The funeral hall smells of white chrysanthemums and incense so thick it clings to the back of the throat.
Rows of black suits and dresses, black umbrellas dripping by the door even though the sky is clear.
The portrait of Hana sits in the center of the altar: school uniform, gentle smile, eyes that will never open again.
Kiyomi stands beside me, hand slipped through my arm, fingers curled tight around my elbow like she's anchoring me to the earth.
She hasn't let go since we left the house this morning.
We haven't spoken since the car either.
There is nothing to say that wouldn't break.
I keep my eyes on the portrait.
She looks younger than I remember.
Softer.
Like someone who still believed the world could be kind.(Inner monologue)
I did this.
Not with my hands, but with my silence.
If I had remembered sooner…
If I had been stronger that night…
If I had chased the shadow when the memories first started bleeding through…
Maybe she would still be laughing in the Literature Club room, complaining about Kafka.
Kiyomi's grip tightens.
She knows where my thoughts are going.
She always knows.
We bow when the family bows.
We offer incense in perfect unison, three pinches, palms together, heads down.
The smoke rises in slow spirals, carrying prayers I don't have the right to make.(Inner monologue)
I keep seeing the sacks.
Six of them.
Neatly lined up at the police station like someone delivering groceries.
I keep hearing the wet sound a body makes when it hits concrete.
I keep feeling the rain on my face from a night I can't remember.
I keep tasting blood that isn't mine.
Kiyomi's thumb strokes the inside of my wrist—small, steady circles.
Stay here.
Stay with me.
Don't drift.
We sit in the back row during the service.
The monk's voice drones sutras that blur into white noise.
I stare at my knees, at the black fabric stretched too tight because I've lost weight again.(Inner monologue)
She deserved someone braver than me.
Someone who could have stood up that night and walked into the dark without shaking.
Someone who didn't choose the coward's path and call it survival.
Kiyomi leans her head against my shoulder.
Just once.
A silent reminder:
You're still here.
That has to count for something.
The ceremony ends.
People file past the altar to offer final condolences.
We stay seated.
We don't have the right to stand in that line.
When the room is almost empty, Kiyomi finally speaks—barely above a whisper.
Kiyomi
Let's go home.
I nod.
We walk out without looking back.(Inner monologue)
I will carry this weight.
Not by chasing ghosts I'm too afraid to face.
But by living every quiet, ordinary, terrified day anyway.
By staying for Kiyomi.
By waiting for Aiko.
By never letting the darkness think it won.
The chrysanthemums stay behind, white and merciless.
The smoke keeps rising long after we're gone.
And somewhere, in the space between one heartbeat and the next,
I make a new promise to the girl in the photograph:
I won't forget you again.
Even if all I can do is remember.
Even if all I can do is stay too scared to fight.
I'm sorry, Hana.
I'm so sorry.