That night with Satoko Kazumi comes back to me more than often—not in sharp, clear pictures, but in those blurred frames you get when light leaks into a film.
The memory doesn't need to be precise to hurt. Sometimes it's just a fragment of his voice, the soft sound of his pen tapping against his clipboard as he read my chart. Other times it's the faint scent of disinfectant clinging to his coat. Little things that carry more weight than they should.
I remember the way he sat beside me in the hospital bed, his hand resting just far enough away that I could choose to close the gap if I wanted. His voice was gentle but unflinching, the same way Grandfather used to speak when the rest of the family had already made up their minds about me.
And maybe that's the truth I keep avoiding. I love him because he reminds me of Grandfather.
The way they both noticed the details nobody else did.
The way they listened like every answer mattered.
