"Mayu, have you had your bath? We are going to be late."
Mother's voice carried from the hallway.
The familiar words should have sounded ordinary.
They didn't.
The effort she put into sounding normal showed through every syllable.
I didn't like hearing that effort.
"I am on my way."
The reply left my mouth weakly. My throat hurt—not from illness, but from everything I had failed to say over the past few days.
I remained in front of the mirror for another moment.
The girl staring back looked tired.
Not exhausted.
Not sick.
Simply worn down in a way sleep did not seem capable of fixing.
Or maybe I only thought that because sleep hadn't helped lately.
Eventually I forced myself to move.
The house was warm. Winter pressed softly against the windows as I made my way downstairs, the floor creaking beneath my feet.
Breakfast was already waiting.
I smelled it before I saw it.
Rice.
Soup.
Something fried.
Ordinary food.
Comforting food.
Food that somehow felt disconnected from the rest of the world.
Mother was already seated. She looked up as I approached, and immediately her hand rose toward my head.
"Your hair is a mess, dear."
I sat quietly.
Before I could object, her fingers were already working through it.
The gesture was gentle. Familiar. Something she had done since I was little.
For a second, I almost told her to stop.
Not because I wanted her to.
I stared down at my bowl. Steam rose steadily from its surface.
I picked up my spoon and took a bite.
The food tasted fine.
Good, even.
The flavor touched my tongue. Pain followed it down my throat.
By the time it reached my stomach, it felt like nothing at all.
Gone.
I drank some water.
The coldness lingered briefly before disappearing.
Across from me, Mother's spoon hovered over her own meal. She wasn't eating much.
I noticed that now.
The sadness that had initially consumed her had changed shape.
It had become something quieter.
Something heavier.
Fear.
The same fear parents carried whenever tragedy proved itself real.
The realization that terrible things did not only happen to strangers.
I lowered my eyes.
My own emotions moved in a different direction entirely.
Victoria.
The memory surfaced immediately.
I could still remember the afternoon.
Kasem had gone to visit relatives. The bookshop had been quiet. I had been studying while waiting for Victoria.
That had become routine.
Sometimes we studied at Mr. Gaspard's shop.
Sometimes I went to her house.
Sometimes I stayed over.
The expectation of seeing her had become so natural that I rarely thought about it.
Maybe that was why this felt so wrong.
Then Mother had appeared.
She had entered the shop too quickly.
Before I could even ask what was wrong, she wrapped her arms around me.
The memory remained painfully vivid.
The pressure of her embrace.
The strange tightness in her voice.
The way she seemed unable to find the right words.
"Your friend Victoria was harmed. She is..."
I remembered pulling away immediately.
"Harmed? What happened?"
My mind had already begun racing.
Accident.
Illness.
Attack.
Anything.
Everything.
Nothing made sense.
I remembered thinking we were supposed to meet later at the liaison building. It was only noon. She wouldn't even be finished with work until much later.
Nothing about the situation fit.
Not a single part of it.
"Yumi, she was... she was stabbed early this morning."
The words had entered my ears.
My mind had rejected them instantly.
Mother had held me tighter when I tried to pull away, as though disbelief itself might physically carry me somewhere dangerous.
"But..."
The thought had never finished.
Even now, it still hadn't.
Sometimes it felt like it was still waiting for an answer.
"Mayumi."
Mother's voice brought me back.
I blinked.
My spoon was moving aimlessly through the food. I hadn't taken another bite.
The meal sat half-finished.
Waiting.
I forced myself to eat.
One mouthful.
Then another.
The silence between us felt fragile.
Not uncomfortable.
Just delicate.
Like both of us feared saying the wrong thing.
Or saying the right thing.
Soon we were outside.
Cold air met us immediately.
Winter had settled firmly over the city. People moved along the streets bundled in coats and scarves. Carriages rolled past. Shopkeepers opened their doors. Children hurried beside their parents.
Everything looked normal.
Yet something felt different.
I couldn't explain it.
The streets were the same.
The buildings were the same.
The weather was the same.
Still, something had changed.
The city felt wrong.
As though a piece had been removed from it.
A piece only I seemed capable of noticing.
That wasn't true, probably.
It just felt true.
My shoes clicked softly against the pavement.
I stared ahead.
And remembered.
Mr. Yori.
The liaison building.
The moment he told me.
The memory hurt differently than Mother's words.
Because by then, the possibility had already begun to solidify.
He had simply confirmed it.
I could still remember standing there.
The quiet.
His expression.
Something about him had seemed different.
Smaller.
Not physically.
Just...
Less certain.
As though the loss had reached him too.
I had never seen him look like that before.
Days later, I had gone to Victoria's house.
The memory surfaced without invitation.
The street had been quiet.
Far quieter than usual.
I remembered standing before the house.
The curtains closed.
The windows dark.
The door shut.
No light.
No movement.
Nothing.
Absence had become visible.
The house itself seemed to testify to it.
I had stood there longer than necessary.
Unable to leave.
Unable to enter.
Unable to accept what that silence meant.
Something about that door felt final.
I hated that.
The church came into view.
Its familiar shape emerged through the winter light.
People were already entering. The doors stood open, warm light spilling outward.
Mother and I stepped inside.
Immediately the sounds of the city faded.
The familiar stillness greeted us.
The scent of old wood.
Wax.
Incense.
The quiet movement of people taking their seats.
Normally I found comfort there.
Today it only made my chest hurt.
The comfort was still there.
I just couldn't reach it.
I sat quietly.
The wooden pew felt cold at first, then gradually warmed beneath me.
My eyes wandered.
People bowed their heads.
Others prayed.
Some simply sat.
The silence seemed larger than usual.
I remembered something the priest once said.
"Speak before your thoughts start deciding for you."
The advice had helped me before.
It had guided difficult conversations.
Difficult choices.
But now?
What was I supposed to say?
What words existed for this?
I wasn't angry.
Not exactly.
I wasn't even crying.
Not anymore.
Mostly I felt numb.
The numbness frightened me.
That felt wrong.
Because I had never been allowed to see her.
Never allowed to see the reality itself.
There had been no final conversation.
No farewell.
No moment that allowed my heart to catch up with the facts.
In my mind, she remained unchanged.
Still smiling.
Still lazy.
Still helpful.
Still teasing me.
Still insisting I could call her sister.
My gaze settled on the empty chair near the front.
It was always empty.
Every service.
Every week.
A simple chair serving a purpose.
Today it hurt to look at.
Something about the emptiness suddenly carried meaning.
A shape where someone should have been.
A space reserved for presence.
I stared at it until Mother's hand touched mine.
Then the prayer began.
Voices rose together.
Steady.
Measured.
Familiar.
I listened.
"Father, who sees without intervening—your name is not spoken lightly here."
The words flowed through the church.
Calm.
Firm.
Ancient through repetition.
"Your will is not a thing we wait for. It is a thing we carry."
I lowered my head.
The prayer continued.
"Give us today what we need to act. Not more. Not less. Enough."
My fingers tightened slightly.
The voices around me remained unified.
Steady.
"Forgive us what we have done poorly. We do not ask you to forget it. We ask you to see that we remember."
I closed my eyes.
"And when we are tempted to stop being human—to become only what the work requires—remind us that you made us more than that."
Something in my chest tightened painfully.
Too painfully.
"We do not ask to be spared. We ask to remain."
The words settled heavily.
"The weight is yours in origin. The carrying is ours."
I thought of Victoria.
Of unfinished conversations.
Of promises.
Of plans.
The things that had seemed guaranteed.
"We give back what we could not finish."
My throat burned.
"And we trust that you saw why."
For the first time all morning, I wanted to argue.
Just a little.
Amen.
The church fell quiet.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then, slowly, people began rising.
The service ended.
The world continued.
Outside, the city remained unchanged.
At least on the surface.
The streets were still there.
The shops still open.
The sky still hanging above everything.
Yet all of it felt covered by a heavy blue.
Not a color.
A feeling.
Something weighty pressing over everything.
As we walked home, exhaustion settled into me.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something deeper.
The kind that sleep promises to fix.
Even when it can't.
I knew that already.
By the time we reached home, I could think of only one thing.
Sleep.
Sleep required no explanations.
No acceptance.
No prayers.
No conversations.
Only surrender.
And for now, that was all I could afford.
The city wore its grief differently depending on who looked at it.
Today, through my eyes, it carried Victoria-shaped shadows everywhere.
And no matter where I looked, I could not stop seeing them.