The sun rose too brightly.
Arata blinked against it, momentarily confused by the warmth on his face. For a second, just a second, he forgot. He reached toward the other side of the bed, expecting the usual morning hum of his mother in the kitchen.
Nothing.
No smell of miso. No boiling kettle. No laughter in the hallway.
Just stillness.
And silence.
He sat up slowly. His muscles ached—not from exertion, but from how long he'd stayed curled beneath the covers the night before.
---
The living room was quiet.
His father sat at the table, same as the morning before, though now the toast was missing. Instead, Haruto held a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He stared into it like it held the answers to every question he couldn't ask.
Arata stepped in, unsure if he should say anything. Haruto didn't look up. Just swirled the coffee once, then let the spoon fall with a clink.
A long breath escaped his chest.
He looked older than yesterday. Like grief had added years to his back and shadows to his eyes.
"Morning," Arata said, softly.
Haruto blinked, then forced a nod. "Morning."
They didn't speak beyond that.
Haruto pushed a bowl of plain rice toward him. Nothing fancy. No garnish. No warmth.
But it was something.
And somehow, it meant everything.
---
The house felt lived-in and untouched at the same time.
Her shoes were still by the door. Her keys still hung on the wall. One of her scarves was draped over the couch arm, like she'd only stepped out for groceries.
But the kitchen light flickered slightly. The trash hadn't been taken out. The plants by the window were beginning to droop.
Haruto didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he just couldn't bear to.
---
That afternoon, Arata wandered into the hallway near her room.
He stood outside the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a moment before dropping to his side.
Instead, he turned and went into the storage room. Boxes lined the wall, most of them old or unopened.
His father's tools sat in the corner, scattered from a half-done fix-it project weeks ago.
Haruto found him there not long after, kneeling beside a drawer that had come loose.
"Trying to break something?" he asked quietly.
Arata glanced up. "It was already like this."
Haruto knelt beside him. "Let's fix it together."
No big talk. No speeches.
They just worked—screwing in the bracket, aligning the wood, securing the hinge.
Haruto's movements were precise, practiced. Arata handed him screws. It was the quietest hour they'd spent together in days.
And maybe the most meaningful.
---
Later that night, Arata sat alone on the steps outside their home, arms wrapped around his knees.
The sky above was wide, dotted with stars. He watched them without really seeing, his mind somewhere between the past and whatever the future was trying to become.
There was no dramatic realization. No flash of insight.
Just the faintest flicker of something warm in his chest.
A small pulse. Gentle. Familiar.
The same as before.
He touched his sternum instinctively, breathing slowly.
It wasn't strong. It wasn't bright.
But it was there.
His mother's flame, perhaps. Still burning somewhere deep inside.
Not enough to light a fire, but enough to keep him from freezing.
---
Inside the house, the hallway creaked softly.
Haruto stepped outside and stood next to him, holding a second cup of tea. He handed it wordlessly.
They sat together.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Haruto said, "She used to sit out here too. After you'd fall asleep. Said the stars helped her clear her mind."
Arata didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The silence between them was no longer heavy. Just quiet.
Like a pause between heartbeats.
Like a breath taken before something new.
---
The house still held echoes.
Still held absence.
But it also held them.
And for the first time in days, Arata didn't feel alone in it.