The dog bowl had been empty for three days.
Akira Orimoto noticed it every time he walked past the kitchen. He just never picked it up. It sat beside the refrigerator like a quiet accusation clean, polished, reflecting the ceiling light in a warped circle. The house was too quiet for a place that had once held laughter, arguments, and footsteps that belonged to someone other than him.
He came home late again.
Not because he had somewhere to be. Not because anyone was waiting. It was just easier to be anywhere else until his body couldn't keep moving. The kind of exhaustion that didn't heal with sleep. The kind that crawled into your bones and made everything feel heavy and distant.
His shoes stayed on. His tie stayed loosened but still hanging. His work shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat from the summer heat that still lingered at the edges of winter.
The only sound in the living room was breathing. Slow. Uneven.
He walked toward the couch. The golden retriever lifted his head weakly when Akira sat down on the floor beside him. Cloudy eyes blinked once, twice. A tail thumped faintly, as if the motion cost more than the dog wanted to admit.
"Hey," Akira said softly.
The dog's tail tapped again, then stopped.
Akira reached out and ran his hand through fur that had thinned over the years. He could feel the bones more clearly now. The dog had always been sturdy. A big warm presence that filled space and made a house feel alive.
Now he was shrinking.
"You're supposed to pretend you're immortal," Akira muttered. "That's your job. You're the one who sticks around."
The dog coughed a dry, scraping sound.
Akira's hand froze. "...Don't."
The cough became a wheeze. The dog shifted as if to stand, then his legs trembled and gave out. He tried again. Failed again. His head lowered, and for the first time, Akira saw something in his dog's face that broke him more than the cough.
Acceptance.
Akira was already moving. "Okay. Okay, I've got you."
He scooped the dog up with both arms. The weight was familiar, but the lack of resistance wasn't. The dog didn't even whine. He just looked at Akira as if to say, It's fine. You don't have to pretend.
Akira's throat tightened. "Don't do that," he whispered. "Don't look at me like that."
The dog blinked slowly.
Akira carried him out to the car. He didn't look back at the living room. If he did, he knew he'd see her.
He always did.
Aira had been in his life for as long as he could remember.
That was the simplest way to describe it, even though it didn't make any sense. She wasn't someone he had met. She wasn't someone he could introduce. She didn't have a birthday or a hometown or a place in his phone contacts. She was simply... there. Always slightly behind him, always at the edge of his vision, like a shadow that didn't match the light.
Long blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. A face that looked too gentle to belong to something his mind had invented.
She never spoke. Not once.
When he was younger, he'd thought she might be an imaginary friend. When he got older, he started calling her what she probably was: a symptom. A hallucination formed out of loneliness and stress. A coping mechanism made human.
Some days he didn't notice her. Some days she was impossible to ignore. On the worst days, he found himself talking to the empty space beside him, and he hated himself for it.
He had never told anyone. How do you tell a person you've been haunted for most of your life by a silent girl only you can see?
The veterinary clinic smelled like disinfectant and regret.
Akira sat on the floor of the exam room because the chair felt too far away. He kept one hand on the dog's head as the vet listened to his chest with a stethoscope.
"It's progressed," she said gently. "His heart is failing."
Akira nodded once. He didn't trust his voice.
"We can try medication," she continued, "but it won't reverse anything. It will only buy time, and it may not be comfortable time."
"How long?" Akira asked, the words rough.
"A few days. A week at most."
The dog rested his head against Akira's knee. Everyone leaves. The thought came without drama. It simply existed, like gravity.
Akira swallowed. "...Okay."
When the syringe was ready, Akira pressed his forehead to the dog's.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't—"
The dog's breathing slowed. Then stopped.
The room went silent in a way that felt too clean.
Akira stayed there long after the vet stepped out. Eventually, he stood. His legs felt numb. He carried the collar in his pocket like a piece of a life he'd failed to protect.
As he opened the exam room door, he caught it just briefly in the reflection of the glass.
Aira stood behind him in the hallway. Hands folded. Watching. As if she had attended the funeral too.
Two days later, Akira sat across from his manager in a conference room that smelled like cheap coffee and forced politeness.
"Akira," Tanaka began, "we need to talk about your performance."
Akira stared at the notepad on the table. It was blank.
Late. Distracted. Mistakes. Useless.
Tanaka sighed. "We can't terminate you immediately. Employment law requires a rehabilitation process. So... HR is assigning you mandatory therapy."
Akira looked up slightly. "Therapy."
"Yes," Tanaka said. "Stress rehabilitation. Counseling. Whatever they call it."
Akira looked down again. He didn't know how to take life seriously when life didn't take him seriously.
As he left the room, he felt it again the sense of someone walking behind him, matching his pace. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
The therapist's office was warmer than necessary. Soft lighting. Bookshelves arranged too neatly.
A scent hung in the air not just floral, but heavier. Like damp earth and rain soaked flowers. Petrichor. It made the room feel ancient despite the modern furniture.
Dr. Arisu Erisawa sat across from him, hands folded. She looked younger than he expected.
She waited until he spoke first.
"This is stupid," he said finally.
Dr. Erisawa didn't react. "Why?"
"Because my job doesn't care about me," Akira said. "They just want paperwork done before they throw me out."
"Even if that's true," she replied calmly, "you are still here. So we may as well use it."
Akira exhaled sharply. He talked.
At first it came out in controlled pieces. Then it spilled.
He told her about his parents dying when he was in high school. The incident was officially labeled a tragic accident. The government statements.
And yet the city had named it anyway. Red New Years.
Because the fireworks had still been launched on schedule while smoke rose in the distance.
He told her about his marriage. About the pattern of him apologizing and meaning it and then failing anyway. He did not blame his wife for leaving. That was the worst part. He understood why she did.
And then, because the dam had already broken, he said the thing he had never said out loud.
"...I think I'm hallucinating," Akira confessed.
Dr. Erisawa didn't flinch. "Tell me."
"There's a girl," he said. "She's always there. Behind me. Like... Like she's listening."
The silence in the room tightened. Dr. Erisawa's gaze shifted slightly, not to the chair beside him or the bookshelf just behind his shoulder.
Akira's pulse spiked. He followed her eyes instinctively.
Aira stood there, as she always did. Long blonde hair. Blue eyes. Hands folded. Silent.
"I know she's not real," he added, too fast.
Dr. Erisawa's tone remained gentle. "What is her name?"
Akira hesitated. "I started calling her Aira. I don't know why. It just felt right."
Dr. Erisawa nodded once. She opened a drawer and placed two capsules on the desk between them.
One red. One blue.
Akira blinked. "...You're joking. You're doing the Matrix."
"I'm doing an exercise," she corrected gently. "If you could go back to the moment where everything began to collapse, would you?"
Akira looked at the red pill. The idea of going back was tempting in the way jumping off a cliff was tempting. But he pictured himself younger, making different mistakes, hurting different people.
He reached out and took the blue capsule.
"I don't want to go back," he said. "I want to fix things now."
Dr. Erisawa's eyes softened slightly. "That is a brave answer."
He swallowed the blue pill dry.
Dr. Erisawa leaned forward. "Then we focus on actions. Ask for help."
Akira swallowed. "I'll try."
"Not try," she replied. "Do."
As he stood to leave, Akira hesitated at the door and glanced back. Aira stood behind the therapist's desk now, still silent.
Dr. Erisawa's gaze flicked toward her again just once. And Akira felt a chill crawl up his spine.
His brother, Keita, agreed to meet at a bar.
"You look like shit," Keita said.
Akira let out a short breath. "Good to see you too."
"I heard about the dog," Keita said.
Akira nodded. "Yeah."
"Why did you call me now?"
Akira hesitated. Then he decided to be honest. "Because I'm tired. I'm tired of waking up and feeling like I already lost. I want to fix things."
Keita stared at him for a long time. Then he sighed.
"Then stop talking," he said. "Act. Go buy the gift. Write the letter. Show up. At least your daughter will know you came."
Akira nodded slowly.
When Keita went to the bathroom, Akira stared into his drink and murmured, "You hear that? Even he thinks I can do it."
He didn't look behind him, but he felt the presence. Aira. Silent. Listening.
The next few days felt... different. Sharper.
Akira went to work and actually focused. His manager noticed.
His daughter's birthday was in three days. He bought a bracelet. He wrote a letter to his wife an apology, not an excuse.
For the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful.
On the day he planned to deliver it, he left work early. He got into his car. He drove with purpose.
He turned into the neighborhood.
And saw smoke.
Black smoke curling into the sky like a bruise. Fire trucks. Police cars. Sirens screaming.
Akira's stomach dropped. He ran toward the line.
"My wife and daughter live here!" he shouted.
The officer held up a hand. "Sir, stay back. Active arson investigation."
"Which house?"
The officer hesitated. "Only one's fully involved."
Akira's eyes followed the gesture. He recognized the direction. The corner. The driveway.
"No," he whispered.
Something pale and unmoving stood in the corner of his vision. Aira.
Akira tore free. He ran.
Smoke swallowed him immediately. He called names that vanished into the roar. He found them in the living room.
He remembers pain searing across his arms. He remembers thinking, I can still fix this.
Then everything went black.
He woke up to white ceilings. Hospital smell.
A police officer stood at the foot of the bed. "We tried," the officer said quietly. "They were already gone when you pulled them out."
Akira stared. Already gone.
He was too late. Again.
He turned his head slightly. There she was. Aira stood near the corner of the room. Not crying. Not moving. Just watching him.
Akira's mouth opened and closed once.
Why didn't you leave when I did everything right?
He returned home later that night. The dog bowl still sat beside the refrigerator.
He tore the room apart. Drawers ripped out. The red capsule rolled out from beneath the broken drawer track.
Akira stared at it.
This is coping. This is pretending.
He picked it up anyway. He looked toward the doorway. Aira stood there.
"Say something," he whispered hoarsely.
Aira didn't.
He swallowed the red capsule. Dry. Bitter.
He sank to the floor. "I was going to fix it," he choked.
The words dissolved into sobs. Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under.
"Akira! Wake up!"
His eyes opened. Sunlight poured through curtains he hadn't seen in fifteen years. The ceiling was wrong. The air smelled clean.
He sat up slowly. His hands were smaller. No bandages. No burns.
The door burst open. His mother stood there, alive.
"Why are you still in bed? You're going to be late for your first day!"
Akira stared at her. "...Mom?"
From the hallway came a bark. Strong. Alive. The dog barreled into his legs.
Akira dropped to his knees and held him. He turned his head instinctively. Expecting Aira.
The corner of the hallway was empty.
His father's voice came from the kitchen.
Then another voice soft, familiar, coming from the front door.
"You're really going to make me wait?"
Akira looked toward the entryway.
There she was.
Aira stood there in a school uniform, bag over one shoulder.
Real. Not behind him. Not blurred. Real.
He pinched his own arm. Pain flared.
This wasn't a dream. A second chance.
Akira stood up and walked over to his calendar hanging over his desk. Picked up a pen. Circled every date he could remember where his life had fallen apart.
He put the pen down.
Turned to Aira.
"Let's go," he said.
Aira blinked, surprised by the steadiness in his voice.
Akira stepped toward the door. He would not waste this second lease on life.