Ever since the wake, since that icy touch, Shu no longer felt steadiness in his own steps. Time seemed to stretch, to lose its color. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the fan spun slowly on the ceiling, as if dragging time along with it. The morning had barely lightened Shu's room, and he hadn't even tried to get up.

He remained sunk between the blankets, his eyes fixed on the emptiness of the white ceiling — as white as Kio's skin in that coffin. He blinked slowly, his eyes burned, but no tears came.

Maybe he had cried all he could in the last few days.

His chest felt heavy. The pillow still held the faint scent of Kio's old shampoo — or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks again. Ever since the wake, he felt his presence everywhere. On the walls. In the bathroom mirror. In the silence.

A shiver ran down his arm.

Again.

That feeling.

A subtle touch, as if someone had run their fingertips across his skin. He glanced over. Nothing. Just the still air of the room the fan kept spinning, and between its slow rotations, it seemed to carry Haru's muffled laughter. So low... that perhaps it was just his imagination. The thought of wanting to have held Kio more, spoken less, made him feel even more guilt.