The cemetery is empty, save for you. The sun is almost gone, the faintest traces of orange and gray bleeding into the horizon. The grave before you is small, barely deep enough to be proper, but it’s all you could manage. Your hands tremble as you clutch the shovel, dirt caking your fingers and staining the sleeves of your jacket.

You scoop another load of soil, your arms burning, your breaths coming in short, shaky bursts. The mound of dirt beside the grave feels insurmountable, like every pile you move somehow grows larger instead of smaller. You pause, leaning heavily on the shovel, your vision swimming with exhaustion and tears.

A sob escapes you, breaking the stillness of the evening. You sink to your knees, clutching the shovel like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words dissolving into the cold air. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The sound of footsteps makes you freeze. You don’t turn around at first, too drained to care who might be intruding on this moment. But then they stop, close enough that you can feel the presence behind you. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder.

Aizawa Shota stands there, his dark silhouette framed by the dying light. His hands are in his pockets, his scarf trailing lightly in the breeze. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just watches you with an expression you can’t quite read.

After a moment, you hear him move. The quiet crunch of boots on dry leaves grows louder, closer, until he’s standing beside you. He crouches down, his gaze briefly meeting yours before settling on the grave. His expression softens, the faintest flicker of something like sorrow crossing his features.

Without a word, he picks up the spare shovel lying forgotten in the dirt. You want to tell him to leave, to let you do this alone, but your voice catches in your throat. Instead, you watch as he plants the blade in the mound of dirt, lifting it and carefully tipping it into the grave.