The jellies never made it home.
The sun had set. The TV was still on. Arata sat by the door, legs crossed, his math worksheet unfinished in front of him. The pencil lay untouched. The apples had browned. The fan spun above his head with the same lazy rhythm.
And the door didn't open.
Not in five minutes.
Not in ten.
Not in forty.
At some point, Haruto peeked in from the garage, wiping his hands with a rag. "She still out?"
"Yeah," Arata replied, still watching the door.
Haruto stared for a moment longer than usual, then disappeared into the hallway with his phone.
When it rang, Arata didn't notice. Not at first.
He only noticed when his father didn't return.
---
The door opened slowly.
Haruto stood there like a shadow—one foot still outside the room.
He looked at Arata. Then at the floor. Then down at his phone, as if it had just betrayed him.
Arata tilted his head. "Dad?"
No answer. Just silence. Heavy. Pressed between them like glass.
Haruto opened his mouth, but the words didn't come.
He walked forward, slowly, and sat beside his son. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Arata's head… and pulled him close.
Not a hug. Not quite.
Just a hand, trembling slightly, resting gently in his hair.
That silence—told Arata everything.
---
He didn't cry.
Not that night.
The world felt too quiet. Too still.
He climbed into bed without brushing his teeth. Said nothing. Asked nothing.
Haruto tucked him in but didn't speak either.
The fan spun above, casting shifting shadows on the ceiling.
When sleep came, it brought no dreams.
---
The house the next morning smelled like nothing.
No miso. No humming. No warm footsteps in the hall.
Arata walked into the kitchen and stared at the empty counter. Her apron still hung from its hook. A rice bowl she always used sat alone in the drying rack.
Haruto sat at the table. He had made toast. Burnt it.
Arata didn't eat. He just sat there. Then stood. And walked away.
---
There was no funeral scene.
People came. Spoke softly. Brought food no one touched.
Distant relatives with gentle hands and careful eyes. A teacher. A neighbor. A classmate who didn't say hello.
Haruto moved like a shell—bowing, thanking, setting teacups down with hands that had always been precise but now trembled faintly.
Arata stood by the window, watching the clouds.
He didn't hear the words people said.
All he remembered was her slippers still by the door.
Still facing inward.
As if she might come home and slip right into them.
---
That night, after everyone had gone, Arata lay in bed and stared into the dark.
There was something inside him—he didn't know what to call it.
It wasn't pain.
Not anger. Not sadness.
Just… weight.
Like someone had untied a string holding him together, and everything had gone loose inside.
He got up.
Walked to the mirror.
His face looked the same.
But he didn't feel like Arata anymore.
He didn't feel like anyone.
---
Then it happened.
As he turned to crawl back into bed, something pulsed deep inside him.
Just for a moment.
A flicker.
Then—nothing.
His knees gave slightly, not from pain, but from something missing. Like a support had cracked beneath the surface.
He gasped softly and clutched his chest, unsure of why.
And then, across the room—
The locket shimmered.
Faint. Almost missed.
The one his grandfather gave him. The one with the photo of a woman he never met—his grandmother.
It glowed. Soft. Pale gold. One pulse.
And then… warmth.
From deep within.
Not strength. Not clarity. Not focus.
Just warmth. Gentle. Alive.
Like a single flame had survived the collapse.
It wasn't bright.
It wasn't strong.
But it was real.
And Arata felt it—not in his hands, but in his soul.
He didn't know what it meant. Not yet.
Didn't understand why.
But it was the first thing he'd felt since she left.
And he clung to it like the last light in the world.