The moment Itsuki got off the train, he ran.
His legs carried him forward as fast as they could, his breath breaking into short, uneven gasps. The world around him blurred — the station, the street lamps, the faint figures of people wrapped in coats, all melting together into one frantic rush of motion.
He didn't care about the cold biting through his clothes. He didn't care about the ache crawling up his legs or the burning in his lungs. All that mattered — all that echoed through his mind — was one question that refused to stop screaming inside him.
"Am I too late?'
The streets were strangely calm, covered in a thin sheen of white. Snowflakes drifted down softly from the gray sky, brushing against his face as he ran. There wasn't much snow on the roads yet — just faint patches of white gathered by the corners of the pavements and the edges of rooftops, as though winter itself had only just arrived.
His shoes splashed through the shallow puddles left by melting snow, his heartbeat hammering louder with each step.
And then, through the blur of white and gray, he saw it.
His house.
The familiar structure stood just ahead, half-shrouded by the mist of the falling snow. His mind raced, his thoughts colliding and unraveling
"It's fine. I'll open the door, and she'll be there, cooking, humming, asking me how my day was. She'll be alive.'
He clung to that hope as tightly as he could, because it was the only thing holding him together.
By the time he reached the front door, his lungs were screaming for air. He doubled over, clutching his knees, exhaling clouds of white mist that curled into the cold air. His legs trembled violently beneath him — they'd carried him all the way from the station without pause, and now they were close to giving out completely.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He reached for the handle with shaking fingers. The metal was ice-cold against his skin as he twisted it gently
Click.
The latch gave way easily.
"It's open…'
For a second, the smallest flicker of hope sparked inside his chest.
He pushed the door open completely. Warmth spilled out instantly, and with it, a familiar scent followed.
The aroma of cooking.
He knew that smell anywhere — the faint sweetness of soy and miso, a little burnt at the edges just like it always was when she got distracted. She was home. It was everything he thought he'd lost.
"She's here.'
He stepped inside slowly, his shoes leaving wet prints on the wooden floor. The soft sound of a simmering pot drifted from the kitchen. His heart thudded faster.
The air was warm, peaceful.
"Please…" he whispered under his breath.
He took another step. Then another.
From where he stood, he could see the kitchen counter — and behind it, a figure.
A woman.
Her back was turned, her hand gently stirring the pot on the stove.
Itsuki felt like he had stopped breathing.
"She's fine…" he whispered, a trembling smile pulling at his lips. His eyes stung as the tears rose, but he forced them back. "She's really fine…"
He took a step forward, and then she turned around.
The smile froze on his face.
The woman who faced him wasn't his mother.
Her hair was long and brown, tied loosely at the side. Her eyes were the same shade — soft brown, gentle and curious — and her skin was pale, fairer than his mother's ever was.
For a heartbeat, Itsuki just stared. His brain refused to process what he was seeing.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, frowning slightly as her eyes flicked over his school uniform.
-Badum.-
His heartbeat spiked.
"Huh…? Who's this lady?'
The woman blinked, then her expression softened with a trace of realization.
"Oh… you must be the son," she said, her tone hesitant. "You fit the description."
-Badum.-
Itsuki's lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Where's she?" he managed to whisper, his voice trembling.
The woman's eyes flickered briefly showing a glimpse of sympathy in them.
"You're finally back, huh?" she said softly. "We went to the school a couple of times to look for you, but… every time, we heard you were either absent or had already left."
-Badum.-
"What's going on…?'
"I'm really sorry about your loss."
-Badum.-
"Loss…?' the thought echoed faintly. "Sorry about my loss…?'
The woman hesitated, her eyes darting away.
"Your mother already put the house on sale and gave permission before it happened, so I—"
Itsuki's mind went blank.
"Before it… happened?'
"We figured you probably took some time away after it happened," she continued gently, unaware of the way his hands were starting to shake. "So all of your and her things were moved to a storage unit until you—"
The words blurred.
The woman's voice faded into a distant hum, drowned by the pounding of his heartbeat.
-Badum. Badum. Badum.-
Itsuki's body felt weightless — or maybe heavy. He couldn't tell anymore. His chest hurt. His throat was dry. The room tilted slightly, the edges of his vision dimming as the words replayed over and over in his head.
""I'm really sorry for your lose.""
"Am I… actually too late?'
The realization sank in like ice.
The vision that had haunted him, it had come true. Every detail he'd seen, every sensation he'd felt, every version of her death that replayed endlessly in his mind… one of them had happened.
And this time, there was no snapping back.
"She's actually…'
He turned slowly as he walked toward the door.
-Badum.-
"…gone?"
His voice cracked.
The woman called out to him, but he didn't hear her.
He walked out the same way he'd come in, the cold air hitting his face as he stepped outside. The snow had started to fall again — heavier now, covering the ground in thin layers of white.
He stopped on the porch, staring blankly at the flakes landing on his palm, melting instantly against the warmth of his skin.
"She's actually gone…" he whispered again, his voice breaking this time.
He didn't cry — it felt like he couldn't. There was only silence inside him, heavy and endless.
The wind howled faintly down the street. The world stood still.
Somewhere above, the snow kept falling — just like in the vision.
And as the quiet blanketed everything around him, Itsuki finally faced the cruel reality that his vision had tried to warn him of.