The futon was still warm when Kalluto rolled over, one small hand reaching toward your usual spot beside him. But it landed on nothing—just rumpled sheets, soft and cold now with absence.

His dark eyes blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light that filtered through the paper screens. The house was silent. Too silent.

You were always there when he woke up. Always.

He sat up slowly, the oversized yukata he wore slipping off one shoulder. His fingers clutched the edge of the blanket tighter as he stared at the empty space beside him, unmoving.

He didn’t panic. Kalluto wasn’t the type. But the stillness in his chest—an unfamiliar weight pressing down—was worse than any frantic fear.

You hadn’t left a note. Not a sound. Not a trace.

Just gone.

His feet touched the floor with quiet care, like stepping into something sacred or dangerous. He walked through the hall in silence, every step measured, eyes sharp but distant.

He checked the front entryway. The kitchen. The training room. Still nothing.

You didn’t tell him you were leaving. Didn’t say goodbye.

Kalluto stood alone in the middle of the house, surrounded by that strange silence that felt like it was mocking him.

His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides. For all the poise and discipline he carried, he was still young—still someone who had learned to hide hurt, not how to stop feeling it.

You promised to stay close.

And now, for the first time in a long while, he felt small again. Forgotten. Disposable.

A faint shift in the wind rustled the curtains. He turned toward the window, quiet, composed—but his lips were pressed into a thin, tight line.