The apartment was still.Outside, the city moved in distant murmurs — cars sliding by, footsteps echoing faintly. Everything felt muted, as if the world had shifted into background noise.
Ken sat at the small table, his coat folded neatly over the chair. The lamp beside him cast a warm glow across his face — calm, but weighed down.
Across the tiny kitchen, Yukino moved quietly, almost nervous as she poured tea.The gentle clink of porcelain filled the silence.
She walked to the table, hands shaking slightly as she set the tray down.
"Here… tea."
Ken lifted his eyes. "Thank you."
Yukino sat across from him, fingers laced together in her lap. The light flickered across her face, tracing the worry in her eyes.
For a while, neither spoke.Steam curled up from the cups, fading slowly into the quiet.
Yukino finally inhaled — steadying herself.
"Ken-san…" Her voice wavered. "It's… time, right? To tell me about your life."
Ken held her gaze for a moment, then lifted his cup, took a sip, set it down.
"You're right," he murmured. "It's time."
He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the window where faint streaks of rain trailed down the glass.
"My full name is Ken Anderson."
Yukino blinked — the foreign surname pressing gently against the quiet air.
"My father was Canadian. My mother, Japanese. That's why… my eyes look like they don't belong here."
A small smile touched his lips, but it carried pain.
Yukino wanted to speak — but stayed silent, letting him go on.
"I live in Shinagawa. Small apartment near the university. I'm doing my PhD in disaster management at Todai. I also help with my uncle's business in Canada. It pays fine. Keeps me occupied."
His voice softened, sinking.
Then—
"I used to have a little sister."
Yukino froze.
Ken's voice quieted, almost too soft to hear.
"Her name was Aya. She was… like Honoka. Always laughing. Always holding onto me."He breathed in slowly. "My father worked late. My mother loved singing while cooking. We were going to a campsite after my brithday, it was a winter time and it was snowing really hard. There was an accident"
He paused — eyes emptying out somewhere far beyond the room.
"I woke up in the hospital. Fractured arm. Broken ribs. But…"
His voice cracked.
"They were gone."
Yukino's hand rose to her lips, breath shaking.
Ken stared down at his hands — faint scars catching the light.
"The doctors said I was lucky. But I didn't feel lucky. For years I asked the same question every morning."
A quiet break in his voice:
"Why me?"
Yukino's chest tightened until it hurt.
"For a long time, I felt nothing. No sadness. No joy. Just… empty."
He exhaled shakily.
"I didn't think I deserved anything good again."
Then he looked at her.
For the first time, his eyes trembled.
"When I met Honoka… she reminded me of Aya. The way she held that bento box. Her voice. Her innocence. It broke something inside me."
Yukino's tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
Ken's voice thinned, raw.
"But it wasn't just her."
He looked at Yukino now — really looked — emotion trembling at the edges of his expression.
"It was you too."
Her breath caught.
"You both pulled me out of a place I thought I'd never escape. It's not Honoka healing — it's me. She's healing me. And so are you."
A tear traced down his face. He covered his eyes, ashamed.
"Every morning since that first one, I've started to feel alive again. Because of you two."
Yukino couldn't hold back anymore. She stood, tears falling hard.
"Ken-san…"
He tried to speak again, voice cracked open:
"Yukino-san… do I… deserve to be loved again?"
The question shattered her.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, hands trembling as they held his face.
"If it's not you," she whispered, voice breaking, "then no one deserves it."
Ken stared at her — stunned.
"In this home," she said, tears trembling in her lashes, "you are loved. Don't ever doubt that."
She swallowed, cheeks flushed, voice small but steady:
"Even if the world forgets you… we won't. I won't."
The words hit him like a release. His hands rose shakily, pulling her into his arms.
Yukino held him tight, her tears wetting his shoulder.
"You're not alone anymore, Ken-san," she whispered brokenly. "You're not alone."
His voice shook against her shoulder.
"Thank you… for saying that."
In the quiet room, beneath the soft hum of rain, two wounded hearts held each other — pain turning into warmth, grief into breath again.
Outside, rain began to fall harder — not heavy with sorrow, but cleansing.
For the first time in five years, Ken didn't ask why he was still alive.
He understood.
He was alive because someone was waiting for him.