The day began with sun, but Arata didn't notice.
He'd been searching for nearly ten minutes—flipping through drawers, crawling under furniture, opening closet after closet. He wasn't even sure how long it had been. The house was warm, but his fingers were cold from frustration.
It was supposed to be right there.
His mother always kept the storybooks in the same cabinet. Third shelf, left side. She'd even labeled them with tiny stickers when he was five—stars for fiction, moons for fairy tales.
But the book wasn't there.
It wasn't anywhere.
He checked again.
He checked the couch cushions, the dining room shelf, under the kotatsu, even the laundry room for some reason. Nothing.
His breath started coming quicker, lips parted in rising confusion. The tight knot behind his ribs hadn't gone away in days, but now it throbbed.
And then, without thinking—
He called out.
"Mom! Do you know where—?"
The words hit the air and died there.
The silence that followed was different from before. Not empty. Not quiet.
Just still. Completely still.
Like the house itself had stopped breathing.
His mouth stayed open for a moment.
Then slowly closed.
His chest pulled tight, the way it does right before a wound begins to throb. He stared blankly at the shelf in front of him, hand hovering halfway between two books he didn't want.
And then—
Everything caved in.
---
He dropped to his knees. His breath hitched. A sob slipped out—dry and raspy, like it hadn't been used in years.
His body shuddered once. Then again.
And then came the tears.
He hadn't cried when they told him. Not at the funeral. Not in her room.
But now, in the hallway, clutching a book he didn't even want to read—he broke.
His hands curled into fists. His forehead touched the wooden floor. He cried the way only a child could cry when they've held in too much for too long.
His breath came in stutters. The tears felt hot against his cheeks. The sound that left him wasn't loud—it wasn't screaming—but it carried years of silence with it.
"I forgot," he whispered, through the sobs. "I forgot you're not here..."
He didn't know how long he stayed there. Minutes? Maybe more.
He didn't hear the footsteps at first.
---
Outside the room, Haruto had stopped the moment he heard the shout. The moment he heard Arata call for her.
He hadn't stepped in right away. He couldn't. His hand had hovered above the doorknob for far too long. His back leaned against the wall. His eyes wet.
And when the crying began—truly began—he closed his own.
For the first time since she left, Haruto let himself cry too.
Soft. Silent. Heavy.
His son's sobs echoed through the hallway like a memory too real to be ignored.
And when he couldn't bear it any longer—he opened the door.
---
Arata didn't hear it.
Didn't move.
He was still on his knees, breath ragged, face buried in his arms.
Haruto stepped forward, then knelt beside him.
He didn't speak immediately. Just rested a hand on Arata's back—gentle, firm.
Arata flinched at first, startled.
Then slowly… leaned into it.
Haruto's voice came, deep and low. Not shaky. Not perfect.
But honest.
"This suffering," he said, "is personal, my son. Only you can carry it."
Arata sniffled, blinking against the wetness in his lashes.
"I can't take it away," Haruto continued. "I would if I could. But pain like this… it's yours. It's part of you now."
He reached around and pulled Arata into a full hug.
"And I can't carry it for you," he whispered. "But I can stand beside you while you do."
That was all it took.
Arata's arms wrapped around his father like he was drowning and this was the only raft left.
And Haruto—Haruto held him like the world depended on it.
---
Minutes passed.
No words.
Just breath. And heartbeat. And tears shared in silence.
Finally, when Arata could speak again, his voice was small.
"I forgot she was gone. I really forgot…"
Haruto nodded, gently rubbing his back. "I forget too. Every day."
They sat there, both exhausted, both emptied. But something had shifted.
It wasn't over. Not the grief. Not the ache.
But something had opened. Something honest.
---
That night, as Arata lay in bed, his eyes heavy from the storm he'd weathered, he felt it again.
That warmth.
Not the overwhelming pulse he remembered.
But a quiet flicker.
Still there.
Still his.
Somewhere deep in the space that hurt the most, his mother's bond-fire still glowed—dimmer now, but steady. Not fading. Not dying.
Just changed.
And for the first time since the world had broken, Arata slept without dreaming.
Because he no longer needed to escape.
He was still here.
And so was she, in a way.