Saturday arrived beneath a pale, muted sky. The early winter air was cold, dry, and unmoving—quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
Jousuke had barely slept. When he rose, he dressed in a black gakuran jacket and formal slacks. His mother and sister were already prepared, both wearing simple black mourning attire, their hair tied neatly, no accessories. They spoke only with small nods—words felt unnecessary.
At the entryway, his mother placed a small white envelope into her bag. Kōden. Condolence money.
The car ride to the funeral hall (葬儀場) was silent. Even the city around them seemed to move slower, as though observing from a respectful distance.
Inside the hall, soft incense smoke curled steadily upward. The scent was faintly woody, familiar. At the front of the room, his grandfather's photograph was placed above the altar, framed with white chrysanthemums. In the picture, he was smiling—gently, the same gentle smile Jousuke remembered greeting him after school.
Family members and neighbors came, bowing quietly at the entrance. Each offered their kōden envelope and took a seat. Some whispered condolences. Some simply bowed with lowered eyes.
His grandmother sat closest to the front, her posture small but composed. Jousuke took the seat beside her. Their hands, when they met, were steady but cold.
A Buddhist monk began chanting sutras. The low, rhythmic recitation filled the hall, not loud, not soft—only present. The sound did not demand attention; it simply held everything in place.
When it was time for shōkō (burning incense in offering), family members stood one by one.
Jousuke stepped forward.
He bowed.
Pinched a small amount of incense.
Raised it to his forehead.
Placed it gently onto the censer.
He kept his head lowered a moment longer than required.
His mother's hand brushed his back as she passed him. His sister's shoulders shook as she offered hers. But she did not sob. Not here. Not in front of everyone. She held it tightly behind her teeth.
After the service, the family moved to the cremation hall. The building was quiet, clean, white. They said their last farewells before the casket was taken behind the sliding doors.
His grandmother's voice cracked for the first time.
When the cremation was complete, they returned later to collect the bones using chopsticks, passing them one by one to place into the urn. Jousuke's hands were steady, though his chest felt heavy, as if each motion was something permanent.
Back at the house afterward, a simple meal was shared. Rice. Miso soup. Nimono. Tea. Nothing sweet. Laughter appeared once or twice, thin and trembling, as memories were exchanged. Grief lived beside those recollections, but neither erased the other.
Jousuke listened more than he spoke.
When guests left and the house fell quiet again, afternoon light stretched long and pale across the tatami floor.
Jousuke stepped outside to the small 庭 behind the house. The winter garden was still, the earth sleeping under frost.
He sat on the wooden engawa, hands resting loosely on his knees.
His grandfather used to sit here every evening, watching the light fade.
Jousuke lowered his head just slightly.
"Grandpa…"
The air answered only with silence—yet it was not a cold silence. Not an empty one.
Just quiet. A quiet that sat beside him without pushing.
He stayed there for a long time.
Tomorrow would be Sunday.
And then Monday.
And on Monday, he would have to choose.
But today, there were no choices to make.
Today belonged only to memory.