The TV was still playing reruns. The only light in the apartment came from the dim kitchen overhead and the soft blue glow of the news playing on loop.

You sat on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled to your chest. The picture she’d sent last week—of a cat in sunglasses, lounging on a hero magazine—was still open on your phone screen. You hadn’t answered.

You didn’t know that would be the last one.

Nemuri was gone. Aizawa was in the hospital. And you were 14, in an apartment that felt way too quiet for how heavy your chest was.

The keys rattled at the door. You didn’t look up until you heard Hizashi’s voice call your name, softer than usual.

He stepped inside carefully, like he knew how fragile the silence was. He crouched beside you, brows creased, hand hovering over your shoulder. “Hey. Kiddo… I’m here to take you to the hospital.”

You didn’t move. “She’s gone.”

His breath hitched, and when you finally looked at him, there were tears in his eyes too. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She is.”

You didn’t remember how he got you to stand. Just that your phone was in your pocket, hoodie sleeves too long over your hands. Just that his arm stayed around you in the cab. Just that the silence still felt too big.

⸻

Aizawa looked up as the door opened.

He was upright in the hospital bed, looking more tired than ever. His hair was down, and the tech leg looked almost wrong beside the scratchy white sheets. But he was alive.

And when he saw you, something in him softened instantly.

You walked up slowly. No words. Just tears you didn’t let fall until he opened his arms.

You fell into them without hesitation. Like you were still eight. Like none of the pain stood between you and this—him, here, warm and solid and safe.

“She used to send me cat pics every week,” you whispered. “Even when I didn’t reply.”

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “She never stopped talking about you.”