The train edged into the charming countryside station with a soft squeal, but Kaito barely caught it.
He sat hunched by the window, looking at the town unfolding outside—its deserted streets, the row of familiar shops, the bakery snuggled in its favorite corner.
His mother sat next to him in silence, hands folded demurely over the black handbag on her knees.
They talked little along the way.
The grief filled the air between them like a soggy curtain.
When the train finally came to a stop, Kaito leapt to his feet, grabbing both of their bags quietly. His mother followed him down the aisle and onto the platform, her movements leaden and reluctant.
The fresh country air roughened around them, bearing the far-off scent of ocean and freshly tilled earth.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, it increased the hurt in him.
Together, they walked along the well-known streets, their heels thudding quietly in the quiet of evening.
The light of the bakery was on, and it threw a golden light warmth through the windows.
Kaito averted his glance, feigning not seeing.
He was not yet ready.
Not to that.
Faintly the porch light glowed outside the house as they neared.
Kaito pushed the door open and stood aside so that his mother could precede him. The house swallowed them whole in a silence, furniture unmoved, air heavy with the absence of the man who used to live there.
His mother breathed softly, her hand brushing against the edge of a dusty table as if to anchor herself.
Kaito set the bags down by the door.
For a moment, they stood there, unsure of what to do.
Finally, his mother entered the living room, slowly lowering herself onto the tatami mat where an old photograph album lay waiting. She opened it hesitantly, her hands trembling slightly.
Kaito trailed behind her in silence, folding his legs stiffly under him.
The photos glared back at them—black-and-white shots of another life: his grandfather grinning from the seat of a worn motorbike, holding a fishing rod high, laughing with a much younger version of Kaito's mother.
"He loved us," she whispered, voice raw from days of crying. "In his own stubborn way."
Kaito swallowed, his throat too tight for words.
The memories flooded his mind like a vintage film—his grandfather teaching him to replace a flat tire, depositing mandarins on his porch every winter, gruffly telling him to "eat more" without meeting his gaze.
Love, unspoken but real.
Just like the love Kaito had never been brave enough to shout out loud.
They spent the next few days surrounded by memories—sorting through boxes, making arrangements, attending the modest funeral with its somber rituals and bowed heads.
Kaito stood stiffly at his mother's side, both of them dressed in black, their faces expressionless as old friends and distant relatives murmured condolences.
When they lowered the plain casket into the ground, Kaito gripped his mother's hand tightly.
She squeezed back without looking at him.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
At night, they sat together drinking bitter tea in the quiet house, the television off, the windows wide open to let in the cool air. Words weren't necessary.
The shared weight of their loss filled the spaces between them.
"He'd be proud of you," his mother said one evening, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You've grown up so well."
Kaito didn't answer.
He only looked away, blinking hard.
Once the final paperwork was signed, and the final of his grandfather's items crammed into storage bins, they stood on the porch once more, looking out over the slumbering town.
His mother placed a light touch on his sleeve.
"Ready?" she asked.
Kaito took a deep breath, the chill of the night sliding into his lungs.
He didn't know if he was ready.
But he knew he couldn't stay still forever.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
They locked the door behind them, leaving the porch light off for the first time in years.
As they walked back toward the heart of town, Kaito caught a glimpse of the bakery again—the warm lights spilling onto the sidewalk, the faint clatter of trays in the kitchen.
He slowed his steps instinctively.
His mother noticed and gave him a small, knowing smile.
"Go ahead," she said gently. "I'll be fine."
Kaito hesitated, his heart racing erratically.
But then he shook his head.
Not yet.
He was not ready to face that aspect of his reality until he could offer something other than sorrow.
"Tomorrow," he grumbled.
His mother nodded, as if she understood.
Tomorrow.
He would come back in earnest.
He would find the words he had left unsaid.
The vows he still had to fulfill.
And maybe—maybe indeed—Haruka may still be waiting on the other side of that pantry door.