The gray clouds hung low in the sky, casting a somber veil over the small graveyard on the hillside.
The stagnant, heavy air was filled with the scent of wet earth and incense.
Haruka stood silently at the door, wringing her fingers uncomfortably around the strap of her bag.
The news had left her reeling—Kaito's grandfather had passed away.
It was the bakery's grandmother who had spoken to her that morning, her voice thick and low with unspoken sorrow.
"He was a good man," she had said, blotting at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Kaito. he's struggling. Very hard."
Haruka nodded, her throat closed up.
Her heart hurt horribly in her chest.
No wonder Kaito hadn't come back.
No wonder even his sticky notes had stopped.
She stood now, wondering if she even belonged here.
She wasn't related.
She wasn't even technically a part of Kaito's life.
Just. someone who had been there.
But in the end, she did.
Because even if she couldn't say anything, she wanted to give something—presence, perhaps.
Silent support.
Haruka smoothed out her black dress, took a deep breath, and slowly pushed through towards the crowd.
There were few mourners—immediate family, a handful of old friends, townspeople who had known the family for generations.
Everyone dressed in subdued black and gray, heads bowed, hands folded.
And then she saw him.
Kaito stood over the grave, shoulders stiff under his formal suit, his fists clenched at his sides.
His mother stood next to him, her posture elegant but fragile, like fine porcelain.
Haruka's footsteps faltered.
She hadn't seen him in weeks—since the evening he disappeared without a word.
No smile on his lips now.
No sparkle of trouble in his eyes.
Only a hollow, overpowering grief that appeared to pull him empty from the inside out.
She had to hurry to him.
To tell him something—anything.
But something held her back.
This wasn't the moment to step over that delicate boundary.
This wasn't about her.
So Haruka stayed where she was, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her head bowed in respectful silence.
The ceremony was subdued, genuine.
An elderly monk led a slow, measured chant, the mourners inclining their heads in unison.
Kaito was quiet, motionless, as the final prayers were recited and a few handfuls of dirt were thrown over the coffin.
The wind picked up a little, tugging at Haruka's hair.
When the visitors began moving forward one by one to pay their respects, Haruka stood at the edge of the crowd, waiting for others to clear out.
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her.
The girl.
The same one whom she had seen once before—the one who had clung to Kaito so tightly behind his motorcycle.
She was now standing here just a little bit too close to him.
Haruka froze there, unable to look away, as the girl leaned over and put her head against Kaito's shoulder.
Kaito didn't move.
He didn't even flinch.
He simply stood there, allowing the girl to lean against him, his eyes vacant and a million miles away.
Something cold and piercing gnawed at Haruka's chest.
She lowered her eyes straight away, her focus on the scuffed toes of her shoes, refusing to cry.
Not here.
Not now.
Of course Kaito wouldn't shove her away.
Of course he would need comfort from someone who had always been a constant in his life.
What was she expecting?
Haruka pressed down on the inside of her cheek, the sting grounding her.
She reminded herself this wasn't about her own feelings.
Kaito had lost someone irreplaceable.
His world had been irreparably changed.
And she.
She was merely somebody who had smiled at him, once, belonged to his less boisterous moments.
That was all.
As the party guests gradually began to drift toward the little refreshment hall made for them, Haruka took a bit more time lingering near the edge of the cemetery.
She watched Kaito at arm's length—the way his mother leaned briefly on him for support, the way he escorted her slowly along the path, one arm strong and protective.
The girl stayed close, watching vigilantly.
Haruka pressed a hand to her chest, sensing the slow, aching pulse of her heart.
She wished she could cry out to him.
To tell him she was there.
That she had missed him each and every day.
But as Kaito passed by, escorting his mother towards the hallway, he did not glance her way.
His eyes were set straight ahead, blind.
Haruka looked down, stepping back into the shadows of a weeping willow.
It was for the best, she told herself.
He had heavier burdens to carry now.
However, as she stood there—and alone among the shifting gray—she felt some part of her shatter gently.
Like fractured ice shattering with every step.
She brushed at tears hurriedly with the back of her hand before she could be noticed.
Then she turned, quietly, cautiously stepping down the slope, away from Kaito and the gravestones still.