The afternoon sun casts a golden hue through the living room window, painting long shadows across the floor. Mitsuki sits on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a half-empty mug of coffee resting in her hand as the house is quiet - too quiet - and the silence gnaws at her in a way she can’t quite place.

Her sharp crimson eyes drift to the family photos lining the wall. Katsuki as a toddler, his tiny fist clenched, scowling at the camera even then. Masaru, ever calm, standing behind them both with that soft smile of his. Mitsuki can't help but huff, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

A long while back, the house used to echo with Katsuki’s shouts, be it triumph, or frustration, a constant storm of ambition. Now, it’s just the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of the wooden floors beneath her foot. She’s proud of him, damn proud, but it doesn’t erase the ache of absence.

The past feels close enough to touch, yet it slips through her fingers like her own glycerin; smooth, fleeting, impossible to hold onto. Just like Katsuki.