The sound of cicadas carried through the morning, steady and endless.When I opened my eyes, sunlight was spilling through the thin paper curtains, painting soft lines across the tatami floor. For a moment, I forgot where I was... then I smelled it. The faint scent of miso and grilled fish—and it all came back.
Grandma Yoshie's house.
I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The fan was still turning lazily in the corner, making the air feel thick and warm. Outside, I could hear the soft creak of the porch and the distant rustle of wind chimes. She was already awake, of course.
I stepped out of my room and found her sitting outside, a cup of tea in hand, watching the hydrangeas sway in the morning light. A thin blanket rested over her lap, even though it was already getting hot.
"You were always the last one to wake up when you were little," she said, smiling without turning around. I laughed quietly, scratching the back of my neck. "Guess some things never change."
She looked at me then, her eyes gentle but sharp in the way only grandmothers' eyes can be. "Breakfast is ready. Don't let it get cold."
I joined her at the table. The meal was simple—rice, miso soup, and some pickled vegetables. But somehow it felt better than anything I'd eaten in weeks. Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe it was just the warmth of being home again.
After breakfast, Grandma stood to rinse the dishes. I noticed the way she paused halfway, resting her hand against the table for balance. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but it lingered in my head.
"Let me do that," I said quickly, standing up.She chuckled. "Oh, don't fuss over me. I'm not that fragile."Still, she didn't argue when I took the dishes from her hands.
The morning passed slowly after that. I swept the porch, organized my clothes, and helped her water the plants by the edge of the yard. The hydrangeas were still wilting, their petals soft and pale like washed-out memories.
When she stepped outside, I noticed the faint tremble in her hand as she reached for the watering can. Her breathing sounded… uneven, like the air was heavier for her than it was for me.
"Grandma?"
She smiled and waved me off. "Just a little tired. The morning air's thicker these days."
I didn't know what she meant by that, but I nodded anyway.
Ami came by just before noon. She wore a light summer dress, the color of early dawn, and carried a paper bag filled with groceries. When she saw me, she smiled like she'd been expecting me all along.
"Good morning," she said, setting the bag on the counter. "I brought some tofu and fruit. Your grandma forgot to buy them yesterday."Grandma Yoshie chuckled from the table. "I didn't forget. I just didn't want to carry too much."Ami laughed softly. "You always say that."
The two of them talked easily, like family. I found myself watching them without realizing it—the way Ami moved around the kitchen with quiet familiarity, how she poured tea for Grandma before even making her own. It felt… practiced. Comfortable.
"So you really do come here often." I asked, breaking the silence.She nodded. "Yep, almost every day after school. I help her with errands sometimes.""Ah," I said, unsure what else to say.
For some reason, it felt strange hearing that—a little embarrassing, even. Like I'd been absent from someone's life so long that someone else had quietly taken my place.
The afternoon sun was merciless. The heat clung to the air, thick and unmoving.I helped Grandma water the garden again while Ami folded laundry under the shade.Every so often, Grandma would pause, leaning against the wooden railing. Her breath grew shallow, her shoulders rising and falling too quickly.
"Grandma, you should rest," I said, frowning.She shook her head with a tired smile. "If I stop moving, I'll turn into part of the furniture."
Before I could argue, she suddenly coughed—sharp, dry, and deep. It sounded wrong, like something breaking from inside.The watering can slipped from her hand, spilling water onto the dirt.
"Grandma!" I rushed forward, catching her by the shoulders. Her face was pale, her lips trembling as she tried to catch her breath.
"It's okay," she whispered between coughs. "It happens sometimes."Ami was already beside me, calm but worried. She rubbed Grandma's back, guiding her inside the house. I followed, still shaken.
We helped her sit down on the sofa. She reached for the small oxygen inhaler resting on the table beside her, something I hadn't noticed before.She took a few deep breaths, then smiled faintly as the color returned to her cheeks.
"See? Nothing to worry about," she said.But I could see Ami's face... how her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
After Grandma went to rest, Ami and I sat quietly by the porch. The cicadas had grown louder, their cries blending with the hum of the summer heat.Neither of us spoke for a while.
"What was that?" I finally asked. "That wasn't just a normal cough."Ami hesitated. Her eyes drifted toward the sliding door where Grandma had gone inside. When she spoke, her voice was low."She has something called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis," she said. "It's a lung disease… it makes it harder for her to breathe. Little by little."
The words settled in slowly, like dust in still air."How long has she—""For a few years now," Ami said softly. "She doesn't talk about it much. I think she didn't want to worry your mom. Or you."
I didn't say anything. My hands clenched slightly, nails pressing against my palm. I hated that no one had told me. Hated that I had to find out like this.
"She's been doing her best," Ami continued. "But it's getting harder lately. She doesn't complain, though. She never does."
I looked at her then. She wasn't crying, but there was something in her eyes—something quiet, almost resigned.
"You knew all this time," I said.
Ami nodded. "Yeah. She's important to me too."
That last part hit me harder than I expected. The way she said it wasn't dramatic. It was gentle and honest, like she really meant it.
The day moved on in silence. Grandma stayed in her room most of the afternoon, resting. I sat outside for a long time, watching the sky turn from blue to gold.Every once in a while, Ami would come by, bringing tea or checking if I needed anything. She always smiled when she spoke, but her eyes had the same heaviness as the air.
By the time the sun began to set, Grandma came out again.She looked tired, but she smiled when she saw us sitting together."Ah, you two look like siblings," she said, laughing softly.I smiled back, though my chest tightened a little."Feeling better?" I asked."Much. Just need to take it easy sometimes."
Dinner was quieter than the night before. Grandma moved slower, but her hands were still steady as she served the rice.Ami helped, chatting about the little things. The weather, the hydrangeas, the sound of frogs at night. Small talk, but somehow comforting.
At one point, Grandma looked between us and said, "You know, Ami always brings me those little orange candies you used to love when you were young."I blinked. "She does?"Ami smiled. "She told me the story so many times I just started buying them."Grandma laughed. "He used to sneak them before dinner. Thought I didn't notice."I smiled faintly, feeling warmth creep into my chest. "Guess I wasn't as sneaky as I thought."
After dinner, Ami helped clean up while I carried things to the sink."Your grandma really lights up when you're here," she said.I shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I think she just likes having company.""She missed you," Ami said simply.
That silence again. Not awkward... just quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.When we stepped outside, the sky was a dark indigo, the air thick with the scent of grass and earth after a long, hot day.
"I should get going," Ami said.I nodded. "Thanks… for helping today."She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're welcome. I'll come by again tomorrow. Maybe I'll teach you how to cook something for her.""I can cook," I said quickly.She laughed. "We'll see about that."
As she walked down the path lined with hydrangeas, I caught myself watching her until she disappeared around the corner. The cicadas had quieted, replaced by the soft chirping of crickets.
Inside, Grandma was humming to herself again—a faint, nostalgic tune.
Later that night, I found her sitting by the open window, looking up at the sky.The moonlight spilled across her face, soft and pale.
"Can't sleep?" I asked.She shook her head. "Just thinking. The stars are clearer here than in the city, don't you think?""Yeah," I said quietly. "They are."
After a moment, she said, "I'm glad you came, Kenji. I know it wasn't your idea, but… it means a lot to have someone around."I looked at her profile. The wrinkles, the thinness of her frame, the way her shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
"I'll take care of things," I said quietly. "You don't have to worry."She smiled, eyes still on the sky. "That's sweet. But don't carry too much, alright? Life's meant to be lived lightly."
I didn't respond. There was too much I wanted to say but couldn't.
When she finally went to bed, I sat there a while longer, staring at the dark sky. The air felt heavier somehow thick and unmoving but I didn't mind because for the first time, I understood what it meant when Grandma said the morning air was "thicker these days."
It wasn't the air that had changed. It was the weight of time, quietly pressing against everything we love.
The wind chime swayed gently above the porch, and for a fleeting moment, I wished the night would never end.