The last line of the letter lay flat on the table, as if it had weight.
No one spoke. The little room counted its own noises - the thin breath of the vent, a slow drip somewhere behind the wall, the soft rasp of paper fibers settling after hands let go. Raizen's fingertips rested on the edge of the page without touching the words. Hikari's hands were in her lap, palms pressed together, as if she were waiting for them to answer a question she had not asked out loud.
Light from the narrow window came in at an angle. Dust moved through it in patient arcs and fell across the letter like a pale veil. The torn envelope sat beside it, the rip too clean, careless in a way that now felt wrong. A wet line gathered at the corner of Hikari's eye and slipped down without her noticing. It reached her cheekbone, hesitated, and fell to the wood. The drop left a dark circle the size of a seed.
"Huh…?" she looked at it as if she had never seen water before. Her brows knit, not from pain - from confusion.
Raizen did not speak. He just gently wiped off Hikari's tear. Inside, a heavy thing shifted. He had carried it a long time. When he let it, it became anger and looked like clarity. It told him to sharpen himself and walk toward whatever needed breaking. It had a voice and the voice liked simple words that bled. He could hear it now, bright and wrong. It wanted the letter to be a list of names and places. It wanted the world small enough to cut.
The kettle sat cold on the burner. Raizen set it down, turned the dial, and waited for the strike. Fire took on the third click. The sound was simple. Heat rose and made the metal sing a thin note. He found two cups, set them side by side, and measured leaves by habit. One cup near Hikari. One where Takeshi used to sit. It felt right to leave it there.
He could still hear the old man's voice from the page. Plain and not pretty. The way he checked a door without making it a ceremony. The way he fixed a chair and did not put his name on the repair. A kitchen lantern that had gone out and never returned. The image put weight in his chest that did not hurt. It simply insisted on being noticed.
Hikari read the letter again. And again. Her gaze found a paragraph in the middle - cups washed because someone forgot, noodles learned wrong on purpose, a chair fixed quietly. Her shoulders lifted and settled. A small sound tried to climb out of Raizen's throat and he refused it gently. He remembered the day his own village had gone quiet. He had wanted to cry then and nothing had come. It had been like knocking at a door and learning the room had moved.
The kettle found its breath. He poured. Steam braided between them. For a moment the light made it look like a curtain. Hikari closed her eyes while the warmth touched her face and opened them again to the same room. She wrapped her hands around the cup and did not drink. The heat soaked into her fingers. That still didn't feel like it was enough.
He did not tell her it would be all right. There was no need to bend the truth in the middle to make it easier to hold. He did not say what he felt forming, because saying it would make it smaller. He stepped behind her chair and let his nearness be the only sentence. He steadied his own breathing until it made a soft pattern the room could learn.
Another tear slid to the corner of Hikari's mouth. She tasted it absently, as if confirming a fact. Confusion left her face. What replaced it was not hardness. It was something quieter. Acceptance without surrender. She pressed the cloth gently to her cheek and set it down in a neat fold.
Raizen's thoughts laid themselves out with the precision training had taught him. There were two roads. He could let the sharp voice choose his feet - go looking for smoke with a blade and call it justice. It would feel like power and end like hunger. Or he could lift the weight Takeshi had left on the table and carry it. That road was slower. It asked him to stand where he was and make a promise with his hands, not his mouth.
Protect, the thought said. It did not argue with anything. It did not need to. It was made of action, not heat. First her. Then whoever stands behind her when the chaos comes. The words arrived fully formed and sat down inside him like they had been waiting for a chair.
He picked up the letter and refolded it along the original creases. The paper came together willingly. He slid it back into the envelope and pressed the flap flat. He set it upright against the wall above the table where the light would find it in morning and evening.
Not hidden.
Witness.
Hikari watched his hands do this. A small unhooking moved through her posture, the way someone settles a bag onto their shoulder in a way that does not bruise. She slid the cloth nearer the kettle, squared the cups, lined the edges without thinking. Little orders stitching themselves into a larger one.
Outside, the Underworks kept speaking - water in a pipe forgetting and remembering how to move, metal settling as the heat left it, a distant voice bargaining more with pride than coin. None of it paused for a man naming himself father on paper. Cities do not stop. People learn to move in them anyway.
Raizen stepped close enough that Hikari could feel him without being crowded. He lifted his hand, waited a heartbeat, and rested his palm lightly on her shoulder. The weight said only I am here. She did not lean in. She did not lean away. Tears still came, slower now, as if the body had finished arguing with itself and was simply doing what it needed. She kept her eyes on the letter standing against the wall. Her face was wet and unguarded. It made her look the most like herself he had ever seen.
He thought, almost idly, I cannot cry. The thought did not shame him. It was only true. His body had chosen a different tool. That was fine. Tools are for jobs. The job had changed.
The burner clicked off. The flame died with a small sound like a thought being put down. The room cooled a degree. He took his hand away and stepped back. Hikari reached for the envelope, held it against her chest for one breath, then opened the drawer and set it inside with the matches and the little bag of rice. Not hidden. Kept. She closed the drawer with two fingers and left her hand there a moment longer, then let it fall.
They cleaned the table without saying it was cleaning time. Cups to the basin. Cloth to the hook. Chair nudged back where the leg did not wobble. It was the sort of work Takeshi had loved because it asked no applause. When they were finished, the room looked the same. It was not the same.
Hikari reached for the switch. The light went out with a click that sounded louder than it should have. The shapes of the table and chairs were still there, familiar silhouettes. The envelope was only a small rectangle of darker dark, but the words inside it kept their own light. Raizen could feel them as if they warmed the air.
They stepped to the door. He opened it. The corridor's cooler breath met them. He did not say good night. He did not say anything at all. He touched two fingers to the table edge and then to the doorframe - a habit that felt like a promise.
They paused one heartbeat on the threshold. Hikari looked straight ahead. Raizen looked at her. He didn't try to read her face. He let it be. He let himself be, too. The heavy thing in him settled where it needed to live.
The vow formed cleanly, without heat, and set itself.
I will protect her.
I will protect them all.
They stepped out. The room behind them kept the letter. The city kept breathing. Somewhere, beyond where the light went without asking, a man with a metal hand walked toward smoke to see if it bled.