"The Morning We Buried Spring"
The wind moved softly through the thin curtains of the apartment, brushing along the walls like a ghost that had overstayed its welcome.
It was 6:45 a.m. The sky hung low, heavy with clouds that looked like pressed wool, smothering the sun before it could rise. The apartment smelled of incense and wilted chrysanthemums. There was no sound of a kettle boiling. No quiet hum of her mother in the kitchen. Just the tick of a wall clock and the rustle of black funeral cloth.
Mao sat cross-legged on the tatami mat, her hands resting neatly on her lap in front of the family altar. She had already bathed and dressed—a plain black dress, her long hair tied back with a white ribbon, the kind her mother used to tie for her before school, fingers deft and gentle.
The framed photo on the altar showed her mother in a spring garden two years ago, laughing at something off-camera, sunlight caught in her hair, holding a toddler Minho in one hand. Mao had taken that photo.
She reached for a piece of paper and began folding a crane—sharp corners, patient creases. When it was done, she set it gently at the base of the frame and bowed her head.
"Good morning, Mama," she whispered.
Her voice trembled, but her face remained composed. Because she had to be. There was no other option.
---
Footsteps. Small ones.
Mao turned as Minho wandered in, still in his pajamas, hair tousled, his beloved stuffed dog dangling limply from his fist. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at her.
"Onee-chan?" he mumbled. "You're already up…"
"I am," she said softly, opening her arms. "Come here."
He shuffled over and collapsed into her lap like a small weight of sadness. She held him tightly, pressing her nose into his hair and inhaling the warm scent of sleep and baby shampoo.
"Today is Mama's goodbye day," she murmured.
Minho stilled in her arms. His grip tightened.
"Is she… really not coming back?"
Mao closed her eyes.
"Not in the way we want," she said quietly. "But she's still around. She's with us now, even if we can't see her."
He shifted a little, his voice cracking.
"I made her a drawing yesterday. I put her favorite flowers in it. But she didn't see…"
"She saw it," Mao replied, kissing his temple. "She sees everything now. And she's proud of you. So proud."
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"I'll wear the nice clothes," he said. "For Mama."
---
The shoji door slid open again, this time with a heavier sound.
Their father entered—Geto, dressed in a formal black mourning suit that seemed to weigh down his entire frame. He looked older than yesterday. More undone. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn and tired. He moved without speaking, kneeling beside Mao and gently adjusting the ribbon in her hair.
"You've grown up too fast," he murmured.
"I'm only doing what she asked of me," Mao said evenly.
"I wish she hadn't asked so much…" he whispered, as if to himself.
A moment of silence.
He ran a hand through his graying hair and looked away, eyes glazed.
"After today," he said slowly, "we'll leave. Japan will be quieter. My uncle has a place. He'll help. We can start over there. You'll go to school, Minho will have a safe place to grow."
"As you wish, Father," Mao replied, nodding.
But inside, something tightened. Not with resistance, but with grief. With sacrifice. It was the quiet kind that didn't scream. The kind that folded itself neatly behind the heart, waiting for years to be unpacked.
Geto sighed and sat down on the mat beside them. The three of them formed a triangle of silence.
"She asked to come home," he said at last, voice rough. "The doctors told us we'd have two more weeks. I brought her back to give her that time. To let her be with you both. But she only made it three days."
He covered his face with one hand.
"Even that," he choked, "was too much to ask."
Mao looked at the photo again—her mother's smile, frozen in sunlight.
"She was already ready to go," Mao said quietly. "She just wanted to say goodbye… the right way."
---
Later: The Funeral
The sky remained heavy, the wind slow and deliberate as it moved through the trees.
The three of them walked in silence behind the hearse. Mao didn't look up. Her feet moved with quiet determination, each step feeling both numb and deliberate. She held Minho's hand tightly. He looked up often, searching the clouds, as if expecting his mother's face to appear through the gray.
At the crematorium, the priest's chanting was low and rhythmic. Family and close friends murmured their prayers and shared soft condolences. Mao bowed before the casket, picked up a white chrysanthemum, and laid it over her mother's chest.
Her fingers lingered on the cool wood a moment longer than they should have.
Mao (inner voice):
I loved you more than I knew how to say.
I'll carry what you couldn't.
I'll protect Minho.
And I'll let go of everything I wanted…
Including him.
Goodbye, Dan.
---
After the Ceremony
The apartment felt stripped. The colors had been drained from every wall.
The incense had stopped burning. The photo frames had been taken down, wrapped in bubble cloth and stored in a box labeled "Memory." Only a suitcase and a sealed white ceramic urn remained on the low table, wrapped with care in soft fabric.
Minho was asleep on the futon, curled into himself, the stuffed dog tucked under his chin.
Mao sat by the window, hands clasped around a lukewarm cup of tea she hadn't sipped from.
Her father moved around behind her, quietly finishing the final bits of packing. The sound of a zipper closing. The echo of a drawer being shut.
Mao stared outside.
Gray sky. Quiet city.
"We're leaving, Mama," she said softly to no one. "Just like you asked."
She didn't cry.
Instead, she reached over and touched the urn gently. Her fingers lingered on the smooth ceramic.
Mao (inner monologue):
I'm bringing you with me.
And I'm leaving everything else behind.
Even the pieces of me that knew how to laugh.
Even Dan.
She looked down at Minho, then turned back to the window.
Somewhere far away, she imagined a cherry tree blooming again.
---