I sat beside the window, my drawing titled "Missing Her" resting on my lap.
Shiba-inu leaned against my side, quiet and warm.
Tama-chan lay curled up near my feet, not making a sound.
Outside, the sun looked pale — not bright, not cheerful.
The wind brushed against the windows like a whisper, carrying a chill that made me wish for a warm hug.
I picked up my pink crayon — the one Yui always used.
I didn't blow on it like I sometimes did before drawing.
I just held it.
And then… softly, with my eyes closed,
I began to sing.
While staring down at the paper, my fingers wrapped around the pink crayon.
"Today I'm so sad
I can't remember my best friend's face
Yui, oh Yui, where are you
Do you miss me like I do?"
"We drew together, laughed together
Tama loved when we hugged each other
Now there's one plate… not two
And I sit by the door, waiting for you."
"I saved you a cupcake, but the strawberry got cold
I told all my dreams, and I still haven't told
You the biggest one, that I hold in my chest—
That you, Yui… you were my best."
"Yui, oh Yui, please don't fade away
I whisper your name when I draw each day
Even if your face is gone from my view…
My heart still remembers all of you."
When my voice faded into silence, the room stayed still.
Shiba-inu didn't say anything — but I held him tighter, and that felt like enough.
Tama-chan padded over to me and gently rubbed her head against my cheek.
Maybe she didn't understand all my words…
But I think, in her cat way, she wanted to comfort me.
Mama was sitting nearby, holding a handkerchief to her face.
Her shoulders were shaking a little.
Papa stood by the kitchen, quiet and still,
His eyes soft… and shiny.
I turned slowly to Mama, my voice shaking — but steady in what it meant.
"Mama…"
I held my pink crayon in both hands like it was something sacred now.
Something that held more than just color.
Something that carried Yui.
"Please… can you record it?"
"So I'll never forget her again."
"Please?"
Mama didn't answer right away.
She knelt down in front of me, her eyes red, and gently cupped my face in her warm hands.
"Hideki…" she whispered.
"I will. I promise."
She reached for her phone.
And for a second… I saw her hands trembling.
Not because she was scared —
But because she could feel what I felt.
The weight of love I didn't know how to carry alone.
She tapped the screen.
A tiny red light blinked on.
I closed my eyes.
Took a breath.
And then…
I sang it again.
All of it.
Even stronger this time —
like I was holding Yui's hand through every word.
Like each note pulled her a little closer again.
"Yui, oh Yui, please don't fade away…"
"Even if your face is gone from my view…"
"My heart still remembers all of you…"
When the song ended, there was a long, quiet pause.
Mama tapped the screen again and turned the recording off.
Then she looked at me and smiled — soft, but shining.
"It's saved," she said.
She tapped her chest, right over her heart.
"And here too."
With my voice still echoing in my chest…
and Mama's phone safely holding the song…
I looked up at her and held out my hands.
"Mama…" I said softly,
"Can we make a Yui Memory Box?"
Mama didn't even think twice.
She nodded right away.
"Yes, sweetheart. Let's do it right now."
She opened one of the drawers in the cabinet,
and inside was a small wooden box —
the kind that smelled faintly of cedar and warmth.
It had a soft cloth folded neatly inside, like it was already waiting for something special.
Together, we began to fill it —
slowly, gently, like placing memories into a treasure chest.
First, I put in the drawing of "Missing Her."
Then all the pictures I had drawn with Yui —
her crown, our parties, Tama-chan sleeping on her lap.
Next came the photographs —
the ones from my birthday,
and from hers,
when we were together and held up two fingers with frosting on our nose.
Then Mama helped me fold the lyrics of my song —
the one I wrote in pink crayon —
and we placed it gently inside.
And last…
Mama carefully tucked in a tiny USB stick,
the one with the song we just recorded.
My voice.
Her memory.
Together.
She closed the lid softly and placed the box in my hands.
I hugged it tight to my chest, pressing it close to where my heart beats.
"Now I'll never lose her again," I whispered.
Mama leaned down and kissed the top of my head.
"Not ever," she said.
I placed the box on my little shelf —
right beside my drawing pad and Shiba-inu.
Where it will stay.
Waiting.
Like I once did.
The days started changing again.
The cold wind outside slowly turned into snow — soft and quiet, like tiny whispers falling from the sky.
We kept doing our usual routines.
Mama and Papa went on with their days like always.
And me?
After helping Mama and finishing study time,
I would go straight to the piano bench.
I'd lift the lid slowly.
My fingers would find the keys like they always do —
touching them gently, pressing one after another.
Letting the sound flow, just like how my heart told me to.
It became part of my day — like breathing.
Sometimes, I hummed while I played.
Not full songs. Not real lyrics.
Just soft sounds that floated with the notes.
But I didn't care.
I didn't care if the words didn't come.
Because in those moments,
what mattered most…
was that while I played,
Yui filled my mind completely.
Even if we hadn't seen each other for… maybe a year now.
Even if her voice had faded a little.
Even if I wasn't sure what color her last ribbon was.
She was still there.
Inside every note.
Inside every pause.
Then came New Year's Eve.
I knew what day it was.
Yui's birthday.
And I also knew…
I wouldn't see her again today.
Because Yui had gone far away from me.
Farther than I could reach.
Farther than our park.
Farther than my songs.
I imagined her somewhere else —
surrounded by other people.
Maybe laughing.
Maybe with new friends.
Like before.
Warm and happy.
Mama and Papa asked me if I wanted to go outside.
To see the glowing lights,
or the big Christmas tree in the city,
or walk under the sparkling streets of Tokyo.
But I shook my head.
I stayed in my room, sitting by the window,
watching the sky.
Waiting for the Hanabi.
The fireworks.
I didn't say it out loud,
but in my heart, I wished —
I wished so badly…
that Yui was watching them too.
That maybe, wherever she was,
she would look up at the same sky,
see the same lights blooming in the dark,
and think of me.
Even if our bodies were far apart,
Even if time had changed everything…
We could still share this sky.
And maybe, just maybe,
we'd both look down at the same bracelets on our wrists —
the ones she made for me —
and let them be the medicine
for this aching, quiet feeling.