Ren Ichikawa lived a simple life.
His life was comforting. He wasn't a genius, but he wasn't clueless either. His test scores sat quietly in the middle of the stack. His teachers barely remembered his name unless they looked at the roster. He had a few friends, played games after school, occasionally stayed up too late watching anime, and dragged himself through class the next day.
He was normal.
And Ren was okay with that.
He didn't need to shine. He didn't crave attention. As long as he could come home to the sound of his little brother laughing, the smell of his mom's weekend cooking, and his dad's tired but warm smile, he felt complete.
His parents worked in another city during the weekdays. They left early Monday mornings and came back Friday nights. It had been that way for years. Some might think a household like that would feel cold or lonely, but Ren didn't see it that way. Their time together felt more valuable because of the distance. His mom always said, "Being apart makes the weekend feel like a holiday."
And it did.
The best part of that holiday? Haru.
Ren's younger brother was nine. Small for his age, with a big voice and bigger questions. He had this boundless curiosity that didn't care about time or place.
"Ren! Do you think cats understand Japanese?"
"Ren, if you turn into a zombie, would you still be my brother?"
"Ren! Look! My robot can poop out Legos!"
It was impossible to ignore him, even if Ren tried.
They did everything together. Played video games. Built messy pillow forts. Studied—well, tried to. Haru mostly just made silly faces during math problems until Ren gave up and did it for him. At night, even though Haru had his own bed, he often crawled into Ren's without asking. He said he didn't like sleeping alone. Ren never complained.
Sometimes, they'd lie there in the dark and talk about nonsense until Haru's words slurred into sleep.
Those were Ren's favorite moments. At night, with his brother softly breathing in the bed beside him, the world hardly seemed so heavy. Even when school seemed absurd or emptiness crept in during the weekdays, he always had something to anticipate.
It wasn't a perfect life.
But it was enough.
The last time Ren saw them, it was raining.
He had a slight fever that morning. His mom instructed him to come home and rest and she and his father went to Haru's school for a parent-teacher conference. Haru complained, resentful that Ren could not accompany them, but Ren waved goodbye from the second-story window, cradling a cup of hot tea in his hand.
"Tell your teacher I deserve a medal for being the best big brother!" he joked.
Haru stuck his tongue out at him and ran to the car.
Ren watched their car drive off down the wet street, then turned away.
He never saw them again.
The accident happened just an hour later.
A delivery truck ran a red light at an intersection. The impact was instant. The car was crushed. There was no time to call. No time to say goodbye.
Three lives were gone.
Just like that.
Ren didn't cry at the funeral.
He didn't speak.
He just stood there in a black suit that didn't quite fit, staring at the framed photos beside the altar. His mother's gentle smile. His father's kind eyes. Haru's goofy grin, teeth missing.
Strangers kept talking to him. Relatives. Neighbors. Teachers.
"I'm so sorry."
"They were such good people."
"You're strong to endure this."
He wanted to scream.
He wanted them all to leave.
But he said nothing. Because there were no words. Not anymore.
The house became quiet. Too quiet.
The quiet wasn't quiet—it was oppressive.
Their shoes were still by the door. His mom's apron hung in the kitchen. Haru's favorite robot toy sat on the living room floor where he last dropped it. Ren couldn't touch any of it. He couldn't throw anything away.
At first, friends tried to visit. He didn't answer the door.
They sent messages. He didn't reply.
Days turned to weeks. The fridge was emptied. Dust settled on the dining table. Ren stopped going to school. He stopped caring about time.
He simply sat, confined in a house with memories, waiting for the possibility that if he didn't get up, perhaps something hadn't happened.
But everything had.
Late one night, Ren lay in bed alone.
Haru's pillow was still next to his.
I miss you," he breathed into the darkness.
But no one answered.
Not even in his dreams.
Ren stopped counting days.
He lived in silence, surrounded by memories that hurt to touch.
Haru's room became his only refuge, filled with ghosts of laughter.
He didn't eat much. Didn't sleep much. Didn't care.
One rainy afternoon, he finally stepped outside—just for air.
A car's horn, a flash of light—and then, darkness.