The hospital room was too colorless.
White walls. White sheets. White light that made everything look cold, even the flowers on the bedside table looked like they wanted to escape. Kaito hated every bit of it. He hated the smell of antiseptic, the way the machines beeped like they were counting down his life. He hated the silence most of all.
Until today.
On the blanket beside him lay a folded piece of paper, edges worn from being carried in his pocket. He had found it at the train station earlier, tucked between two bricks in a cracked wall at Platform 3. At first, he thought it was trash someone was too lazy to throw away. But then he saw the handwriting: soft, curved letters like someone had taken their time.
He opened it slowly, like it might break.
Kaito stared at the words until they blurred. He didn't know who "S" was. He didn't know why this letter was left there. But for the first time in weeks, something inside him felt warm. Like sunlight sneaking through a crack in the clouds.
He smiled.
It was small, shaky, but real.
The nurse came in, checking his IV. "You're quiet today," she said, but Kaito didn't answer. He was already reaching for the pen on the table, the one he used for poems and dreams he never finished.
He turned the paper over and wrote:
"To S:
I found your letter.
And… it worked. I smiled.
Thank you so much.
-K-."
He hesitated, then added a tiny sketch in the corner—a train, with smoke curling like clouds. It wasn't perfect, but it felt right.
That evening, when the nurse wheeled him to the station for his next appointment, Kaito slipped the letter back into the same crack in the wall. His heart thumped loudly with questions.
Would she find it? Would she write back?
He didn't know.
But for the first time in a long time, he hoped...