The morning was pale and quiet. Hana had risen early, even though the streets outside were still empty, save for a few delivery trucks and the soft hum of the river. On her desk, the wooden rabbit Sozuki had left behind gleamed faintly in the sunlight, chipped ear catching the light like a fragile heartbeat. She reached for it instinctively, turning it over in her hands, as if she could coax him back into the room simply by remembering him.
It had been several days since he had faded completely at the riverbank. She had watched the empty space where he had stood, smelled the lingering traces of tea and rain on the air, and felt the absence of his warmth. And yet, she had not worried.
She knew him too well.
His fades were part of the rhythm now — a bell that rang and then slowly softened, a pulse that came and went. He always returned. The first time it had happened, she had panicked, clinging to shadows that were not there. But now she waited. Observant, patient, and silently believing that he would come back — if only to find her waiting.
And so, she did not panic when the door slid open a few hours later and Sozuki appeared in the doorway, hair still mussed from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, eyes distant.
"Good morning," he said softly, voice barely louder than the wind.
Hana smiled faintly. "Good morning. You're back."
He nodded, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. "I… I went somewhere. Somewhere I thought might help me remember."
"Did it?" she asked gently, moving to hand him the rabbit, but he shook his head.
"Not yet," he murmured, taking a small step toward the table. "But I… think I'm close."
She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't have to. She had learned that his memories came slowly, often in fragments, triggered by the smallest things: a smell, a sound, a place. Today, she would follow. as usual.
Breakfast passed quietly. Hana ate toast she barely tasted, eyes drifting to Sozuki as he gazed out the window. The sunlight fell across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the hollow of his cheeks, and the way his small hands rested limply in his lap. Even in the midst of a world alive with color and sound, he always seemed slightly out of sync, like a photograph slightly blurred at the edges.
"So," she said finally, breaking the silence, "you said yesterday that you remembered a shop you used to visit?"
Sozuki's head lifted slightly, as if the words themselves carried weight. "Yes," he said slowly. "A bread shop… My parents… they used to take me there all the time. I… I don't remember the taste, or the smell exactly. But I remember… the feeling. The warmth. I think… I think it was important."
Hana nodded. "Then we'll find it."
They walked together through the town, the wooden rabbit tucked under Hana's arm. The streets had begun to hum with life — neighbors chatting over fences, children kicking a ball down the alley, the smell of fresh vegetables and roasting chestnuts mingling in the air. It was ordinary, it was small, and yet, for both of them, it felt like walking through the memory of a life that might have been.
Sozuki's footsteps were careful, almost reverent. His eyes darted to every corner, every storefront, as if he were searching for a sign. Occasionally, he would pause, tilt his head, and murmur something indistinct — fragments of words that might have been from his childhood.
Hana stayed close, silent. She had learned the pattern: memory was patient, memory was fragile, and pressing too hard could shatter the pieces that were just beginning to fit together.
They found the shop after half an hour of walking.
It was small and unassuming, tucked between a noodle shop and a stationery store. The sign above the door was faded, letters worn by years of sun and wind: Kawahara Bread Shop. Inside, the air smelled faintly of yeast, sugar, and something faintly like sunlight on wood — a smell that made Sozuki pause, frozen mid-step.
He turned slowly, eyes wide and unfocused. "This… this is it," he whispered. His hand hovered over the counter as if touching it would bring the memory to life.
Hana watched him quietly. "Do you want to go in?" she asked.
He nodded, stepping inside with a reverence that made the floorboards creak beneath him. The shop was small, rows of bread displayed behind glass cases, warm light spilling from the oven at the back. The owner, a kind older gramps with graying hair, smiled at them and nodded politely.
Hana stayed close to Sozuki as he walked between the cases, eyes lingering on the pastries, the way the flour dusted the counter, the warmth in the oven's glow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he paused.
"This…" he whispered. "This smells like… like home."
Hana bit her lip. "I think you're remembering something," she said softly.
He didn't respond. He only knelt slightly, touching the edge of a bread tray, feeling the warmth of it against his hands. His eyes glistened.
"I… I came here with them," he said at last, voice barely audible. "Every Saturday. My parents… my mom always bought melonpan for me. And… and…"
His voice broke. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his stomach, like holding onto something slipping away. Hana stepped closer, silent, letting him find the words on his own.
"And my dad…" he whispered finally. "He… he always carried me here on his shoulders when the line was too long. And… and I would laugh…"
The laughter caught in his throat, jagged and painful. Hana reached out, placing her hand over his.
"You're safe," she said softly. "You're here now."
He shook his head slowly. "No… I'm not," he said, voice low. "Because they're… gone. I… I can't remember… how… why…"
Hana's heart ached. She had known he had been a ghost for decades, that his parents were long dead, but hearing him voice the possibility, the dawning awareness in his small face… it was unbearable.
She knelt beside him, resting her head near his shoulder. "Sozuki… they're gone," she said gently. "They… they died before you… you couldn't stay. But you don't have to remember everything at once. We'll take it slow. I figured that one out myself to."
He shook his head again, small and desperate. "I need… I need to know! I… I need to remember them!"
And then the first memory hit.
It came like a wave breaking over him, unrelenting. He saw the cold winter night, the snow coating the rooftops, the shouting downstairs. The broken wood, the blood staining the tatami mats, his parents lying there, eyes staring past him. His father's carvings scattered across the floor. The overturned kettle, steam rising like spirits leaving the room.
He collapsed onto the floor, pressing his hands to his ears as if to keep the images from overtaking him. Hana caught him, pulling him close, holding him gently against her shoulders.
"It's okay," she whispered, rocking him. "It's okay. Breathe… breathe."
But the memories did not stop. Each one came in fragments, pieces of the life he had lost forever, pieces that had been buried too deep for words alone. The laughter of his parents, the smell of tea, the warmth of home — and the terror, the cold, the emptiness after the tragedy.
Sozuki's body trembled, shaking violently as the full story of his past — everything he had run from, everything he had tried to forget — surged back in a torrent. Hana held him tighter, her own tears falling freely as she whispered over and over:
"You're not alone… You're not alone… You're here now."
He buried his face against her, the wooden rabbit slipping from her hands to the floor beside them, forgotten in the intensity of the moment. His breath came in ragged sobs, the weight of decades pressing down on his small frame. Hana stayed still, letting him crumble, letting him feel everything that had been denied to him for so long.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Sozuki's form was entirely present and fragile, trembling with the full weight of what he had lost. And Hana did not flinch. She would not leave him alone in this.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Outside, the sun had begun to dip behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the shop floor. The air smelled of baked bread and dust, of warmth and loss and memory.
And then, slowly, the trembling eased. He remained pressed against her, body shaking less, tears still streaking his cheeks. But he was awake now — fully, painfully awake. The world of memory had returned to him, and he had survived it.
Hana stroked his hair, whispering softly, "We'll face it together. Every piece. Every memory."
He nodded once, small and fragile. His lips barely moved, voice a ghost of a whisper:
"Thank you… for not letting me be alone."
The screen of the day seemed to pause, holding them there in the quiet, broken warmth of the bread shop. The wooden rabbit lay forgotten at their feet, a small witness to the unfolding of a soul that had been lost for decades.
And as the camera — or perhaps the mind's eye — pulled back, the sun dipped fully below the horizon, leaving them in the shadow of the coming night.
Sozuki's sobs quieted into trembling breaths, but Hana knew that this was only the beginning. The memories were flooding back. The pain was unbearable. The emptiness that had haunted him for decades now had a name, a shape, a face — and the kid was finally facing it.
The final shot lingered on the floor, the wooden rabbit between their hands, the dimming light catching the chipped ear. Then it cut to black.
TO BE CONTINUED...