The morning light slipped through the shoji screens like a whisper, soft and sly, painting the tatami mats with a glow that felt too gentle for the weight in Kazuki's chest. He stirred on the couch, his body stiff from a night spent hunched over the notebook that now lay splayed on the floor, its pages crumpled like fallen leaves. The creak of his neck as he sat up was a small, sharp sound, drowned by the deeper ache radiating from his heart—a pain that wasn't just the old murmur of his condition, but something new, something jagged and raw, carved out by the image of Emiko's silhouette tangled with another's behind frosted glass.
He rubbed his eyes, the world blurring behind his glasses, and listened. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, the hiss of a kettle, the faint tap-tap of Emiko's slippers on the linoleum. Normal sounds, domestic sounds, the kind that used to wrap him in comfort like a worn quilt. Now they stung, each one a pinprick against the thin glass of his composure. He could smell miso soup simmering, its earthy warmth curling through the air, and it twisted his stomach—not with hunger, but with a sickening irony. How could she cook breakfast, hum that lilting tune, as if the night before hadn't shattered everything?
Kazuki stood, the tatami mats squishing faintly under his bare feet, and shuffled toward the kitchen. His shadow stretched ahead of him, long and thin, like a ghost reaching for something it couldn't grasp. Emiko was there, her back to him, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon that clacked against the rim. Her hair spilled over her shoulder in a cascade of silk, dark and glossy, the same way it had when they'd met—when she'd laughed at his clumsy attempt to pour sake, her voice a melody he'd wanted to hear forever. Now, that memory felt like a shard of glass lodged in his throat, beautiful but cutting.
She turned, catching his gaze, and smiled—a smile that lit her eyes with a warmth he used to trust. "Morning, sleepyhead," she said, her voice bright as the sun streaming through the window. "I thought you'd sleep all day after staying up so late." She tilted her head, a playful lilt in her tone, and for a moment, he saw the woman he'd married: the one who'd danced with him under the cherry blossoms, who'd kissed him in the rain until they were soaked and laughing.
But then the image fractured. He saw her again, through that frosted pane, her head thrown back in a laugh that wasn't for him. His chest tightened, a thump-thump of pain that made him wince, and he forced a smile, brittle as eggshells. "Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.
Emiko's brow furrowed, concern flickering across her face. "You okay? You look pale." She set the spoon down with a clink and stepped closer, her hand reaching for his arm. He flinched, a reflex he couldn't stop, and her fingers froze midair, hovering like a bird unsure where to land. The hurt in her eyes was real—he saw it, felt it—but it only deepened the wound. How could she care, how could she touch him, when her hands had been elsewhere?
"I'm fine," he lied, stepping back, the space between them widening like a chasm. "Just tired." He turned to the table, set with bowls and rice and a small plate of pickled plums, their red skins glistening like drops of blood. He sat, the chair scraping against the floor, and picked up his chopsticks, though his hands trembled faintly.
Emiko joined him, sliding into her seat with a grace that used to make his heart skip. Now it mocked him, every move a reminder of what he'd lost. They ate in silence at first, the slurp of soup and the clack of chopsticks filling the void. Outside, the cicadas screeched their summer song—chir chir chir—a relentless drone that buzzed in his skull, amplifying the tension coiling inside him.
"So," she said eventually, her voice cutting through the hum, "what were you writing last night? You were so focused, I didn't want to disturb you." She smiled again, softer this time, and reached for her tea, the steam curling around her fingers like a secret.
Kazuki's grip tightened on his chopsticks, the wood digging into his palm. "Just… memories," he said, the word tasting bitter, like ash. He thought of the notebook, its first chapter spilling out their beginning—her laugh, her touch, the cherry tree in bloom. He'd written it to hold onto her, to keep her close. Now it felt like a lie, a story he couldn't finish.
Emiko nodded, oblivious, and sipped her tea. "You should show me sometime. I bet it's beautiful." Her eyes met his, warm and trusting, and he wanted to scream, to shatter the table between them, to demand how she could sit there pretending. But the words stuck, heavy and unspoken, and he looked away, his gaze landing on the vase by the window. Its flowers—lilies she'd arranged last week—were wilting, their petals drooping like his hope, a silent testament to neglect.
A sharp pain stabbed his chest then, sudden and fierce, and he dropped his chopsticks with a clatter. Emiko looked up, alarmed. "Kazuki?" She leaned forward, her hand outstretched again, and this time he didn't pull away fast enough. Her fingers brushed his wrist, warm and soft, and for a heartbeat, he wanted to lean into it, to forget. But the memory surged—her laughter, that other man—and he jerked back, his breath shallow.
"It's nothing," he gasped, pressing a hand to his sternum. "Just a twinge."
"You need to see a doctor," she said, her voice firm now, laced with worry. "You've been like this too often lately."
He shook his head, the motion sharp. "I'm fine. I just need air." He stood abruptly, the chair thudding against the wall, and grabbed his notebook from the couch. Emiko followed, her slippers slapping softly as she trailed him to the door.
"Kazuki, wait—" Her voice was a plea, and he paused, hand on the knob, his back to her. "What's wrong? You're scaring me."
He turned, meeting her eyes, and for a moment, he almost said it. I saw you. I know. The words burned, begging to be free, but fear choked them back—fear of her answer, fear of the end. "I'm just tired," he repeated, softer now, a lie wrapped in truth. "I'll be back later."
He stepped outside, the door clicking shut like a guillotine, and the courtyard air hit him, thick with humidity and the scent of earth. The cherry tree loomed ahead, its leaves rustling in the breeze, whispering secrets he couldn't hear. He sank onto the bench beneath it, the wood cool against his thighs, and opened the notebook, its pages trembling in his hands.
The pen scratched as he wrote, the ink bleeding into the paper like his pain bleeding into words.
I remember our first date, under this tree. You wore that yellow sundress, and the petals fell around us like snow. Your laughter was a song, and I thought it would never stop. We ate sakura mochi, and you wiped the crumbs from my chin, your touch so light it felt like a dream. I thought we'd built something unbreakable, something eternal.
But now it's glass—thin, fragile glass—and I see the cracks. Every smile you give me today is a lie, every touch a cut. How do I hold onto you when you've slipped away? How do I breathe when my heart is breaking, piece by piece?
Tears blurred the ink, and he wiped them away, the swipe of his sleeve loud in the stillness. The cicadas screamed on, their chir chir a chorus to his grief. He wrote until his hand cramped, until the sun climbed higher and the shadows shrank, until an old woman shuffled by, her cane tapping the stone path.
"Writing again, young man?" she asked, her voice creaky as the tree's branches. She'd seen him here before, the night he'd helped her cross the street.
He nodded, forcing a smile. "Trying to."
She peered at the notebook, her eyes sharp despite her age. "Stories heal, you know. Even the sad ones." She patted his shoulder, her touch frail but kind, and hobbled off, leaving him with her words echoing in his ears.
Heal. Could he heal from this? He didn't know. But the notebook was all he had—a lifeline, a mirror, a blade. He closed it with a snap, the sound final, and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The city hummed beyond the courtyard, alive with noise and motion, but Kazuki felt apart from it, a man trapped behind glass, watching the world through a fragile pane.
He walked, not knowing where, the cherry tree's shadow stretching behind him like a memory he couldn't shake. His chest ached, his heart thudded, and he wondered how long he could carry this pain before it shattered him completely. The morning light was bright, deceptive, beautiful—but beneath it, everything was breaking, and he didn't know how to stop it.