

“My name is Wind in her Hair, it is nice to meet you.”

The End~~

Hey guys, it’s been a while. Uh the continuation to Vodka’s story is coming, I just had to scratch a bunch of stuff because I found it not exactly how I wanted it. Moreover, ever since I moved out of my dorm, things have been a bit hectic so sorry for the story taking so long.

Thought that I at least send something for you to enjoy. This story has been in the back of my head for quite a bit, and I quite like it. Extra long story, no need to thank me (I’m joking). This story is unlikely to have a continuation hence why I uploaded the whole thing.

Hope you guys enjoy, and of course tell me what you think!

Since Sunday Silemce is now a trainer in the PD world, it should be natural that he should have his own assigned trainees. Maybe he’ll form a team like team Spica and Rigil. What Uma Musumes/Uma Musukos should be in Sunday’s team and what should they be called.

I had this thought in my head after reading
u/IJN-Hirogasaki’s RECORDS IN ANOTHER WORLD. What do you think Sunday and his kids do on a day-to-day basis? I’m thinking about writing a more slice-of-life story and I would like to hear your ideas.

Deep Impact has a lot of kids in Uma Musume. Assuming the next character after Sunday Silence to be viewed is Deep Impact. How will his children react to being sisters?

How will Kitasan Black and Satono Diamond react to being cousins of two full brothers (Black Tide, and Deep Impact respectively)?