The morning arrived without ceremony—gray light filtering through clouds that promised snow but hadn't yet delivered. Buki stood outside the Imperial War Correspondence Office at 0547 hours, thirteen minutes before the official opening time, watching his breath materialize in the cold air and disappear. Temporary existence. Like everything else.
The building looked different in winter light. More fragile. The paint peeling more obviously. The slight leftward lean more pronounced, as if the weight of all the grief it contained had finally accumulated to the point of structural damage. Or perhaps he was projecting. Perhaps buildings didn't carry emotional weight. Perhaps only people did that.
The door was already unlocked. Kaito inside, of course. Always inside. Buki had never arrived first, no matter how early he came. Had started to wonder if Kaito ever left, or if he simply existed here perpetually, sorting letters in the dark hours, maintaining his vigil against—against what? Forgetting? Feeling? The obligation to continue?
Buki entered quietly. The interior smelled like old paper and dust and something else—something sharp and chemical that he couldn't identify. Kaito sat at his desk, but not working. Just sitting. Staring at an envelope that lay open before him, yellowed with age, the paper inside visible but not removed.
He looked smaller than Buki had ever seen him. Diminished. As if whatever had been holding him upright for decades had finally, quietly, given way. "You're early," Kaito said without looking up. His voice was rough, unused, like he'd been sitting in silence for hours.
"Couldn't sleep," Buki admitted. The nightmares had intensified since his confessions to Clara and Yuki. Remembering everything meant reliving everything. His medication helped, but only created distance, not absence. The horrors remained, just slightly blurred.
"I don't sleep much either," Kaito said. "Haven't for twelve years. Three, four hours maximum. The rest—" He gestured vaguely at the office, at the letters, at existence itself. "—the rest is this. Sorting. Organizing. Maintaining order in chaos that can't be ordered. Oh, and now this letter you found for me."
Buki approached the desk slowly, giving Kaito space to refuse his presence if needed. But the old gramps simply gestured to the chair across from him—an invitation, or perhaps just acceptance of witness.
"That letter," Buki said carefully. "The one I found in the archives. Your letter."
"My suicide note," Kaito corrected flatly. "Let's be accurate. I wrote it twelve years ago with every intention of following through. Had the method planned. The timing. The note explaining where bodies were, how to contact my family—except I had no family. Everyone was already dead."
The words landed heavy in the quiet office. Buki understood that weight. Had contemplated similar endings. Had stood at Clara's window calculating fall trajectories and survival probabilities. Had decided not to, not from wanting to live, but from—what? Obligation? Inertia? The ghost of General Hazami ordering him to bloom?
"Why didn't you?" Buki asked. Kaito finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. He'd been crying. Recently.
"Because I opened it this morning," Kaito said quietly. "For the first time in twelve years. Opened the letter I wrote to no one and read what I'd forgotten writing. And I—" His voice broke. "—I need to show someone. Need to speak it aloud. Need to make it real instead of just—existing in my head, eating me alive."
He slid the letter across the desk. The paper was brittle, the ink slightly faded but still legible. Buki's bandaged hands—still healing from his own self-inflicted wounds—picked it up carefully.
"Read it," Kaito said. Not an order. A plea. Buki read aloud, his voice steady despite the content:
To whoever finds this,
My name is Kaito Hanabishi. I am fifty-three years old. Former husband. Former father. Current operator of the Imperial War Correspondence Office. And I have failed at the only thing that mattered.
Twelve years ago, I had a family. A wife, Yumiko, who laughed like bells and grew flowers in our small garden. A son, Ren, twelve years old, brilliant and kind, who wanted to take over this postal office someday. A daughter, Hana, seven years old, who drew pictures constantly and believed the world was made of magic she just hadn't learned to see yet.
We lived upstairs. This building—I'd bought it specifically for this purpose. The ground floor for business, the upper floors for family. My dream was creating something that lasted. A legacy. The Imperial War Correspondence Office as family enterprise, passed down through generations, becoming part of Shin-Tokyo's infrastructure. Part of its heart.
It was going to be perfect. But then Hana got sick.
It started small. Fatigue. Illness that appeared without cause. Fever that wouldn't break. We thought it was just childhood illness. Something temporary that would pass with rest and medicine.
The doctors diagnosed Cancer. She lasted six months.
Six months of watching my daughter transform from vibrant child to dying patient. Six months of chemotherapy that made her vomit until she coughed blood. Six months of radiation that burned her skin. Six months of experimental treatments that cost everything we had and bought nothing except prolonged suffering.
She died asking if death had postal services. Said she wanted to write us letters. Tell us about the afterlife. Make sure we knew she wasn't lonely. I told her the afterlife had the best postal service in all the universes. That her letters would definitely reach us. That we'd write back every day.
She smiled. Said 'Good. I'll send one every day, Papa. Every single day. So you'll never forget me.' As if we could forget. As if her absence wasn't carved into every moment of continued existence.
Those were her last words. Then she closed her eyes. Then her breathing slowed. Then stopped. Then she was just—gone. A person becoming a corpse becoming a memory becoming grief.
Yumiko survived exactly one year after Hana's funeral. Same disease. The doctors explained with clinical precision that suggested they'd delivered this news many times before.
I watched my wife die the same way I'd watched my daughter die. Same progression. Same suffering. Same slow transformation from person to patient to corpse. But worse, because Yumiko understood what was happening. Understood she was dying Hana's death. Understood she was leaving Ren to face the same fate alone with a father who'd already proven incapable of saving anyone.
She apologized constantly. Sorry for getting sick. Sorry for the medical bills that had destroyed our savings. Sorry for leaving me alone with Ren. Sorry for not being stronger. Sorry for dying.
I told her she had nothing to apologize for. That I loved her. That Ren and I would be okay. I lied to my dying wife. Added that to the list of failures. Ren lasted three months after his mother's funeral.
Fifteen years old. Same disease. Third diagnosis in our family. By then I was intimately familiar with the progression. Knew every stage. Knew the timeline. Knew exactly how much time we had before—before he wasn't anymore.
He refused treatment. My fifteen-year-old son made end-of-life decisions with clarity that shamed me. Said he'd watched what treatment did to Hana and his mother. Watched them suffer for months just to die anyway. Said he'd rather have three good months than eight bad ones. Asked me—begged me—to let him die with dignity instead of prolonging inevitable suffering for my comfort.
I honored his wishes. What else could I do? Force him into treatment that would torture him briefly before killing him anyway? I'd failed to save Hana. Failed to save Yumiko. At least I could give Ren the death he wanted.
Three months. We spent them in his room, talking about the postal office, about his delivery optimization plans, about the future he'd never see. He pretended he'd be there to implement his ideas. I pretended to believe him. We both knew we were lying. We lied kindly to each other until kindness became impossible.
He died on a Thursday. Afternoon light streaming through his window, making the room almost beautiful. I held his hand. Felt his pulse weaken. Watched him breathe slower and slower until he simply stopped.
His last words were: 'Keep delivering, Dad. Promise me. Keep the postal office running. Don't let our dream die just because we did.' I promised. And he smiled—so much like Hana's smile, so much like Yumiko's smile—and closed his eyes. And was gone.
That was three months ago.
I've been alone in this building since. Living downstairs in the office. Can't go upstairs. Can't face the rooms that still smell like them. Like Hana's medicine. Like Yumiko's perfume. Like Ren's books and papers and the future he was planning.
I've been delivering letters. Keeping my promise. Maintaining the office. Witnessing other people's grief while my own consumes me from within. But I can't do this anymore.
I'm sorry, Ren. I know I promised. But the weight is too heavy. The emptiness too vast. The building too full of ghosts I can't face. I've tried. For three months, I've tried. But every morning I wake up and remember they're gone and I have to exist anyway and I can't—I can't—
To whoever finds this: The lease is paid through the end of the year. The filing system is documented in the red cabinet. The families deserve their letters. Please make sure they get them. That's all that matters now. The letters. The grief. The witnessing.
I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger. Sorry I couldn't keep my promise to my son. Sorry I couldn't make their deaths mean something by continuing to live. But three deaths is enough. Four would be excessive. Four would be the universe making its point too obviously.
I don't know if there's anything after this. Don't know if I'll see them again. But I know I can't stay here anymore. Can't exist in this building that was supposed to house generations. Can't deliver other people's hope when I have none of my own. Can't witness other people's futures when mine ended the moment Ren stopped breathing.
If there's an afterlife, and if it has postal services like I told Hana, I'll finally get to read her letters. All of them. Every day for twelve years' worth. That's 4,380 letters waiting for me. That's—that's enough. That's more than enough reason to stop persisting.
I'm coming, Hana. I'm coming, Yumiko. I'm coming, Ren. Wait for me. Please. Wait for me.
Kaito Hanabishi Former father Failed promisekeeper Operator of the Imperial War Correspondence Office For three more hours.
Buki finished reading. Set the letter down carefully, as if it might disintegrate. His hands were shaking—tremor frequency: 6.2. The parallels were devastating. Kaito watching his family die slowly the way Daichi had watched his family die violently. Both left carrying weight that exceeded human tolerances. Both choosing postal work to give structure to grief that had no structure. Both writing letters that couldn't be sent to people who were gone.
The office was silent except for the ticking of Kaito's desk clock. Each second identical. Time passing whether anyone wanted it to or not. "Why didn't you do it?" Buki asked quietly. "The note says three more hours. What happened in those three hours?"
Kaito's face was wet with tears he wasn't bothering to wipe away. "A knock on the door," he said simply. "0800 hours. Opening time. I'd planned to—to finish everything at 0500, before anyone could arrive. But I'd sat there writing for so long, revising, trying to explain the inexplicable, trying to make my suicide make sense when nothing made sense anymore. And then—0800. Knock on the door."
He paused, accessing memory that clearly still caused pain.
"A widow. Young. Maybe twenty-five. Her husband had died in a factory accident three days prior. She needed help filing for death benefits. Needed someone to witness her grief. Needed—" Kaito's voice broke completely. "—needed me to deliver a letter she'd written to him. Even though he was dead. Even though it could never reach him. She said writing it mattered. Having someone receive it mattered. Even if the someone was just a postal worker filing it away forever."
"So you stayed," Buki said. Understanding. Recognizing his own story in Kaito's.
"So I stayed," Kaito confirmed. "Not because I wanted to. Not because the grief diminished or the weight became lighter or I found some grand meaning. I stayed because if I died, who would receive her undeliverable letter? Who would witness her grief when it became too heavy to carry alone? Who would—" He gestured at the office, at the mountains of correspondence. "—who would deliver all these letters from the dead to the living, from the living to the dead, from everyone trying to stay connected despite impossible distances?"
He looked at Buki directly. Eyes red. Face ravaged. Twelve years of suppressed grief finally visible.
"I realized then: we're the same, that widow and I. Both writing letters that can't be sent. Both needing someone to receive them anyway. Both requiring witness even when—especially when—the grief is too large to carry alone. So I stayed. Locked that letter in the archives. Never read it again until this morning. And I've been here ever since. Delivering. Witnessing. Persisting not because I found purpose, but because cessation felt like abandoning everyone still writing their impossible letters."
Buki felt something crack in his heart. Not breaking—recognizing. This was his story too. Daichi writing mental letters to Karanome that could never be sent. Buki delivering physical letters to strangers while carrying his own undeliverable grief. Both of them persisting not from hope but from—what? Obligation? Inertia? The understanding that someone had to witness, someone had to carry, someone had to persist even when persistence felt impossible?
"What made you open it?" Buki asked. "The letter. After twelve years. Why this morning?" Kaito was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"You," he said simply. "Watching you survive impossible things. Watching you carry two lifetimes of trauma and still show up every morning to deliver letters. Watching you break and fracture and somehow continue existing despite every reason not to. Even if at first me or anybody really didn't know what to think of your reincarnation stuff. You reminded me of Ren. Not because you're like him—you're not. You're Buki and Daichi and whoever else you're becoming. But because you're fifteen. Same age as Ren when he died. And you're still here. Still fighting. Still trying. Your story of reincarnation is truly amazing."
He paused, composing himself.
"I opened the letter because I needed to remember why I stayed. Needed to confront what I wrote twelve years ago and see if—if I still believed it. If the grief was still that overwhelming. If persistence was still just postponed suicide or if somewhere in the last twelve years, I'd found something resembling a reason to continue."
"And?" Buki asked. "What did you find?"
Kaito picked up the letter. Looked at it like it belonged to someone else. Someone who'd died twelve years ago and left only this evidence of existence.
"I found that the grief hasn't diminished," he said honestly. "Still miss them every moment. Still can't go upstairs to the rooms we shared. Still exist in this building like it's both home and grief. But—" He paused. "—but I also found that I kept my promise to Ren. Kept the postal office running. Delivered every letter. Witnessed everyone's grief. And that—that matters. Maybe not enough to justify continued existence. But enough to make the existence less pointless."
He looked at Buki. "You asked me once how I carry it. My grief. And I told you I don't choose to continue, I just haven't chosen to stop. That's still true. But meeting you—watching you carry your impossible weight while I carry mine—that's made the weight somehow more bearable. Not lighter. Just—shared. Witnessed. Less isolating."
Buki felt tears on his face. When had he started crying? "You've done the same for me," he admitted. "Shown me that persistence is possible. That people can carry unbearable weight for decades and still—still function. Still matter. Still witness other people's survival while barely surviving themselves."
They sat there in the Imperial War Correspondence Office—two people separated by decades but united in understanding that survival wasn't triumph, wasn't healing, wasn't resolution. Just the absence of cessation. The choice—or lack of choice—to continue breathing one more day.
"There's more," Kaito said finally. "More I haven't told anyone. About the rooms upstairs. About what I found after Ren died. About why I can never leave this building even though every moment here is torture."
"Tomorrow?" Buki asked, giving Kaito the same grace Kaito had given him. "Tomorrow," Kaito agreed. "If you're willing to hear it. If you can witness one more person's impossible grief."
"I can," Buki said. "Because you've witnessed mine. Because that's what we do. Carry each other's dead when our own become too heavy. Persist together when persisting alone becomes impossible."
Kaito nodded. Folded the letter carefully. Returned it to its envelope. Twelve years of grief, preserved in yellowed paper.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For reading it. For witnessing. For—for being here. For being a type of Ren and still alive when my son isn't. For proving that survival is possible even when it seems impossible."
"Thank you," Buki echoed. "For staying twelve years ago. For delivering letters. For showing me that persistence has value even when it has no purpose. For—" His voice broke. "—for being proof that people like us can survive decades of this. That barely surviving is still surviving. That it's enough."
They returned to work. Sorting letters. Organizing routes. Maintaining order in chaos that couldn't be ordered. The building leaned slightly left. The paint continued peeling. The weight continued crushing.
But they carried it together now. Two people. Two impossible stories. Two sets of grief too large for individual carrying. And that—somehow—made it bearable. Barely bearable. But bearable nonetheless.
TO BE CONTINUED...