Mornings here feel different. The light comes in slow, like it's afraid to wake anyone up. It slips through the paper doors and lands right across my blanket. The sound of cicadas is already there, mixed with the wind chime above the porch.
It's only been a few days since I got here, but I'm kind of getting used to this quiet. I wake up, help Grandma with breakfast, and listen to her hum old songs I've never heard anywhere else. It's… peaceful.
When I walked into the kitchen, the smell of miso soup hit me. Grandma was by the stove, wearing her faded apron, moving the way she always does—slow but sure. "You're up early," she said, not turning around.
"I heard you coughing again," I said. I tried to sound casual, but it came out worried.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Just the morning air. Don't worry."
I wanted to believe her, so I just nodded and sat down. The steam from the soup fogged my glasses for a second. That tiny thing, having to wipe them somehow made the morning feel more real.
A knock came from the door. When I opened it, Ami was standing there with a basket of vegetables. Her hair was tied up, a few strands falling loose around her face.
"Good morning," she said, cheerful as always.
"Morning," I replied, trying not to sound awkward.
"Ah, Ami," Grandma called out, smiling wide. "You always bring too much."
Ami laughed. "You always say that, but you never leave any leftovers."
They both laughed, and for a second it felt like I'd walked into something warm and familiar.
Ami started washing the vegetables. I sat nearby, pretending to look at my phone, but honestly, I was watching her hands. She worked carefully, like she was used to helping around here.
She caught me staring. "What?" she said, smiling.
"Nothing," I said quickly. "You're just… good at that."
"Your grandma taught me." she said, glancing at her with a grin.
Grandma gave me that teasing look again, the kind that says "I know what you're thinking."
Breakfast was quiet after that. We talked about small things, The flowers outside, the weather, the cat that keeps sleeping by the fence. Nothing big, but somehow it felt nice.
When Ami left, Grandma leaned back in her chair. "She's a kind girl, isn't she?"
"Yeah," I said. "She really is."
"You should take a walk with her sometime. It's good for your lungs."
She laughed softly after that, but her breath hitched a little. Just a little.
For a moment, the wind chime was the only sound in the house. The air felt still again... gentle, but easy to break.
After breakfast, Grandma told me to take the trash out. The sun was already high, and the street outside shimmered a little from the heat. The road was quiet except for the sound of some radio playing from a neighbor's house, an old jazz music I think.
When I came back in, Grandma was in the garden, kneeling by the small patch of flowers near the fence.
"Don't push yourself too much," I said. She waved her hand. "I've been doing this longer than you've been alive."
She always says that. I smiled a little and sat on the porch, watching her pull weeds one by one. Her movements were slower today, though. Not weak… just heavy, like her body was tired of pretending it wasn't.
After a while, I heard her coughing again. It wasn't the soft, harmless kind. This one was rough, tearing through her throat until she had to stop and steady herself against the dirt.
"Grandma!" I rushed over, kneeling beside her. "I'm fine, Kenji," she said, between shallow breaths. Her voice came out thinner than before. I reached for her arm, but she gently pushed my hand away. "Don't look at me like that," she whispered, forcing a smile. "I just need water."
She stood up slowly and walked back toward the house, her hand brushing along the wall as if she needed it to keep balance.
When she went inside, I stayed in the garden for a bit. The flowers were small and half-wilted, their petals dry from the sun. I pulled one of the weeds she'd been working on and it came out too easily.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The house made all kinds of noises. The creak of wood, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock on the wall. From my room, I could hear Grandma's door slide open, then shut again.
I got up and peeked through the hallway. She was sitting at the table, the small lamp glowing beside her. Her oxygen mask, one I hadn't even known she had, was strapped to her face, the tube leading to a little machine humming quietly.
She looked up and noticed me. "Oh," she said, pulling it off halfway. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
I didn't say anything at first. I didn't even know what to say. She smiled that same soft smile again, the one that tried too hard to make things okay.
"It's not so bad," she said. "Just makes me breathe easier at night."
I wanted to ask her how long it's been like this. I wanted to ask why she didn't tell me sooner. But the words got stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
Instead, I just sat across from her. We didn't talk much... we just sat there, listening to the faint hum of the oxygen machine and the crickets outside.
After a while, she said quietly, "You're a good boy, Kenji. I'm glad you're here."
The light flickered a bit before she turned it off. The sound of her breathing machine filled the silence again. Slow, steady, and fragile.
And for the first time since I came here, I felt something in my chest tighten. Not fear. Not yet. Just… something heavy that wouldn't go away.
The next morning, the house felt colder. Not in temperature, just in air. Grandma was still asleep when I checked her room, her breathing steady, the oxygen mask still on. I didn't want to wake her, so I made breakfast myself. Burnt the first batch of rice, then tried again.
Ami showed up around mid-morning with her usual smile and a basket of fruit."You look tired," she said."I couldn't sleep much.""Worried?"I hesitated. "A bit."
She didn't say anything after that. Instead, she started helping without asking, washing the dishes and sweeping the floor. She moved around the house like she belonged there, and for a while, it almost felt normal again.
When Grandma woke up, she looked better than last night. She even joked about my cooking."You'll scare the rice away if you keep burning it like that," she said.Ami laughed, and I did too, though I noticed the tremor in Grandma's hands.
Later, the three of us sat outside. The sky was overcast, soft gray light falling over the garden. Grandma was wrapped in her shawl, her tea steaming beside her. She watched the flowers without saying much.
"I used to grow lilies," she said quietly. "They were your mother's favorite."Ami looked at me, then back at her. "What happened to them?""They stopped blooming after she left," Grandma said with a faint smile. "Maybe flowers understand more than we think."
A breeze passed through, brushing the wind chime. The sound lingered, then faded into the rustle of leaves.
When Grandma went inside to rest, Ami and I stayed on the porch. Neither of us spoke for a long time. The silence wasn't awkward anymore—it just existed, like the air between us was waiting.
"She's getting worse, isn't she?" Ami finally said.I nodded. "Yeah." "She doesn't want you to worry." "I know. But it's kind of hard not to."
Ami leaned back against the post, her eyes following the clouds. "My grandfather was like that too," she said. "He hated hospitals. Said he wanted to stay home until the end." "What happened?" "He did. Peacefully." Her voice softened. "It was hard, but it felt right."
We stayed there until the sun dipped low, painting the house in soft orange light. I could hear Grandma humming faintly from her room, the same melody she always sang in the mornings.
For some reason, it sounded sadder this time.