— — START — —
The knock came just after sunset.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't urgent. It was the kind of knock that hesitated between each rap, as if the person on the other side were unsure whether they should be there at all.
Oboro's mother paused mid-step in the kitchen, one hand resting on the counter. The kettle had already begun to whistle, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling, but the sound felt distant—muted beneath the sudden weight pressing against her chest.
She didn't know why, but she already knew.
When she opened the door, two figures stood beneath the eaves, rainwater dripping steadily from their coats. One wore a pressed uniform, cap held respectfully against his chest. The other stood slightly behind him, hands clasped, eyes lowered.
They did not smile.
They did not meet her gaze at first.
And they did not need to say his name.
"I'm sorry to trouble you this late," the uniformed man said carefully. "Are you… Mrs. Shirakumo?"
Her fingers tightened around the doorframe.
"Yes," she answered. Her voice sounded wrong to her own ears—too steady. Too calm.
"We're here regarding an incident earlier today," he continued. "Your son… was involved."
The kettle screamed.
She didn't remember turning it off. She didn't remember stepping aside to let them in. She only remembered the feeling of her knees brushing the edge of the sofa as she sat down, the world narrowing until there was only the sound of rain tapping against the windows and the man's voice, measured and unyielding.
"There was a Villain attack in the district where your son was undergoing work-study," he said. "Several Pro Heroes and trainees were injured."
She waited.
Her husband stood beside her now. She hadn't heard him enter the room either. His hand hovered near hers, not quite touching.
"…Your son was caught beneath falling debris during the engagement," the man went on. "Rescue efforts were immediate, but the damage was… extensive."
Extensive.
Such a small word.
"So much so," the second man added quietly, "that identifying the body was… difficult."
The room tilted.
Her husband inhaled sharply, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and pain. "You're saying—"
"We're saying," the uniformed man interrupted gently, "that your son did not survive."
Silence followed.
Not the kind that crashes down all at once—but the kind that stretches, thin and fragile, threatening to snap at the slightest movement.
"…No," Oboro's mother said.
The word left her lips without thought.
"No," she repeated, louder this time. "You must be mistaken. My son—he's strong. He's careful. He—he hates the rain, for heaven's sake. He wouldn't—"
She stopped, her hand raising towards her mouth.
Because the men were shaking their heads, and the rain outside was getting heavier.
And somewhere down the hall, a small voice giggled.
"Ka-ka-rot!"
Sorashi came running into the living room, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, clutching a toy figure in one hand and a bent yellow cloud in the other. His hair bounced with each step, already starting to lose its shape, fluffing slightly as it always did when he got excited.
"Papa! Mama!" he chirped. "Kakarot winned! He bonked Monkey king!"
He froze when he noticed the strangers.
Big, curious eyes flicked between their faces, then back to his parents.
The room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too heavy.
"Who ar dey?" he asked, tugging lightly at his mother's sleeve.
She looked down at him.
And something inside her broke.
She dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms, pressing her face into his hair so he wouldn't see the way her expression crumpled.
Sorashi squirmed, confused. "Mama?"
The men stood.
"We'll give you time," the uniformed man said softly. "Arrangements will need to be discussed… but not tonight."
They bowed. Deeply. Respectfully.
And then they were gone.
The door closed.
The house felt emptier for it.
That night passed in fragments.
Sorashi fell asleep curled between his parents, his small fingers still wrapped around the yellow cloud toy.
Oboro's mother stared at the ceiling, counting each crack, each shadow, each second that passed without meaning.
Her husband did not sleep at all. He couldn't, even if he tried.
By morning, the rain had not stopped. It only became softer.
Sorashi woke first.
He sat up slowly, blinking blearily as he took in his surroundings. Mama was still there. Papa too.
But something was missing.
He frowned.
"…Obo?"
No answer.
He crawled out of bed and stepped down the hallway, peeking into rooms he knew well. The bathroom. The spare room. The living room.
"Obo?" he called again, louder now.
His parents followed.
"Where is Obo?" Sorashi asked, looking up at them. "Is he hiding? I don't wunt to pley hide and seek right nowh..."
His mother knelt beside him, hands trembling as she smoothed his hair back. It was softer today. Lighter.
"Your brother…" she began, then stopped.
After all, how do you explain death to someone who has barely learned what tomorrow means?
"He's very tired," she said instead. "So he's sleeping."
Sorashi considered this.
"Oh." He nodded solemnly. "Did he train very hard?"
"Yes," his father said quietly from the dining table, fighting back his emotions. "Something like that."
Sorashi seemed satisfied—for a moment.
Then his brows furrowed.
"When is he awayk?"
The question hung in the air.
His mother swallowed.
"He… won't," she said gently. "He's going to be asleep for a very long time."
"How long?" Sorashi pressed.
She hesitated.
"…For a long time."
Sorashi tilted his head.
"Long time?" he echoed, tasting the word. "Like… long-long?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He looked down at the toy in his hands.
"Then when he's awayk, I'll show him," Sorashi said seriously. "Kakarot flied now. He is amazin'. Just like Obo!"
Her breath hitched.
"Yes," she said, pulling him close again. "He would love to see that."
Days passed. In which the house filled with quiet rituals—black clothing, murmured condolences, unopened doors.
Then weeks.
Sorashi noticed that his parents smiled less. That Mama cried when she thought he wasn't looking. That Papa stood by the window during storms with his jaw clenched tight.
He noticed that Oboro's room stayed closed.
Sometimes, Sorashi pressed his ear to the door.
"Obo?" he whispered once. "You wakey now?"
But... silence.
No answer ever came.
None ever will for a very long time.
— — END — —