The scent of burnt paper was gone for what seemed like forever, but it lingered in Haruka's chest like smoke—thick, bitter, unsquirted.
She hardly spoke to him after that night.
The small apartment, once a warm cocoon, now suffocated her like intangible walls. The quiet was no longer tranquil. It was stifling. Haruka would sit by the window most mornings, knees tucked under her chin, staring blankly at the gray sky. Her notebook remained untouched on the table, pages rustling each time the wind swept across the broken window.
She no longer hugged her beloved mug. She barely touched food. She did not even flinch when their upstairs neighbor dropped something which sounded like thunder through the thin ceiling.
Kaito observed everything.
He noticed how her eyes looked distant, how she winced when the mail slid under the door, how she only responded with nods or faint hums. But he didn't push. He didn't ask her to talk. He didn't say "you'll be okay," because maybe right now, she wasn't.
Instead, he showed up in the quiet.
He started waking up earlier, just to make rice porridge with some egg and seaweed—even though she only ate two spoons of it. He'd tidy up in silence. He'd adjust the heater settings whenever the air felt too cold. And every evening, he'd sit beside her, close but not touching, until she blinked long and slowly and slept through her silent grief.
One morning, when the shadows under her eyes looked darker than the Tokyo rain outside, Kaito picked up a wooden comb and gently ran it through her tangled hair.
At first, Haruka stiffened. Her hands trembled slightly. But she didn't pull away.
"You don't have to say anything," he murmured as he combed, his voice low, just above a whisper. "But I'm here. Okay?"
A tear landed on her cheek, unbidden. But she didn't wipe it away.
Kaito, later in the night, changed their shared playlist's songs. He replaced the boisterous songs with melancholic piano tracks, acoustic ballads, and lo-fi tunes. Not too happy, but not too sad either—music that could hold her gently, like waves enveloped broken boats without fear.
He also stopped ordering bread for a while. Customers had messaged asking when the next batch would be ready. He ignored them.
Haruka, as best she could, was trying. But even simple things—brushing her teeth, folding the blanket, or washing a cup—was like dragging her entire body through wet cement.
It flickered one evening, the light in the apartment. Haruka blinked at it once, twice. She lay on the futon, eyes open but blank.
Kaito crouched beside the fuse box, flashlight in hand, muttering about loose wiring.
The light returned, and so did a flicker in Haruka's heart. Slight. Almost hidden. But present.
That night, when Kaito sat down with a bowl of steaming hot miso soup on the table, Haruka whispered something.
"…Thanks."
Kaito held back, half-sitting. He stared at her in awe. But he didn't speak—only smiled softly and nodded.
Thus their days passed.
No sweeping conversations. No miraculous comeback. Just quiet mornings where Kaito would play calming music and cook simple meals. Afternoons where he'd open the window just a notch to let in the fresh air, and evenings where they shared silence like a delicate thread that still held them together.
One gray morning, Haruka sat at the table instead of the window seat. She didn't write a single sentence, but she caressed the back of her notebook. Her fingers lingered there as if the notebook was an old friend whom she didn't wish to face again.
Kaito observed from the kitchen, said nothing, and added a second spoon of miso into her soup.
Later that night, she leaned over and turned the music up one notch. Just one.
It was the first decision she made that week.
The healing wasn't pretty. It wasn't poetic. It was awkward and plodding and tender. But it was happening.
And when, on the third morning, Haruka finally had the energy to swallow a full bowl of porridge, Kaito did not applaud or cheer. He simply looked at her with tired but gentle eyes and said, "You did good."
Haruka nodded.
Her lips curled up. Almost a smile. Almost.
She continued having nightmares. She continued waking up with sweat, sometimes crying. But now, she allowed Kaito to take her hand afterwards. And sometimes, she wept in front of him without hiding her face.
The letter from her father might have been burned, but its ashes still lingered in her lungs. It would take a while to breathe once more in entirety.
But with broken dawns and muted evenings, each day, she was learning.
That she did not need to labor for safety.
That she did not need to ask permission to sleep.
That maybe, maybe only—choosing peace was itself a rebellion.
And Kaito, with his quiet hands and weary smile, stayed with her. Not as a savior. Not as a repairer. But as a man who knew the storm in her, and stayed anyway.
Sometimes that is enough.