The autumn had progressed to the point where death became visible in the trees—leaves turning copper and rust, falling in slow spirals, accumulating in gutters and doorways like the physical manifestation of time passing. Buki watched them fall from the window of Clara's apartment, calculating their descent rates, terminal velocities, the precise angle at which wind altered their trajectories. Numbers were stable. Numbers didn't ambush you with memories you'd spent lifetimes forgetting.
It had been four days since the delivery to Keiko Amane. Four days since Yuki's confession. Four days of Buki existing in a strange liminal space where he was neither functional nor completely broken—just suspended between states, like the leaves outside, falling but not yet landed.
His medication had been adjusted. Higher dosage. Different combination. The psychiatrist—Dr. Mizuki Tendo, an adult in her fifties who'd studied in Europe and brought back concepts like "complex trauma" and "dissociative barriers"—said the increased nightmares were actually progress. "Your mind is trying to process what it's been suppressing," she'd explained in her clinical, careful voice. "The fact that you're remembering anything at all, even in fragments, suggests the dissociative walls are weakening. This is good, Buki-san, even though it feels terrible."
Good. Terrible. The words had lost meaning. Everything was just varying degrees of unbearable.
Today's postal route was different. Kaito had called him into the office early, before Yuki arrived, and the old gramps's expression had been complicated—concern and hesitation and something that looked almost like apology.
"I have a delivery that requires... discretion," Kaito said, sliding a thick bundle across his desk. Not a single letter, but multiple—perhaps twenty or thirty, bound together with string that had yellowed with age. "These are personal letters from a mother to her son. Private Hiroki Tanaka. He died three years ago in the final battle. His mother wrote him every week for three years afterward, not knowing he was already dead."
The pressure in Buki's heart ticked up slightly. 5.1. "She didn't know her son was deceased?"
"His widow couldn't bear to tell her. The mother—Mrs. Tanaka—had lost her husband the year before Hiroki died. She was fragile. Grief-stricken. So the widow let her keep writing, keep hoping, keep living in a reality where her son might still come home." Kaito's weathered hands traced the string binding the letters. "Mrs. Tanaka died six months ago. Heart failure, technically. But really—she died waiting. These letters need to be returned to the widow now. As part of settling the estate."
Buki processed this information. Calculated the emotional impact. Found it exceeded his processing capabilities. "The widow will have to read her mother-in-law's letters. Letters written to a dead son. Letters full of hope that was already extinguished."
"Yes," Kaito confirmed. "It's going to destroy her. But it's also closure. Proof of how much Hiroki was loved. Proof that his mother died believing in his return, not drowning in grief. There's—" He paused, searching for words. "There's mercy in ignorance sometimes. She got to die hoping instead of knowing."
Mercy in ignorance. Buki understood this intimately. Wasn't that what he had? Ignorance about what happened to Karanome after he died? Mercy, perhaps, that he couldn't remember the full horror of his previous life's ending?
Or was it torture? Not knowing? Living with fragments and implications and the terrible certainty that something unspeakable had occurred but not having the complete picture?
"I'll deliver them," Buki said, because orders were orders, because the letters needed delivering, because this was what he did—carried other people's grief while his own burned inside of him, untreatable and terminal.
The Tanaka residence was in a district Buki recognized from previous deliveries—lower-middle-class neighborhood, houses packed close together, gardens small but meticulously maintained. Someone in this family cared about appearances, about keeping up standards even when everything inside was collapsing.
The house itself was traditional in style, though the paint was peeling and one of the shutters hung slightly crooked. A small stone lantern stood in the garden, unlit. No smoke from memorial incense visible in the windows. Either the widow had stopped observing mourning rituals or had moved the altar to a different room.
Buki knocked. Three times. Evenly spaced. Waited.
The person who answered was perhaps thirty, though grief had aged her in ways that made precise calculation difficult. Dark circles under her eyes suggested chronic sleep deprivation. Her hair was pulled back simply, a few gray strands visible despite her youth. She wore plain house clothes, and her hands—Buki noticed hands now, always noticed hands since remembering his own covered in blood—showed signs of hard work. Calluses. Rough skin. Someone who worked physically, perhaps took in laundry or did cleaning work to support herself.
"Imperial War Correspondence," Buki stated. "Delivery for Mrs. Emiko Tanaka." "That's me," she said, and her voice carried exhaustion so profound it had become her baseline state. Not tired from today. Tired from existing.
Buki held out the bundle of letters. "Personal correspondence regarding Private Hiroki Tanaka. Letters from his mother, written posthumously to—" He stopped. The phrasing was wrong. "Written after his death, though the sender was unaware of his deceased status. Requires signature for receipt."
Emiko stared at the bundle like it might explode. Her hands didn't move to take it. "Those are from Tanaka?" Her voice had gone small, childlike. "The letters she wrote to Hiroki? But I thought—I asked the postal service to destroy them. I couldn't—I can't—"
"Standard protocol requires return of all undeliverable correspondence to next of connected for estate purposes," Buki recited. "You are listed as primary inheritor. Therefore—"
"I don't want them." Emiko's voice broke. "Please. Take them away. Burn them. Destroy them. Anything except making me read what she wrote to her dead son. I can't. I already carry enough guilt. I can't carry her hope too."
Guilt. Buki recognized this intimately. "You feel responsible for not informing her of his death," he stated. Not a question. An observation.
"Of course I'm responsible!" Emiko's composure shattered completely. "I lied to her for three years! Let her write letters to a corpse! Let her die believing her son might still come home when I knew—I KNEW he was rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere because the military couldn't even recover his body properly! I'm a monster. I'm a coward. I'm—"
She doubled over, arms wrapped around herself, making sounds that weren't quite words. Grief and guilt combining into something that exceeded language.
Buki stood in the doorway, holding the letters, while his heart rate increased and pressure built and something in his mind started clicking—recognition, memory, déjà vu, or perhaps just the weight of one person's unbearable guilt resonating with his own.
A memory fragment, sharp and immediate: standing over someone, covered in blood. Their blood? His blood? Both? A voice—his voice, but younger, desperate: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This is my fault. All my fault. I should have—I should have—"
Karanome's face, pale and terrified, staring up at him. "Onii-chan, you're bleeding! You're bleeding so much! I need to get help! I need to—" "No. Stay with me. Don't leave. Don't let me die alone. Please. I'm scared. I'm so scared."
The feeling of dying—not the physical pain, but the emotional terror of it. The knowledge that he was leaving his little brother alone with trauma no person should survive. The guilt of breaking his promise. Of failing. Of abandoning—
"I understand," Buki heard himself say, and his voice was wrong, too soft, too human. "You made an impossible choice. Told an impossible lie. Carried impossible guilt. There was no correct action. Only varying degrees of harm. You chose the harm that let her die with hope instead of despair. That's—" He searched for the word. "—mercy. Cruel mercy, but mercy nonetheless."
Emiko looked up at him, mascara running, face blotchy with crying. "How can you say that? You're just a kid. You don't understand what it's like to lie to someone for years. To let them live in delusion. To be responsible for—"
"I'm fifteen years old," Buki interrupted, "and I've died twice. Once in another life, leaving my eight-year-old brother alone with our mother's corpse and our sister's blood and trauma that probably destroyed him. Once in this life—or close enough to death that the distinction doesn't matter—leaving General Hazami to die believing I would bloom when I'm clearly incapable. I understand impossible guilt. I understand lying. I understand being responsible for suffering you can't fix."
The words came out flat, clinical, but Emiko heard something in them. Recognition, perhaps. The understanding that passes between people carrying similar weight.
"How do you survive it?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "The guilt. The knowledge that you failed someone who trusted you. How do you wake up every day knowing you're responsible for someone else's pain?"
"Poorly," Buki admitted. "I survive it poorly. I deliver letters about death while carrying my own dead inside me. I exist in the space between functional and broken. I take medication that makes everything distant. I see a therapist twice a week who tells me I'm making progress even when I feel like I'm drowning. And some days—most days—I wish I could stop existing entirely. But I can't. Because General Hazami ordered me to live. And even though she's dead, even though the order makes no sense, I can't disobey."
Emiko wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Your general sounds like she cared about you."
"She did. More than I deserved. More than I understood until she was gone." Buki held out the letters again. "These letters—your mother-in-law's letters—they're evidence that Hiroki was loved. That even in death, he remained important to someone. That's not nothing. That's—" He struggled with the concept. "—legacy, perhaps. Proof that his existence mattered beyond his death."
"But they'll hurt," Emiko protested, though her hands were moving toward the bundle now, drawn despite resistance. "Reading them will destroy me. Seeing her hope, her plans for his homecoming, her questions about when he'll visit—knowing he was already dead while she was writing—"
"Yes," Buki confirmed. "They'll hurt. But maybe—" He thought about Takeshi Hayashi's words, about carrying ghosts, about surviving by barely surviving. "—maybe that pain is the price of love. Maybe hurting means you cared. Maybe the alternative—feeling nothing, like me most of the time—is worse than feeling too much."
Emiko took the letters with trembling hands. Tremor frequency: 7.1. Held them against her heart like they were alive, like they might suddenly speak in Tanaka's voice.
"Will you—" She hesitated. "Will you stay? While I read one? I don't think I can do this alone. And you—you seem like you understand. About guilt. About carrying impossible things."
Protocol said no. Protocol said deliver the letters and move to the next address. Maintain professional distance. Don't get involved beyond basic courtesy.
But Buki was so tired of protocol. So exhausted by the rules that made him a weapon instead of a person. "Yes," he said. "I'll stay."
They sat at Emiko's low table—traditional style, the kind Buki vaguely remembered from somewhere, some other life, some other kitchen where families gathered. Emiko untied the string binding the letters with excruciating care, as if the knot itself was sacred. The letters spilled across the table, twenty-seven envelopes, each addressed in the same careful handwriting: "Hiroki Tanaka, Imperial Army, 7th Division, Wherever You Are."
"She started addressing them like that after six months," Emiko explained quietly. "When regular mail couldn't reach him. 'Wherever You Are.' Like she knew the universe would find him somehow. Deliver her words even if the postal service couldn't."
She selected the first letter. Dated three days after Hiroki's death, though of course Mother Tanaka didn't know that. Opened it with shaking hands. And began reading aloud, her voice breaking on every third word:
My dearest Hiroki,
I hope this letter finds you well, wherever you are. The war has been over for three days now. Three days! I keep waiting for you to walk through the door, to hear your voice calling 'I'm home!' the way you always did. But you haven't come yet. I know you must be busy with post-war duties, helping with reconstruction, processing paperwork. Still, your mother worries.
Emiko is managing well, though she looks tired. I think she's working too hard, trying to prepare the house for your return. I help where I can, but I'm not as young as I used to be. My hands shake when I try to thread a needle now. Getting old is such an inconvenience.
I've been making your favorite dishes. Practice, so when you come home, everything will be perfect. Today I made the pork curry you love, the one with extra ginger. I set a place for you at the table, just in case you arrived unexpectedly. You didn't, of course. But tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day. I know you'll come home soon.
The garden is beautiful this year. The chrysanthemums bloomed particularly well—the white ones you planted before you left. I take that as a good sign. The flowers know you're coming back. They're waiting for you too.
Your father's memorial is next week. I wish you could be here for it. He'd be so proud of you, serving your country, being brave. I'm proud of you too. So proud. Even though I miss you desperately, even though the house feels empty without you, I'm grateful you were strong enough to fight. Strong enough to survive.
Because you did survive, didn't you? You must have. I would feel it if you hadn't. A mother always knows.
Come home soon, my dear child. Everything is ready. The house is clean. Your room is prepared. Your favorite foods are waiting. All that's missing is you.
With all my love, Mother.
Emiko finished reading and carefully refolded the letter. Set it aside. Picked up the second one. This one dated a week later. Read it aloud with increasing difficulty:
My dearest Hiroki,
Still no word from you. I'm trying not to worry, but it's difficult. Emiko says the military is disorganized after the war, that communications are delayed. I suppose that makes sense. Still, a quick note to let your mother know you're alive—that wouldn't take much time, would it?
I'm being selfish. I know you're busy. Important work, helping rebuild. I should be patient. Should trust that no news is good news.
I saw Mrs. Yamada today at the market. Her son came home last week. She was so happy, crying right there in public, not caring who saw. I was happy for her. But also—I won't lie, Hiroki—I was jealous. Why hasn't my son come home yet? Why are other mothers getting their kids back while I'm still waiting?
Forgive me. I know that's unfair. Your service isn't over just because the fighting stopped. You'll come home when you can. I'll wait as long as necessary.
The white chrysanthemums are still blooming. I talk to them sometimes, tell them you'll be home soon. They bend in the wind as if nodding agreement. Silly, I know. An old fool talking to flowers. But it comforts me.
Your father's memorial went well. Small gathering, just close family and friends. I told everyone you were delayed but would visit his grave soon. They understood. Everyone understands that soldiers have obligations.
I lit incense for him and for you—not memorial incense for you, of course, just a prayer for your safe return. The smoke rose straight up, no wavering. Another good sign.
Come home when you can, my dear. We're all waiting.
With love, Mother.
Emiko continued reading. Letter three. Letter five. Letter ten. Each one a knife twisted in a wound that had never healed. Mother Tanaka's hope slowly curdling into worry. Her confidence faltering. Her questions becoming more desperate: Where are you? Why don't you write? Are you hurt? Are you angry with me? Did I do something wrong?
By letter fifteen, six months after Hiroki's death, the tone had changed:
My dearest Hiroki,
I need to believe you're reading these. That somehow, wherever you are, my words are reaching you. Because if they're not—if you're not—then I can't—
No. I won't think that way. You're alive. You're just... somewhere I can't reach. Maybe on a secret mission. Maybe stationed somewhere remote. Maybe you lost your memory and don't remember you have a mother waiting.
That happens sometimes, doesn't it? In the war? People get hurt, forget who they are. But your memory will come back eventually. And when it does, you'll remember me. Remember home. Remember that you're loved and missed and desperately needed.
Your father came to me in a dream last night. He was young again, the age he was when we married. He smiled and said: 'Our son is fine. Stop worrying.' And I woke up feeling peaceful for the first time in months.
So I'm choosing to trust that. Trust dreams. Trust intuition. Trust that a mother's love is strong enough to reach across any distance.
The chrysanthemums have died back for winter. But their roots are still alive underground. Come spring, they'll bloom again. And maybe—maybe that's when you'll come home. Spring. A new beginning. Everything growing again.
I'll wait for spring. And you'll be there.
With all my hope, Mother.
Emiko set down the letter, and her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't pick up the next one. Tremor frequency: 8.4. Her face was streaked with tears and the absolute devastation of reading her dead mother-in-law's desperate hope.
"She died still believing," Emiko whispered. "Six months ago. Heart failure. But really—she died waiting. Died hoping. Died believing that somehow, despite three years of silence, Hiroki would still come home. And I let her. I let her die deluded instead of grieving. What kind of person does that make me?"
Buki's heart rate had climbed steadily as Emiko read. 8.9. 11.2. 13.7. Each letter resonating with his own impossible situation. Because wasn't he doing the same thing? Living in a delusion where maybe Karanome was fine? Where maybe his sacrifice had been worth it? Where maybe his little brother had survived and thrived and lived a beautiful life despite watching his family get slaughtered?
He didn't know. Would never know. Just like Mother Tanaka never knew her son was dead. Just like Emiko lived with the guilt of lying. Just like everyone touched by war carried their own specific torture—knowing too much, knowing too little, knowing just enough to destroy them but not enough to heal.
"I don't know what it makes you," Buki admitted. "I don't know if you were kind or cruel. Merciful or cowardly. Maybe all of those simultaneously. Maybe impossible situations don't have moral clarity. Maybe we're all just doing terrible things for complicated reasons and calling it survival."
"That's not comforting," Emiko said. "No," Buki agreed. "But it's honest. And maybe honesty is all we have when comfort is impossible."
They sat in silence for a long moment. The letters spread between them like evidence at a crime scene. Proof of love and delusion and the terrible intersection of the two.
"There's one more letter," Emiko said finally. "The last one. Written three days before Mother Tanaka died. I can't—I can't read it alone. Will you—?" "Yes," Buki said, though his heart was racing, though pressure was building, though every instinct screamed to run. "I'll stay."
Emiko opened the final letter. Her voice barely functioned, breaking on every word:
My dearest Hiroki,
This will be my last letter. Not because I'm giving up hope—never that—but because I'm so tired. My heart isn't working properly anymore. The doctors say it's failing, which seems like such strange language. As if hearts can pass or fail tests, like students in school.
But hearts do fail, don't they? When they're asked to bear too much. When they're stretched too far by grief or longing or love that has nowhere to go.
I want you to know: I never stopped believing. Never stopped setting a place for you at the table. Never stopped preparing your room. Never stopped loving you with every failing beat of my failing heart.
If I'm wrong—if you didn't survive, if my intuition failed me, if a mother's knowledge isn't stronger than death—then I'm sorry. Sorry I didn't grieve properly. Sorry I spent three years in delusion instead of facing truth. But also—not sorry. Because those three years of hope were better than three years of despair. I got to live believing you might walk through the door any moment. That's a gift, even if it was based on lies.
And if I'm right—if you're alive somewhere, reading this someday—then know that I died happy. Died believing in your return. Died with hope instead of grief. That's not a bad way to go.
Take care of Emiko. She's been so kind to me, letting me live here, tolerating my delusions about your return. She deserves happiness. Deserves a life beyond waiting. Give her that, if you can. Release her from the obligation of hope.
I love you. I loved you from the moment you were born. I'll love you in whatever comes after death. And if there's any justice in the universe, I'll see you again. Maybe not in this life, but somewhere. Somehow.
Until then—until forever—I remain your loving mother, waiting in whatever way the dead can wait for the living.
With eternal love, Mother.
Emiko finished reading and collapsed forward, head on the table, shoulders shaking with sobs that sounded like they were tearing her apart from the inside. The letter fell from her hands, landing among the others—twenty-seven pieces of a mother's love, undeliverable and unbearable.
Buki sat frozen while the pressure in his heart exceeded all previous measurements. 17.2. Critical failure imminent. His vision was tunneling, graying at the edges. His breath came in gasps. His hands were shaking so violently he had to press them against the table to maintain stability.
Because he understood now. Fully. Completely. The horror of what he'd done to Karanome.
He'd died. Left his eight-year-old brother alone with trauma and grief and the impossible weight of surviving. And Karanome—wherever he was, whatever he'd become—had probably spent years waiting for his big brother to come back somehow. To explain. To make it make sense. To turn horror into something bearable.
But Buki never came back. Couldn't come back. Had been reincarnated in a different world, a different body, with no way to reach across impossible distances and say: I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you. I died trying to protect you. Please be okay. Please have survived. Please forgive me.
"She loved him so much," Emiko sobbed into the table. "And he was already gone. All that love had nowhere to go. Just bounced around inside her until it literally killed her. That's what love does when the beloved is dead. It turns inward. Becomes poison. Destroys from within."
"Yes," Buki whispered, and he was crying too now, though he barely noticed. "That's exactly what it does."
They stayed like that—two people destroyed by love for the dead, by guilt for the living, by the impossible space between hope and truth. Outside, leaves continued falling. The city continued existing. And somewhere in the distance, cherry trees waited for spring.
But spring felt very, very far away.
TO BE CONTINUED...