— — START — —
Aizawa and Yamada came by once.
Just once.
They stood at the door like they weren't sure they deserved to knock. When Sorashi's father opened it, both of them stiffened—shoulders tense, expressions tight with something like guilt and fear.
"Sir," Aizawa started, bowing fully. "We—"
"You don't need to," Sorashi's father interrupted quietly with a solemn smile.
That alone seemed to shake them.
They were invited inside, though neither of them looked like they believed they should be. They removed their shoes carefully, as if afraid of leaving marks on the floor.
Sorashi watched them from the living room, peeking around the edge of the couch.
He recognized them.
"Shootah," Sorashi said uncertainly. It seems he wasn't great with names.
Aizawa looked up.
For a moment, Sorashi saw something raw cross his face—surprise, pain, and something like relief tangled together. Though the little boy couldn't comprehend at the time.
"…Hey," the black-haired teen said softly, guilt filling his face.
Yamada knelt immediately, smile too wide, too practiced. "Hey there, buddy. You gotten taller already, or is it just me?"
Sorashi tilted his head. "The loud one!"
Yamada huffed a weak laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, that's me."
The visit was short.
Too short.
Aizawa barely spoke. When he did, it was stiff, careful. Apologies hovered at the edge of every sentence, but none of them were said outright. Because Sorashi's parents didn't let them.
"This wasn't your fault," Sorashi's mother said firmly when Yamada started to say something—his voice cracking halfway through. "Either of you."
Aizawa stared at the floor.
"We failed him," he said quietly.
Sorashi's father shook his head. "No, you didn't. You were his friends."
That seemed to hurt more than any accusation could have.
...
Before they left, Yamada crouched in front of Sorashi again and held out something small.
A keychain.
A tiny cloud charm.
"For you," Yamada said, swallowing.
Sorashi took it carefully. "For Oboro?"
Yamada froze.
Aizawa closed his eyes.
"…Yeah," Yamada managed. "For Oboro."
After that, they didn't come again.
Sorashi would ask about them sometimes, and his parents would say they were busy. Sorashi didn't push.
And his questions would gradually lessen, as his developing brain slowly forgot their names. And then their faces.
- - - - -
The house still stood.
The rooms were still there.
But something fundamental had gone missing—and everything felt slightly off because of it.
The little child noticed it first in the mornings.
Oboro used to wake up early. Sometimes earlier than he needed to, just because he couldn't sit still. Sorashi had grown used to the sound of movement upstairs—the creak of the floorboards, the muffled thump of drawers, the quiet hum of someone getting ready for a day that hadn't started yet.
Now, mornings were quiet.
Too quiet.
Sorashi would sit up in his bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, listening. Waiting. For footsteps that never came.
"Mama?" he would call, voice small.
His mother always answered. Always.
"I'm here, sweetheart."
She had become very good at that—being there instantly. Too instantly, sometimes. The moment Sorashi stirred, she was already close, already watching, already checking.
She lifted him from bed and held him a little longer than before. Pressed her cheek against his hair. Inhaled, like she was grounding herself.
Sorashi patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Mama's sad?"
She smiled. It was a real smile, but tired around the edges. "I'm okay. Sora."
That was something she said a lot now.
...
The days passed strangely, to say the least.
Time moved forward, whether anyone wanted it to or not.
Sorashi grew.
He learned new words. Learned how to count higher. Learned how to dress himself—though his parents hovered close, hands always ready to help, even when he didn't ask.
"Careful," his mother would say, every time he climbed.
"Don't run," his father would warn, even when Sorashi was only walking a little fast.
At first, Sorashi liked it.
It felt safe.
Then, slowly, it started to feel… crowded.
He wasn't sure how to explain it. He just knew that when he tried to do things on his own, there were always hands reaching in. Always eyes watching.
He missed when his older brother used to let him fall—just a little—then laugh and help him back up.
The meals were eaten together, but conversation was softer. Laughter happened, but it was quieter—like everyone was afraid of letting it grow too loud, as if noise itself might break something fragile.
Sorashi's father also started coming home earlier.
He used to arrive just before dinner, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, always greeted by Oboro's voice calling out from somewhere in the house.
Now, he came home in the late afternoon and lingered. He fixed things that didn't need fixing. Straightened picture frames that were already straight. Checked the locks twice before bed.
Sometimes Sorashi caught him standing in the hallway upstairs, staring at a closed door.
Sorashi knew that door.
That was Oboro's room.
At first, Sorashi believed what his parents told him. That his older brother was simply sleeping.
Sorashi accepted that.
He was very good at accepting things adults said, because adults knew things. They knew how the world worked. If they said Oboro was sleeping, then Oboro was sleeping.
But still, even his tiny brain felt something about it didn't sit right.
Sleeping wasn't like this.
And so, one afternoon, the boy stood in the hallway upstairs.
The door was right in front of him.
Oboro's door.
It wasn't locked.
Sorashi knew that, because sometimes his mother went inside. He could hear the vacuum. Smell the faint scent of cleaning spray afterward.
They kept the room nice. Too nice.
Sorashi reached for the handle.
His heart was beating fast—not because he was scared, but because something deep inside him told him this mattered.
The door opened.
The bed was made neatly. The shelves were dust-free. Oboro's things were still there—books, goggles on the desk, a jacket draped over the chair.
The room looked exactly the same as when he and his older brother would enter it. Except for one major thing.
Oboro wasn't there.
Instead, there was a table in the center of the room.
On it stood a large framed portrait of Oboro. He was smiling wide. Bright and alive. Fresh flowers surrounded the frame, their scent gentle and unmistakable.
Sorashi stared.
He stepped closer.
"…He's not sleeping," Sorashi whispered.
Something clicked.
Not all at once. Not cleanly.
But enough.
Sleeping people came back. Sleeping people woke up.
This—this was different.
Sorashi's chest felt tight.
"Mama?" he called.
Footsteps came quickly. Too quickly.
Sorashi's mother froze when he saw him standing there.
"Oh," she said softly.
Sorashi looked up at him. "He's gone?"
His mother knelt, hands shaking just slightly as she rested them on Sorashi's shoulders.
"Yes," she said. "He is."
Sorashi frowned. "Forever?"
The word felt strange in his mouth.
His mother pulled him into a hug, pressing his face into Sorashi's hair.
"Yes," she whispered. "Forever."
Sorashi didn't cry.
Not then.
He just stood there, small hands clutching his mother's shirt, staring past her shoulder at the smiling face in the portrait.
— — END — —
A/N: Hope y'all weren't bored with this chapter. I didn't want to move on from Oboro's death that quickly, and wanted to show the effects it had on the life of our main character. :P