Chapter 13: After the Rain, the Light
The gentle hum of the washing machine spun in the background, its rhythm oddly soothing as Takumi leaned against the doorway, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The evening light filtered in through the thin veil of mist lingering over the rooftops, bathing the room in a golden hue.
He had been quiet since they returned from the cemetery where out of . Saeko hadn't pressed him with words, but she'd stayed close—present, attentive, and silent in the way only those who understood deep grief could be.
Saeko was now seated on the couch, knitting something in her lap. A calm expression rested on her face, though her eyes would occasionally flicker toward him.
The quiet was thick, but not oppressive—it was a silence that allowed space to breathe, to think, and to feel without judgment.
"I haven't visited her grave in years," Takumi finally said, his voice soft, nearly carried away by the rustle of wind against the windowpane.
Saeko looked up but didn't speak. Instead, she set the knitting aside and patted the seat beside her.
Without a word, Takumi walked over and sat next to her. There was a warmth radiating from her body, comforting and grounding.
"I was scared," he admitted. "I thought… if I saw her name on that stone, it would become real again. Like the years I spent trying to forget would come crashing back."
Saeko reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. "Forgetting isn't healing, Takumi. And guilt isn't the same as remembrance."
He looked at her, her silver hair slightly tousled, her red eyes reflecting the mellow light. In that moment, her presence was an anchor. A kind of gentle constancy he never had in his life.
"Did it ever get easier for you?" he asked.
Saeko was quiet for a long moment. "Some things get easier. Some things don't. I still remember the sound of his laughter."
"The way he left his shoes just a little off-center by the door. Even after he left, even after the divorce, I couldn't bring myself to move them for a while."
"You loved him?"
"I did," she replied, her voice calm. "But love isn't always enough. Sometimes, people walk in different directions and forget how to return to the same road."
Takumi nodded slowly. He leaned back against the couch and let the quiet stretch again. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, his head tilted toward her shoulder. Saeko didn't move. She let him rest against her.
"I thought about disappearing once," he murmured. "Completely. Just… leaving everything behind."
Her hand tightened slightly around his.
"But then you knocked on my door with a plate of food and a smile I didn't know I needed."
Saeko smiled gently. "I'm glad you opened the door."
...
The next morning came with an unusual clarity. The rain had swept the skies clean, and sunlight poured through Takumi's window like a soft promise.
He stood by the balcony, sipping coffee from a mug Saeko had left for him before heading to her shift. She had written a small note and stuck it to the side:
"Warm up the croquettes. Don't skip breakfast again."
He smiled faintly. It was such a small gesture, but it grounded him in a way that no antidepressant or therapist ever had.
For the first time in months, he picked up his phone and opened the university portal. His heart raced a little, and he nearly closed it again.
But no. He owed it to himself—to his sister, maybe even to Saeko—to try. He scanned the course list and noticed his advisor had left a note for him.
"Hayasaka, please come to my office if you're still interested in continuing your thesis. The window is closing, but I'd be happy to help you catch up."
He stared at the screen for several minutes. Then he got dressed, combed his hair, and left the apartment.
...
The campus was in full bloom, cherry blossoms dusting the walkways like shy confetti. Students moved in clusters, laughing, chatting, living.
Takumi moved among them quietly, feeling like a ghost at first. But each step, each breath in that familiar air, brought a little more color back to his world.
He met with his advisor, a stern but fair man named Professor Kanda. They spoke for over an hour, poring through what Takumi had left unfinished, what deadlines could still be met. The professor didn't offer pity. Only structure—and strangely, that was more reassuring.
"You're not the only one who's stumbled," Kanda said as they finished. "But the ones who stand up again—that's what matters. You'll be surprised how many people are rooting for you, even if you don't see them."
As Takumi left the office, his phone buzzed. A message from Saeko.
"Picked up something for dinner. Let me know if you're back before eight. I'll wait."
He stared at it for a long time before replying: "I'll be there. Thank you."
...
That evening, he walked into the hallway outside their apartments with a paper bag of his own—small flowers he picked up near campus. They weren't extravagant, but they were fresh, and he hoped she'd understand the gesture.
As he knocked on her door, it opened almost immediately. Saeko stood there, apron still on, her face lighting up at the sight of him.
"I brought something," he said, holding up the bag.
She blinked, then reached out to take it. When she saw the flowers, her eyes softened.
"They're lovely," she said, stepping aside to let him in.
Dinner was warm and lively. They talked about his visit to the university, the students she had to deal with at the library, and an old memory Saeko shared about her first failed attempt at making croquettes.
"I added sugar instead of salt," she laughed. "It tasted like a dessert made by a confused child."
Takumi laughed too, a real, full laugh that shook his shoulders.
"Next time I mess up my thesis, I'll just say I added sugar instead of logic."
After the plates were cleared, they sat on the sofa again. Not leaning into each other this time, but with a closeness that didn't need physical touch to feel intimate.
Saeko glanced at him, then at the small photo of her son on the shelf across the room. "You know, it's strange. I never thought I'd feel like this again."
"Like what?"
"Hopeful," she replied simply. "Like there's still something soft and real waiting beyond the exhaustion."
He didn't answer with words. He simply reached out and placed his hand gently over hers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly, Saeko whispered, "I'm glad you stayed."
Takumi looked into her eyes, and in that gaze, he saw something he had never dared hope for—belonging.
Outside, the wind had settled. The world was still, and in that stillness, something fragile and beautiful had begun to bloom.