When the last handful of soil fell onto my parents' graves, the sound it made was softer than I expected.
Like rain landing on paper.
And just like that, the voices around me faded into a blur of condolences, muffled sobs, and the distant rustle of autumn leaves.
I don't remember who drove us back home that day.
I just remember Erika's small hand clutching my sleeve, trembling every time the car hit a bump on the old road. She didn't say anything—she hadn't since the morning. Her silence felt heavier than anything I'd ever carried.
Two weeks later, we moved out of the Rainsfeld family estate—our so-called "home of generations," now too big for just the two of us. The echoes of our parents' footsteps haunted every corner, so I chose to leave.
Our new life began in a place that smelled of city rain and exhaust—Hikari Apartment, a narrow building tucked between a convenience store and a flower shop. The hallway light flickered whenever I passed by, and the elevator groaned like it wanted to give up halfway. But to me, it was enough. It had to be.
Erika stood by the window of our small room that first night. The city lights reflected in her eyes, replacing the countryside stars we once watched from the balcony of our old house.
"Do you think they can see us from up there?" she asked softly.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her that our parents were somewhere peaceful, watching over us with pride.
But the truth is, I didn't know.
So I just nodded. "Yeah. They're watching."
Mornings in the city feel different.
The air doesn't smell like pine or earth—it smells like toast, instant coffee, and the faint hum of traffic below.
I start every day at 6:30 a.m., boiling water for tea while Erika gets ready for school. She's seventeen now, and though she tries to act mature, her hands still shake when tying her hair.
"Eat something," I remind her.
She always answers with the same line. "I'm not hungry yet."
I place a piece of toast on her plate anyway. She eats it slowly, pretending not to notice me watching.
After she leaves, the apartment grows quiet again. That's when I get ready for my shift at the café.
The café's name is "Snowdrop Cafe."
It's a cozy little place owned by an elderly couple who treat me like their own son. The air always smells like roasted beans and warm vanilla. The sound of the espresso machine has become something like background music in my days.
I wipe the counter, arrange the mugs, and greet customers with a practiced smile.
Most people don't notice how hard I try to appear fine. Maybe that's a blessing.
Sometimes, though, when the café grows quiet between morning and lunch hours, my reflection in the espresso machine looks back at me differently. Tired eyes. A faint smile that doesn't quite reach.
That's when I remember my father's voice.
> "Allen, life's not about holding everything together. It's about knowing which pieces to carry forward."
I didn't understand it then.
Maybe I still don't.
Erika calls me during her lunch break every now and then.
"Don't forget to eat," she says.
I laugh. "I could say the same to you."
Our roles have reversed somehow.
But I don't mind.
After work, I buy groceries, cook dinner, and check her homework while she talks about her classmates. She tells me about a girl who likes to draw, about a teacher who sings during lessons, about how she joined the art club because "it's something Mom would've liked."
Her smile is small but genuine when she says that.
It reminds me of the faint scent of linseed oil and paint that used to fill our old house.
Mom's studio had always been bright—large windows, sunlight streaming through white curtains.
I still keep one of her old paintbrushes in a drawer. I don't know why. Maybe because it still smells faintly of her perfume.
At night, when the city quiets down and only the sound of distant trains hums through the walls, I sit by the window.
My sketchbook lies open on the table.
I don't draw much anymore—just simple things. Coffee cups, streets, sometimes the reflection of the moon on the glass.
There's peace in repetition.
But sometimes, I imagine what my parents would think if they saw me now.
Would they be proud? Or disappointed that I traded our family's artistic legacy for a part-time café job and a small apartment?
I don't know.
All I know is that Erika smiles more these days, and that's enough reason to keep going.
It was on one of those quiet evenings that I met her.
She walked into the café right before closing time—rain dripping from her umbrella, her hair slightly messy from the wind. She looked about my age, maybe a little younger.
"Are you still open?" she asked.
I nodded. "Barely. But for a cup of coffee? Always."
She smiled faintly and took a seat near the window.
There was something about her presence—calm yet melancholic, like she was made of the same silence that filled rainy afternoons.
As I brought her order, she was staring at a small notebook. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed.
"Do you write?" I asked.
She looked up, surprised. "I try to."
I wanted to ask more, but she seemed content in her silence.
When she left, she said, "Your café feels… peaceful. Like somewhere you could remember something you forgot."
Her words lingered in my mind long after she was gone.
The days passed quietly after that.
Work, cooking, taking care of Erika—everything settled into a rhythm. But the encounter with that woman, the writer, felt like a brushstroke of color in the gray of my routine.
I began noticing small things again.
The way the sunlight hit the window at 3 p.m.
The smell of rain after school hours.
The laughter of high schoolers walking past the café, their uniforms fluttering in the breeze.
It reminded me that life didn't stop when grief began—it simply changed shape.
One Sunday afternoon, Erika asked, "Do you ever miss them?"
I almost dropped the cup I was washing.
"Every day," I said.
She nodded slowly. "Me too. But… it doesn't hurt as much as before."
Her words felt like both a wound and a cure.
Because that's what time does—it doesn't erase pain, it just makes it quieter.
Later that night, I found her asleep on the couch, her sketchbook open beside her.
She had drawn our old home—the Rainsfeld estate—surrounded by blooming trees. In the sky above, two faint figures stood watching.
I don't know if she meant it that way, but I chose to believe she did.
It's been six months since we moved.
The plants on our balcony are growing.
The city feels less foreign now.
Sometimes, when I walk home after closing the café, I pass by the same streetlight that flickers every night. For some reason, it always steadies when I walk under it—just for a moment, before dimming again.
I don't know if it's luck, coincidence, or something else.
But I like to think it's a small sign—some quiet reminder that I'm not walking alone.
I still talk to my parents sometimes.
Not out loud—just in my head.
When I finish a good day at work, I imagine telling them, "See? I'm managing."
When things get hard, I whisper, "I'll try again tomorrow."
And maybe that's what living is.
Not moving on, but learning to live with what remains.
The city outside my window hums softly tonight. Erika's asleep.
I can hear the faint rhythm of her breathing, steady and warm.
I open my sketchbook and draw the sunrise we saw from our old balcony—the same one I promised to paint someday.
For the first time in a long while, my hand doesn't tremble.
> "Even when the sunlight fell silent,
I learned to find warmth in the shadows it left behind."