Time passed.
The days blurred together like soft watercolor strokes —
Mama doing her chores, humming gentle songs,
Papa leaving in the morning with his coffee and warm smile.
Everything seemed… normal.
Except my heart still had a space.
A space shaped like Yui.
One day, I cried — hard.
Big tears. Loud sobs.
I begged Mama.
"I want to go to Yui's house…"
"Please… please, Mama…"
But Mama gently pulled me into her arms.
She rubbed my back slowly, like tracing invisible circles.
"Yui's not at her old house anymore, sweetheart," she said quietly.
"She lives in a bigger house now… a new one."
My eyes lit up — a spark of hope blooming inside me.
"Really?! Can Hideki see Yui's new house?"
Mama smiled. But it was the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Maybe… if we have time," she said softly.
"And if Yui's family isn't too busy."
That word again.
Busy.
It sat on my tongue like something sour.
I didn't like the way it tasted.
Didn't like how it made my chest feel small.
Why is everyone so busy?
I wasn't too busy to play with Tama-chan.
Or to cuddle with Shiba-inu.
Why couldn't they come?
Weren't we best friends?
But the world kept moving — like it always does.
And now, Mama added something new to our days.
She started teaching me about a place called "school."
She said that one day, I'd go there —
I'd make new friends, play with new people.
She said I'd like it.
But I didn't want to make new friends.
I already had one.
The best one.
Her name was Yui.
But I nodded anyway.
And I smiled when Mama smiled.
Because I didn't want her to worry.
Still…
Whenever the sadness returned,
whenever the quiet in my chest got too loud —
I followed where my heart always took me.
To the piano bench.
Every afternoon, after helping Mama fold clothes or wash dishes,
after listening to her stories and lessons about school…
I would climb up onto that bench.
Shiba-inu would sit on my lap — soft, warm, always listening.
Sometimes, I brought Tama-chan too.
She'd curl up beside the pedals, tail flicking like a metronome.
And I played.
Not with full songs, not always.
Sometimes just a few notes.
Sometimes just gentle chords — like soft footsteps.
But the piano always listened.
It never told me I was being silly.
It never said I needed to grow up.
It never said "busy."
It just let me play.
And in those moments —
with the keys under my fingers,
with the sun pouring in through the window,
with Shiba's ears brushing my chest and Tama's purr humming near my feet…
I felt like maybe…
Just maybe…
Yui could hear the song too.
Wherever she was.
And maybe she'd remember me.
Just like I remembered her.
Every note.
Every laugh.
Every promise.
Still playing in the heart of a boy who didn't know how to forget.
It was Sunday.
I didn't know what month it was.
But the wind outside felt a little cold —
not freezing…
just enough to make the windows whisper.
I sat at my low table by the window.
The sky outside was pale — almost white, like paper left out in the sun too long.
Tama-chan was resting quietly near my feet, curled into herself like a little comma.
My drawing pad lay open.
Crayons were scattered around me like fallen leaves.
And in my hand…
Is my favorite crayon.
The pink one.
The one Yui always used.
I held it tight between my fingers.
Then pressed it gently to the page.
I wanted to draw her.
Her hair.
Her crown.
Her smile.
I tried.
But something felt… wrong.
The lines didn't come out right.
Too wiggly.
Too soft.
Her eyes — were they round or almond-shaped?
Did she wear yellow on the last day I saw her?
Or was it blue?
Was her hair tied up?
Or messy from running?
My hands started to move faster, harder —
as if pressing the crayon harder would make her come back.
But it didn't.
My chest started to tighten.
A little at first.
Then more.
I paused.
Stared down at the page.
Then…
The tears came.
Soft at first.
Quiet.
Then louder.
Like rain on a quiet roof.
The crayon slipped from my hand and rolled across the floor.
"Mama…"
My voice was trembling, small — like it had gotten lost somewhere inside me.
Mama turned from the kitchen.
Her eyes widened, and she rushed over.
"Hideki, what's wrong?" she asked, kneeling down.
I looked at her.
My lips moved slowly.
The words came out broken, like a toy that couldn't work right anymore.
"I… can't remember Yui's face…"
My hands were shaking.
I stared at them, confused.
Like they had failed me.
"I try to draw… I try so hard…
but she's gone… from my head…"
Mama pulled me into her arms.
Soft.
Warm.
Safe.
She stroked my hair slowly.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she whispered,
"She's not gone. Not from your heart."
I cried into her shoulder — everything spilling out.
Then Papa knelt beside us.
His hands rested on my back.
"Even if her face fades…" he said gently,
"The feeling stays."
"That's love, Hideki."
"It never leaves."
And I sobbed.
I didn't hold it back.
Because even if my memory forgot the shape of her eyes…
or the ribbon in her hair…
my heart…
STILL REMEMBERED EVERYTHING THAT MATTERED.