For a moment, time stopped.
Jousuke stood frozen at the doorway, his breath shallow, eyes wide in disbelief.
The faint hum of the city outside felt distant—muffled by the ringing in his ears.
The world around him blurred, but one thing remained sharp, painfully clear.
On the floor, beside his bed, lay a familiar figure.
Face pale, eyes closed, body unnaturally still.
"...Grandpa?"
His voice cracked as the word left his throa.
He stumbled forward, knees hitting the floor as he reached out.
"Hey—Grandpa!"
No response.
Just the stillness of a body that once carried laughter, scoldings, and stories from old summers.
Jousuke's shaking hands hovered above the man's chest—no movement. No warmth.
"Grandpa, wake up... please—wake up!"
He shook him again, desperate, heart pounding against his ribs.
The chocolates scattered on the floor, Kaede's letter lying open beside them.
"No..."
His voice was small, breaking.
He pressed his palm against his grandfather's cold hand.
"You were just here last week..."
Then his mind snapped back—his phone.
His trembling fingers fumbled to call emergency services.
The minutes that followed blurred together—sirens, neighbors peeking through the doorway, paramedics rushing inside, and his mother's horrified scream echoing down the hallway.
The house that once held warmth was now filled with the sterile scent of latex gloves and murmured orders.
"...Heart failure." one of the paramedics muttered to the police officer.
"He must've collapsed not long before he came home. He was holding his medicine pouch."
Jousuke stood silent in the corner, the words slipping through him like air.
His mother clung to the officer, voice trembling. "He—he said he was coming to visit, I didn't think—"
Behind them, Jousuke's sister, Miri, was crying uncontrollably.
But through her sobs, anger began to leak out.
"This is your fault!" she shouted suddenly, glaring at him through tears. "You were supposed to call him when he left the clinic! You promised—"
"I—" Jousuke's throat closed. "I forgot... I didn't know he—"
"Stop!" their mother snapped, her voice sharp with grief. "Not now, Miri!"
But Miri pushed past her, face red and wet. "You always forget! You're never home! You don't care about this family!"
Her words hit harder than she meant them to.
Jousuke stood still, the guilt gnawing at his chest like fire.
He looked down at his hands—the same hands that had just opened Kaede's letter.
Her words about warmth, about kindness…
And now, this.
His mother turned away, covering her face, shoulders trembling.
The police continued their quiet questioning, asking about medication, timing, how long the body might've been there.
Jousuke barely heard any of it.
He just stared at the floor, at the small box of chocolates still half-open, Kaede's handwriting visible through the fold.
Her words:
> "If you ever feel tired, or lost, or unsure of yourself, remember that someone out there sees you clearly—me."
He swallowed hard, his vision blurring.
Outside, the sunset had fully vanished. The house was drowned in the kind of silence that no one could fix.
The kind that lingers even after everyone leaves.
Later that night, when the police and medics were gone, and the house finally quieted, Jousuke sat alone in his room.
The air was heavy, the scent of alcohol swabs still faintly there.
He looked at the spot where his grandfather had been lying just hours ago.
He traced the wooden floor with his fingers, whispering under his breath.
"...I'm sorry, Grandpa."
The words felt too small. Too late.
His phone buzzed again.
A message.
Kaede:
> "Hey… sorry if my call earlier was weird. Did you like the chocolates?"
He stared at the message for a long time.
Then he typed slowly.
Jousuke:
> "Yeah. I really did. They mean a lot."
He didn't press send.
Instead, he set the phone down beside the box, wiped his eyes, and leaned back.
The clock ticked softly.
And in that quiet, grief slowly settled in—the kind that doesn't shout, but stays.
Tomorrow would bring questions.
Explanations.
And maybe... regrets he wasn't ready to face.
But for tonight, under the faint hum of the streetlight outside, Jousuke just sat there—
Holding the letter.
And remembering the warmth that had already slipped away.