> [Aoi: Are you free today? I need help with errands.]
[Aoi: Please. Just for a bit.]
Ren stared at his phone for a long moment. The cursor blinked in the reply field. He glanced toward the living room where Sayuri had just fallen asleep curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her shoulders, head tilted toward the window like she was listening to something outside.
He typed a short response.
> [Ren: Okay.]
---
By late morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets damp and shining like old mirrors. A breeze stirred the drying leaves on the roadside as Ren and Aoi walked side by side in near silence, the plastic bags in her hands rustling faintly with each step.
She hadn't said much at first. Just led him through the quiet alleys near Hoshigahara's old shopping district—past shuttered gift shops and flower stalls, through the lingering scent of steamed buns and seaweed.
Ren had almost forgotten how different Aoi was when they were alone. She didn't push. She didn't joke. Just walked steadily, as if searching for something half-remembered.
At a crosswalk, the light changed.
"I hated that night," she said.
Ren blinked. "What?"
Aoi kept walking.
"The night Mom and Dad died."
Her voice didn't tremble. It didn't need to.
"I was on shift at the hospital. You remember that winter, right? The fog? Visibility was zero."
Ren nodded. He remembered the call. The chill. The sudden silence when they were told.
"I didn't even recognize them at first," she said quietly. "Their faces were so… gone. Burnt. But Dad was still breathing."
Ren stopped. His hands gripped the handles of the bag.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
Aoi turned slightly.
"Because you never asked."
She looked at him—not angrily, but with a sadness that had settled like dust in her eyes.
"I thought you blamed me."
"I didn't," Ren said, voice low.
"Then why did you stop talking to me?"
He had no answer. Not one that would make sense aloud. There was a part of him that had locked that winter away in a soundproof box—along with the image of the wreckage, the burning trees, the night Sayuri clung to him in silence while everything else fell apart.
"I just… couldn't," he finally said.
Aoi nodded, slowly. She looked out toward the hills in the distance.
"I heard their names over the intercom. A multi-car collision on the highway. Victims en route. And then I saw the gurneys roll in."
A pause.
"One of the nurses vomited. Another started crying."
The wind blew a thin strand of her hair across her mouth. She didn't move it. Just let it hang there.
"And I stood there, waiting for the tears to come. But they didn't."
Ren turned away.
"You're not heartless."
"No," she agreed. "Just tired."
They continued walking, passing the shrine stairs where paper fortunes fluttered in the breeze.
"You know what I hated most?" she asked after a long silence.
Ren shook his head.
"The way Sayuri looked at me afterward," she said. "Like she knew something I didn't."
Ren slowed. "Sayuri?"
Aoi laughed softly. "She never liked me, you know. Not really. I tried. But she always kept this… invisible wall. Like I wasn't allowed too close."
She stopped in front of a vending machine and dropped a coin in.
"She acts gentle. Sweet. But there's something under it. Something sharp."
She pressed a button, and the can clattered down.
"I think she knew," Aoi said. "Back then, even before Mom and Dad died… she already decided."
"Decided what?"
Aoi cracked the can open. Her voice was quiet.
"That you belonged to her."
---
Meanwhile, Sayuri lay alone on the couch, the quiet ticking of the clock echoing too loudly in the still house. Outside, the sun had come out, and thin rays crept across the floor in shifting bands of warmth.
She opened her eyes.
The silence buzzed.
She sat up.
Ren's room was at the end of the hallway. The door, usually closed, was left slightly ajar today.
She stood. Moved softly.
Not out of guilt.
Out of reverence.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Inside, the air was faintly different—older. Not dusty, but lived-in. The shelves were lined with old manga volumes, textbooks stacked unevenly near the desk. His bed was made, the blanket neatly folded.
She stepped inside, her socked feet making no sound on the wooden floor.
On the far shelf sat an old photo frame, half-tucked behind a row of notebooks.
She reached for it.
The picture was faded slightly, the gloss worn at the corners. But it was unmistakable.
The Hoshigahara summer festival.
She and Ren—maybe eleven or twelve. Fireworks frozen mid-bloom in the background. Her yukata too large. His sleeves rolled up, hair tousled.
But their hands—tightly clasped, almost clenched.
She remembered that night.
The wind had knocked down the lanterns. Some older boys had teased her for crying. Ren had stood in front of her, silent, refusing to let go of her hand even when they left.
She stared at the photo for a long time.
And then, gently, she placed it back.
But as she turned, her gaze fell to the edge of the closet. A box was jutting out slightly from beneath.
She knelt and pulled it out.
Inside were more photos—some from school trips, others from birthdays. There was a worn charm from the same summer festival, the string frayed and pale. She lifted it and held it to her chest.
She smiled.
But this time, it wasn't perfect.
It was something raw. Unshaped. Almost childlike.
She whispered to the empty room:
"You were always mine first."
---
Ren and Aoi parted near the station. He watched her walk off into the gray horizon, her back straight but her shoulders trembling slightly with each step.
The wind carried the faint chime of bells from the shrine.
When he returned home, Sayuri was in the kitchen, slicing apples. Her movements were slow, deliberate.
"You went out with Aoi," she said. It wasn't a question.
Ren nodded. "She needed help."
Sayuri's knife didn't pause. "Did she talk about the past?"
Ren hesitated. "Yes."
Sayuri placed the sliced apples on a plate and turned.
"Did she tell you about the night they died?"
"Yes."
Sayuri tilted her head. Her expression unreadable.
"I don't like when people dig up graves," she said softly. "Sometimes the dead don't want to be found."
Ren frowned. "That's not fair. She just wanted to talk."
Sayuri stepped forward, holding out the plate of sliced fruit.
Her smile was gentle again.
"Then I'm glad she could," she said. "But next time…"
She placed the plate down between them.
"Let me go with you."
---
That night, Ren sat on the edge of his bed, the old photo now resting on his nightstand.
He stared at it in the dark.
Outside, the wind picked up again, and in the distance, he thought he heard humming.
But when he opened the door to the hallway—
There was nothing there.
Only silence.
And the memory of a small, warm hand that never let go.
---