The storm came without warning.
One moment, the sky was simply gray, heavy with unshed tears. The next, thunder cracked like a whip across the heavens, rattling windowpanes and making the trees outside sway like frightened animals.
The scent of wet earth crept through the old house in waves. The wooden floors creaked. Lights flickered.
In that moment, time folded back.
---
Flashback.
The house was smaller back then, or maybe the world just seemed bigger.
A younger Ren sat on the tatami floor of the living room, hugging a pillow tightly. He flinched with each flash of lightning, though he tried not to show it.
Sayuri, barely seven at the time, crawled toward him with teary eyes.
"Ren… I'm scared," she whimpered.
He looked up and saw her small hands trembling. Without thinking, he opened his arms.
She rushed in, burying her face in his chest.
"It's okay," he whispered, rubbing her back. "I'm here."
Outside, the storm raged—but inside, it was just them. Two small children clinging to each other against a world far too loud.
---
Present Day.
Another thunderclap cracked the silence.
Ren lay on his futon in the dim light of his room, eyes half-lidded. The storm stirred something deep inside him—a dull ache, like old bones remembering a fall.
The paper windows lit up for a moment with a white flash. Then darkness. Then rumble.
He heard her before he saw her. The soft shuffle of bare feet in the hallway. The quiet squeak of the sliding door.
Sayuri stood there, clutching a blanket, her eyes wide—not with childish fear this time, but with something else. Something quieter. Deeper.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
He sat up slowly. "Come in."
She padded across the floor and slipped under the blanket beside him, just like they used to when they were younger.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating her face for a heartbeat. Her lips trembled. She turned away from him.
"Still afraid of thunder?" he asked softly.
She nodded, not looking at him. "Not just thunder."
Ren was silent. He understood without asking.
For a while, they lay side by side, the space between them filled with the sound of rain on the roof.
Then Sayuri spoke.
"Ren…"
"…Yeah?"
"Do you think it was my fault?"
His breath caught.
"What?"
"The accident," she said, voice smaller now. "If I hadn't insisted we stay longer… if I hadn't dropped my phone in the river… maybe Mom and Dad wouldn't have—"
"Stop."
His voice was firm. Stronger than he felt.
He turned to face her, meeting her eyes even as the thunder rolled again.
"Sayuri, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."
"But you were always so quiet after," she said. "Like you hated me a little. Like being with me reminded you too much of them."
He looked away, pain flickering across his face.
"I didn't hate you," he said. "I hated myself."
She blinked.
"I should've told them to take the other road," he muttered. "I saw the weather warning on my phone. I just… I didn't say anything. I thought we'd be fine."
Sayuri's eyes filled with tears. "Ren…"
He closed his eyes. "Every time I looked at you, I remembered. Not because you made me. Just… because everything reminded me of what we lost."
Lightning flashed again.
Sayuri reached for his hand and held it.
"I never blamed you," she whispered. "Not once."
He turned to look at her, really look at her. Her face was damp—not from rain, but from something more fragile.
"I know we've drifted," she said. "Even before we came back here. But I've always wanted to say this."
She placed a hand on his chest.
"You're all I have now."
Ren's throat tightened.
He wanted to say something—anything. But no words came.
So he just held her hand tighter.
And in the quiet that followed, Sayuri rested her head on his shoulder, breathing soft and even. The storm raged on outside—but in that room, it was still.
Sleep took her.
And Ren, lying beside her in the dark, stared at the ceiling with wide eyes and a heart full of ghosts.
---