Then—A loud thud echoed through the house.
Ayane's voice broke the silence first, shaky and frightened.
"A-Arashi!"
He froze. The sound hit his chest like a hammer. He dropped everything and ran inside, his breath quick and uneven.
His heart pounded before he even saw — and when he did, the world went still.
His grandfather was lying beside the chair, the teacup shattered, liquid spreading across the rug. His eyes were half-open… motionless.
"Grandpa!" Arashi fell to his knees, shaking his shoulder. "Hey! Wake up— please!"
No response. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he reached for his phone.
He tried to dial the emergency number, but his fingers shook so violently that the phone slipped from his hand — once, then again, crashing to the floor.
"Come on, come on!" he whispered, panic flooding his voice.
Finally, the call went through. His words were barely coherent — just fear, desperation, and broken sentences.
"H-he's not moving… my grandfather— please send an ambulance— hurry!"
Ayane stood near the door, tears in her eyes, completely frozen.
Within minutes, Arashi's mother and aunt rushed home after getting his trembling call. They didn't even take off their shoes — they just followed the stretcher into the ambulance.
At the hospital, the doctors moved quickly. Machines beeped, nurses rushed past, and Arashi stood outside the emergency room, his hands still shaking.
After what felt like hours, the doctor finally came out, wiping his forehead.
"He's stable… for now," he said. "He regained consciousness — you can meet him, but please, don't stress him too much."
Arashi's knees almost gave out in relief. He and his mother rushed into the room.
His grandfather was lying there, pale but awake. His eyes met Arashi's, and he smiled weakly.
"I told you… don't carry me like a burden," he whispered.
Arashi's eyes filled instantly.
"Don't say that, old man," he said, holding his hand tightly. "You're not going anywhere."
The old man chuckled faintly.
"You still call me that… even now."
Arashi smiled through his tears. For a moment, it felt like everything would be okay.
The doctor stepped in quietly.
"Let's give him some rest now," he said softly. "He needs sleep."
They all nodded, stepping out of the room one by one — unaware that the next few hours would change everything.
The hospital room was quiet — too quiet. Only the soft hum of the heart monitor broke the silence, each beep echoing through the walls like a slow heartbeat of time itself.
Arashi's grandfather lay on the bed, frail but calm. His eyes still carried that same warmth — the kind that made you feel safe, even when everything around you was falling apart.
Arashi stood near the window, Ayane by his side. Ren leaned against the wall, trying to hide how scared he really was. Their mothers sat close to the each other, whispering quiet prayers.
Then the old man slowly opened his eyes and said in a faint but steady voice,
"Call everyone in, please… I want to see them all together."
They gathered around his bed. The rain outside tapped softly against the glass.
He smiled weakly.
"It feels like a dream, seeing you all in one place again. Maybe it's God's way of giving me peace before the journey."
Arashi's mother shook her head immediately, eyes watering.
"Please don't say that. You'll get better soon. The doctors said—"
He chuckled lightly.
"Doctors fix the body, my dear. But time… it fixes the soul."
Then, he turned to Ren first.
"Ren, you remind me of how I was at your age — loud, carefree, always looking for laughter. Never lose that spark, but remember… laughter has meaning only when it brings peace to others, not just noise."
Ren swallowed hard and nodded silently.
Next, he turned to Ayane, his eyes softening.
"Ayane… I haven't known you for long, but in your silence, I see kindness. I wish I had more time to know you better."
Ayane blinked, her lips trembling into a faint smile.
"I wish that too… grandpa," she said softly.
He smiled warmly at the word grandpa — as if it meant the world to him.
Then he looked at his daughters.
To Arashi's mother, he said gently,
"You've been strong while your husband was away. You've carried both hope and responsibility on your shoulders. When he calls tonight, tell him… I'm proud of how he's kept this family alive from afar."
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Then to Ren's mother, his tone softened.
"You've always been the bridge between everyone. Keep this family together, no matter what happens. One day, they'll need you more than you can imagine."
Ren's mother held his hand tightly.
Finally, his gaze shifted to Arashi. The boy stepped closer, his throat dry, trying to stay composed.
"Arashi…" The old man's voice grew quiet but steady. "You hide your kindness behind calmness — but I've seen through it. You think too much, feel too deeply, and blame yourself for things beyond your control."
Arashi's eyes glistened, but he stayed silent.
"You ran to save a little cat," his grandfather continued, smiling faintly. "That small act may not matter to the world, but it matters to God. Kindness always finds its way back, even when people don't."
He coughed lightly, breathing slower now.
"Listen carefully, Arashi… you will make mistakes, you will lose people, but don't let guilt become your prayer. Guilt is love that forgot where to go. Do you understand?"
Arashi's lips trembled.
"I… I think I do."
"Good. "He reached out and touched Arashi's cheek. "When it rains again, don't hide from it. Go out and let it fall on you. That way, when you feel it — you'll remember that I'm still with you."
The rain outside grew heavier, and for a moment, the room was filled with its soft rhythm. No one said a word. Everyone just stood there — memorizing his voice, his smile, and the warmth that they knew wouldn't last much longer.
It was peaceful… painfully peaceful.
The room had gone quiet. Only the faint beeping of the heart monitor remained — until that sound itself began to thin.
Arashi noticed first. His stomach dropped. "Doctor! Please — hurry!" he shouted, panic cracking his voice.
Doctors and nurses rushed in, but the movement felt slow, like someone had turned the world down. It was already too late.
Grandpa's breath grew shallow — slower, weaker. He gripped his daughters' hands with what little strength he had left. Then, with a faint smile and a voice thinner than a whisper, he said:
"To anyone I've ever hurt… I'm sorry. My time with you ends here… this is where our paths part."
And with those words his hands loosened. The monitor gave one long, final tone. The flat line appeared.
Silence smashed into the room. Arashi's mother's palm slipped from the old man's hand; she stared down at it, then collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Ren's mother covered her mouth and wept. Ayane froze, tears streaming silently. Ren turned away, fists clenched, face unreadable.
Arashi did not fall. He did not scream. He only stood there, rigid, staring at the still monitor. Inside, something unraveled.
Almost without thinking, a memory hit him — his grandfather calling him earlier. "Arashi," the old man had said. "Come here for a second." Arashi had answered from the porch, "Just a minute, Grandpa. I'll come in a sec." Then lost track of time.
Now the memory repeated like a knife. Just a minute.I'll come in a sec. The phone call to the ambulance — his hands shaking so badly the phone fell twice — every frantic word, every dropped second, replayed in awful slow motion.
He pressed his palms to his face until the world went black. When he lowered them, his eyes were empty. He whispered, a sound no one heard: "I told him one minute. I left him alone. It's my fault."
"If it wasn't me—if I had only gone in that minute—he'd still be here." The words were no longer a question, but a truth he carried within him. He heard nurses whispering, his mother's broken sobs, but every sound was distant and muffled. The worst part wasn't the grief — it was the certainty that, somehow, his absence had been the turning point.
Gray clouds hung low the next morning. Even the sky seemed unwilling to pretend that everything was ordinary.
People gathered, whispering prayers. Arashi stood at the edge of the crowd, hands in his pockets, face expressionless. Everyone cried; everyone let tears fall freely — everyone except him.
He watched his family weep and felt only a cold, burning emptiness. His chest ached as if something inside had been hollowed out. He replayed the scene again and again: the call, the cat, the thud, the ambulance, the doctor's. If I had been there.If I hadn't said one minute. The thought was a cruel echo.
When someone—Ren, maybe, or his mother—reached for his arm, he shrugged the hand away. He could not bear reassurance. He could not bear explanations. He needed punishment more than comfort. The belief that small kindnesses mattered now felt like a mockery; instead of consolation, they were proof that he had failed where it mattered most.
Ayane watched him from behind, silent and helpless.
Inside, Arashi burned with the answer. That the worst pain, he discovered, was not wet cheeks — it was the dry, relentless grief that screamed in your bones while your eyes betrayed you and stayed stubbornly dry. He felt that cruelty now: the heart can break and the face remain mute.
He stood a little longer, looking at the mound of earth that marked the end of his grandfather's path. When he finally spoke — barely more than a breath — he said to the empty sky: "Grandpa… I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
No comfort came. Just the wind and the memory of a hand he should have held one more minute.
The house felt emptier than ever.The faint sound of rain still echoed outside, but inside… there was only silence.
Arashi stepped inside slowly, his shoes still damp from the cemetery ground.He saw his mother sitting on the living room chair — the same chair his grandfather used to sit in.
She didn't move.Her eyes were fixed on nothing, locked on a distant point only she could see.Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes; her face was pale, her lips pressed tight, and her usual gentle smile — the one that always comforted him — was gone.
Something inside Arashi shattered.He couldn't bear to see her like that. The woman who always smiled through everything… now looked completely broken.And the worst part — he knew it was because of him.
His hands clenched, he quietly turned away and went upstairs to his room.
The sky was still gray when Arashi finally gathered the courage to take out his phone.No one had spoken much since the funeral.His mother hadn't moved from the chair by the window — eyes blank, staring at nothing.
He swallowed hard and dialed his father's number.
The call connected after a few rings."Arashi?" his father's voice came, calm but slightly confused. "Son, it's late there. Is everything okay?"
For a moment, Arashi couldn't speak.His throat tightened, words refusing to come out.
Then finally, in a voice that cracked halfway, he said softly,"Dad… Grandpa's gone."
Silence.
Not the kind that lasts seconds — the kind that feels like forever.
"What… what do you mean, gone?" his father's voice trembled now.
"He passed away two days ago," Arashi said, forcing the words out. "He collapsed suddenly. We called the ambulance but… he didn't make it."
He took a shaky breath."We didn't even get the time to call anyone. Everything happened so fast."
His father didn't reply immediately. Arashi could only hear the faint sound of his breathing on the other end — heavy, unsteady.
Then, a quiet whisper:"…I should've been there."
Arashi shut his eyes. "Dad, please don't blame yourself. It all happened so suddenly."
Another silence followed.Then Arashi continued, his voice low and broken:
"Dad… Mom's not okay. She hasn't eaten properly since that day. She just sits there, staring into space. I've never seen her like this before. It's like her smile died with Grandpa."
His father exhaled shakily. "I'll come home, Arashi. Tonight. I'll take the first flight I can get."
Arashi nodded faintly, even though his father couldn't see him. "Please, take her with you. She needs you. She can't stay here like this."
His father's tone softened. "And what about you, son? You shouldn't be alone either."
"I'll manage," Arashi replied quietly. "I promise. Just… take care of her, please."
For a moment, his father said nothing — then in a choked voice, "You've grown up too fast, Arashi."
The call ended with silence on both sides.Arashi placed his phone down on the table, staring blankly at it for a long time.
The rain outside began again — soft, gentle, like the world itself was mourning with him.