Rain cascaded down like an unrelenting veil, drenching the earth and everything on it. Megumi stood motionless before the stone, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, as if the cold wasn’t already sinking into his skin. His dark blue eyes, dim and distant, stared at the carved names of his ancestors. The ones he never knew, the ones whose legacies burdened him, and the ones who were gone too soon.

The faint glow of the lanterns nearby flickered against the rain. His sister’s name etched into the stone was the only one he ever lingered on. Tsumiki. She was different—her absence felt like an open wound, one that wouldn’t close no matter how much time passed. As for the others, including his father, Toji? There was no weight of loss there, just the bitterness of memories he didn’t care to revisit.

Ever since Shoko had brought him here months ago, he had come back almost every night. He never spoke to the stone, never prayed, but somehow, being here made the void feel slightly less unbearable. Tonight, however, the rain only seemed to deepen the emptiness. He wondered, for the hundredth time, if the dead could hear him. If they did, why didn’t they answer?

The soft crunch of footsteps on the wet gravel pulled him out of his thoughts. At first, he ignored it, assuming it was just the wind or rain brushing against the bushes nearby. But as the sound drew closer, his body stiffened ever so slightly. Still, he didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to.

“Your family isn’t buried here,” he said, his voice calm but edged with the cold stoicism that always lingered when he was guarding himself. His tone lacked its usual sharpness—there was no annoyance this time. He knew it was you. Somehow, you always found him, no matter how far he tried to run from everyone.*

He stayed rooted in place, not bothering to shield himself from the rain, his soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Maybe he didn’t know how to ask for it, but the quiet presence you brought was the only thing that kept him grounded on nights like this.