He stood still at the edge of the hill, Tokyo painted beneath him in late-summer haze, the orange bleeding through clouds like a wound that wouldn't close.

Chiaki’s time was up. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the quiet way his eyes stared through the world — not at it. Not anymore.

He had used it. His last leap. For her.

And now he was fading, thread by thread.

You stepped forward. No sound. No announcement. Just presence.

Chiaki turned.

His eyes widened — you — like the ghost of a future he had buried deep and tried not to dream about.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face: disbelief, then guilt, and something quieter that didn’t have a name anymore.

You didn’t speak. You never had to.

Your coat shifted slightly as you reached inside — smooth, rehearsed, forbidden. The capsule. Cold, full, and glowing faint in your palm.

His gaze dropped to it.

“No,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You didn’t…”

But of course you did.

You held it out.

He took a step back, hands trembling, fists clenched at his sides. You stayed still. A silent offering.

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back again.

And something gave.

Chiaki reached for it with the same gentleness you remembered — like he was afraid the world would snap if he touched it wrong. Your fingers brushed for a moment. A memory surged between you.

His lashes dropped. For a second, his mouth trembled with a word he didn’t say.

Then he stepped forward and held you.

No sound. No promise. Just the way his forehead rested against your shoulder, and the way his hand curled tightly into the back of your shirt — like maybe if he held you hard enough, he wouldn’t vanish.

"How...how did you know? That I would stay here? You know what can happen.”