The next morning, Arashi's father landed at the airport.
His steps were heavy, his eyes tired, yet there was only one thought in his mind — home.
He didn't stop anywhere, didn't rest, didn't even look around.
He went straight to the house.
But when he reached, the silence inside was unsettling.
No voices. No movement.
Just emptiness.
He frowned, pulling out his phone and dialing Arashi's number.
On the other end, Arashi was sitting quietly in the car beside his mother. The road stretched ahead, wet from last night's rain.
He glanced at the screen, saw his father's name flashing, and answered softly.
"Dad… let's talk over messages," he said, his tone calm but distant.
Before his father could reply, the line went dead.
Moments later, a message appeared on his screen.
Dad: Where are you? I'm standing outside the house. Open the door.
Arashi typed back quickly, his fingers steady.
Please wait a little, Dad. We're on our way — just five minutes more.
He paused, looked at his mother — her eyes still fixed on the passing road, silent and tired.
Then he continued typing.
And Dad… don't tell Mom anything yet. Give her a surprise when we arrive. The door keys are under the flower pot.
I haven't told her you're here.
Just be ready.
He hit send, then put the phone aside, staring out the window.
The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked heavy — like it was waiting for something, or someone.
The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the house.
Rain still clung to the windows, the world outside tinted in soft gray.
Arashi's mother turned off the engine, her hands resting on the steering wheel for a moment longer than usual. She stared ahead silently — her face pale, her eyes tired.
"We're home, Mom," Arashi said quietly.
She nodded faintly. "Hmm… finally."
Arashi stepped out first, the cool air brushing against his face.
He walked to the trunk and began unloading the bags — one by one.
The weight didn't bother him, but the silence did.
Every sound — the thud of luggage, the creak of the gate — echoed louder than it should have.
Once everything was out, he glanced back at his mother. She still hadn't moved from the driver's seat.
"Mom," he called softly, "you can head inside. I'll bring the rest."
She blinked, as if waking from a long thought. "Oh… right." She opened the door and stepped out.
Arashi picked up the last bag and followed behind her — but not too closely.
He knew what was waiting inside.
He unlocked the door quietly and stepped aside.
"Go ahead, Mom," he said gently. "You first."
She gave him a faint, puzzled smile, then walked inside.
The house was dim, the air cool and still.
She took a few steps forward, her hand brushing the old table as she passed.
Then, from behind her, came a voice — soft, trembling, but unmistakably familiar.
"…Did someone miss me?"
She froze.
Her heart skipped a beat. That voice… it couldn't be.
Slowly, she turned around.
There he was.
Her husband stood near the hallway, suitcase in hand, eyes tired yet warm.
For a moment, she couldn't move. Then her lips trembled, her eyes filled, and she whispered, "You… you're here?"
He smiled softly. "Where else would I be?"
She rushed toward him, tears spilling before words could form. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.
He held her just as tightly, one hand on her back, the other brushing her hair.
"I'm here now," he whispered. "You don't have to carry it all alone anymore."
She cried quietly against his shoulder, her voice breaking. "I thought I'd lost everything."
He shook his head gently. "Not everything. You still have us."
Arashi stood in the doorway, watching silently — the bags still at his feet.
And for the first time in days, the house didn't feel heavy with grief.
It felt alive again — like warmth had finally found its way back home.
After a few minutes, Arashi's father greeted him warmly.
There was no need for words — a brief hug, a soft pat on the shoulder, and that was enough.
His father went to freshen up, and Arashi walked toward the kitchen to grab some water.
His mother was there, stirring a pot on the stove. The smell of warm food drifted through the air, soft and comforting.
For the first time in a long while, her face wasn't weighed down by grief. The sadness in her eyes had softened — replaced by a calm, quiet glow.
Arashi stood there for a few seconds, just watching her.
That faint smile on her face felt like sunlight after rain.
He filled a glass of water, took a sip, and exhaled slowly.
Everything finally felt… right.
He carried the glass upstairs, opened the door to his room, and quietly stepped inside.
The familiar silence welcomed him.
He set the glass on his desk and closed the door behind him.
But the moment the latch clicked — something inside his chest twisted.
A sharp, burning pain surged through him, so sudden that his breath caught in his throat.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
He stumbled back, clutching his chest, the pain spreading like fire.
His vision darkened at the edges, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
Then came the voice — low, cold, echoing from somewhere deep within his mind.
"You're too happy, Arashi."
"Did you forget? Your mother's suffering… it's because of you."
"You could've saved your grandfather."
"He's gone because of you. You're the reason they all suffer."
The words echoed again and again until they felt like they were carved into his soul.
He fell to his knees, gasping, unable to scream, unable to breathe.
And then — as suddenly as it began — it stopped.
The pain vanished.
The voice went silent.
He stayed there for a while, shaking, sweat running down his face, staring at the broken glass scattered across the floor.
It was as if nothing had happened.
But deep inside, something in him had changed — something dark had woken up again.
That night, everyone sat together at the dinner table for the first time in days.
The house felt fuller — laughter between Arashi's parents, the quiet clinking of dishes — but Arashi couldn't bring himself to join in.
He sat there, staring at his untouched plate, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
No matter how hard he tried, the guilt wouldn't fade.
He kept replaying that day in his head — the one when his grandfather had called him, asking him to come over.
And he didn't go.
Now that memory felt heavier than ever.
"Arashi," his father's voice broke through the silence. "What's wrong? You haven't eaten a single bite."
Arashi looked up quickly, forcing a small smile.
"Oh, it's nothing… I just don't feel like eating. I'm full. You guys enjoy."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, but before he could take a step, his father spoke again.
"Wait."
The tone was calm but firm — the kind that made Arashi stop instantly.
"There's something important I need to talk about," his father said.
Arashi hesitated, then quietly sat back down.
His father didn't continue right away — he let everyone finish eating first. The air around the table grew heavier, quieter.
Once the plates were empty, he looked toward Arashi's mother and said gently,
"You need to come with me for a few days. Your health isn't fine, and staying alone won't help. You'll get better if you're with me."
She shook her head almost immediately.
"No… I don't want to be a burden."
His father frowned.
"A burden? How could you even think that?" he said softly, the pain clear in his voice. "You were never a burden, not for a single moment. I wanted to call you back so many times, but I didn't have the money then. Now that I can, you're coming with me. No excuses."
She looked down, silent.
Then, after a pause, she asked quietly,
"But… Arashi will come with us too, right?"
Her eyes turned toward him — hopeful, a little unsure.
"Right, Arashi?" she asked.
Arashi lowered his eyes for a moment before replying softly,
"No… you both should go. My school's about to start, and there's a lot I need to catch up on. I'll manage here."
His mother's brows furrowed.
"Arashi, you're not staying alone. You have to come with us," she said firmly. "You need rest too."
Before Arashi could reply, his father sighed.
"I told him the same thing earlier," he said, looking at his wife. "But he never listens."
Arashi looked up — his expression calm but steady.
"Dad… I'm not refusing because I don't want to go," he said quietly. "It's just… someone needs to stay here. This house—it still feels like Grandpa's. I want to look after it… and Mom, you know how many things I forget when I'm in a hurry. If I come with you, I'll only make things more stressful."
He gave a faint smile, trying to lighten the mood.
"I'll be fine. Really. I've grown up a little, haven't I?"
For a moment, both his parents just looked at him — torn between worry and pride.
Finally, his father nodded slowly.
"Alright," he said. "But if you change your mind, let me know. I already have your ticket and passport ready."
Arashi smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes.
"No, Dad. You both go ahead. I'll be fine here."
His father held his gaze for a few seconds longer, then exhaled and nodded.
"Alright… if that's what you want."
The next morning came quietly — the kind of morning that felt softer than usual, heavy with the silence that lingers before goodbyes.
The sound of footsteps downstairs woke Arashi.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, then glanced at the clock. It was just past seven.
Through his window, he could see the car parked outside — his father loading the last of the bags into the trunk.
Arashi got up, changed quickly, and walked downstairs.
The air smelled faintly of tea and morning air — the kind of mix that reminded him of every ordinary day that suddenly wasn't ordinary anymore.
In the living room, his mother was standing near the doorway, adjusting her shawl, while his father double-checked the tickets in his hand.
Arashi stopped for a moment, just watching them — memorizing the little things.
The way his mother smiled softly at his father's nervousness.
The way his father looked calm but tired, like he was carrying more than just luggage.
When they noticed him, both smiled.
His mother stepped forward first. "You're awake," she said gently.
"Of course," Arashi replied, forcing a light tone. "You really thought I'd let you two leave without saying goodbye?"
She smiled and reached out, fixing his messy hair like she always did. "Take care of yourself, okay? Eat properly. And… call me, even if it's just to argue."
"I will," he said softly.
His father walked up next, resting a hand on Arashi's shoulder. "Be strong, son. And don't skip classes."
Arashi nodded with a faint grin. "I'll try."
Then came that brief silence — the kind that said everything words couldn't.
Finally, his mother hugged him tightly. "We'll be back soon."
When they stepped outside, the morning light touched their faces — soft and golden.
Arashi stood by the door, waving as they got into the car.
His father started the engine, and as the car slowly pulled away, his mother turned around in her seat, waving through the window until they disappeared down the street.
The house grew quiet again.
Arashi stood there for a moment, the morning breeze brushing against his face — and for some reason, it felt colder than before.
The door closed. The silence that followed felt endless.
Arashi exhaled shakily and leaned back against the wall until his legs gave out, and he sat down on the floor.
Then, softly — a familiar sound.
A quiet meow.
He looked up.
Momi walked toward him, tail brushing against the ground, her eyes wide and calm — as if she could feel the weight sitting in his chest.
She climbed onto his lap, curled up, and pressed her head gently against his hand.
Arashi's lips trembled into a faint smile.
"You always know when I'm falling apart, don't you?" he whispered.
He stroked her fur slowly, feeling her warmth — a small reminder that he wasn't completely alone.
In that still house, it was the only comfort he had.
Days passed like that — quiet, slow, almost peaceful.
Until that afternoon.
Arashi was outside with Momi, watching her chase a butterfly near the garden gate. He laughed softly for the first time in days.
But then, in a flash, she darted through the gate — toward the road.
"Hey— Momi!" he shouted, running after her.
A horn blared. Tires screeched.
Everything happened too fast.
By the time Arashi reached the road, the car was already gone — just the faint echo of its engine fading into the distance.
He froze.
The collar he'd tied around Momi's neck lay near the curb, torn and still.
Arashi's heart sank. His breath caught in his throat. He knelt there, staring — unable to speak, unable to move.
It was happening again — that same cold, sickening silence after something precious was lost.
He pressed his palms to his face, his voice breaking.
"It's my fault again… I couldn't even protect her."
The words echoed in his mind like a cruel memory that refused to fade — just like before.
Arashi fell to his knees, his breath shaking as he picked up Momi's small, motionless body.
"Momi… hey, wake up," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Come on, please… look at me."
There was no response.
Her tiny chest rose weakly once… and then stopped.
The world froze around him. No sound, no movement — just the faint echo of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
His lips quivered as he whispered again, "No… no, please… you can't leave me too."
He pressed her closer. He stayed like that for a long time, hoping she'd move — but she didn't.
When the sky began to turn orange, Arashi finally stood up. His hands trembled as he carried her to the backyard — the same place where she used to chase butterflies.
He dug a small grave behind his home, the sound of the shovel cutting through the soil blending with his soft sobs.
Each handful of earth felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself didn't want to take her away.
He wrapped her gently in one of his old shirts — the one that had her fur on it — and laid her down carefully.
For a moment, he just stared.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "For staying with me… when no one else did."
He covered the grave slowly, his tears mixing with the dirt.
When he finished, the sun had almost set. The world around him seemed quieter, emptier — as if it was mourning with him.
Arashi turned back toward the house.
Every step felt heavier.
The moment he entered his room, the silence hit him like a wave.
Her food bowl was still there. Her toy ball near the bed. The faint fur on his blanket — everything reminded him of her.
He sat on the floor, buried his face in his hands, and finally let go.
The sobs came quietly at first, then louder, until the whole room seemed to tremble with his pain.
His heart felt like it was breaking into pieces — because now, even the small bit of comfort he had left was gone.
As the sky outside turned dark, shadows filled the corners of the room.
The air grew still.
Arashi lay on his bed, eyes red and tired, staring at the ceiling.
The only thing left in his mind before sleep took him was a single thought —
soft, heavy, and full of guilt:
"Maybe I really am meant to be alone."
Arashi's eyes grew heavy as the tears dried on his cheeks. His breathing slowed, and at some point, exhaustion pulled him into sleep.