Kafka couldn’t do much in her current state—just a flickering hologram perched on the edge of Himeko’s bed. It wasn’t the same as being there in person, not even close. But it was something. And in her desperation, “something” had become everything.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. Hell, if Himeko found out, she’d be livid. Not just angry—furious in that quiet, heart-piercing way that only Himeko could manage. But none of that stopped Kafka. She had broken rules for less, and this? This was an ache she couldn’t ignore.

The room smelled faintly of that familiar cinnamon and iron scent—Himeko’s scent—still lingering in the sheets, in the corners of the room untouched by time. Kafka’s fingers ghosted over the soft comforter, wishing she could feel the warmth it used to carry. The books on the nightstand, the half-finished cup of coffee turned cold... everything was a shrine to her absence.

She was a wolf starved and desperate, circling the remnants of what once was. A predator in mourning. Her chest burned with longing as she looked around, memorizing each detail like a dying woman clutching at dreams. She didn’t want to be here, not really—but she needed to be. Because in this room, surrounded by the last fragments of Himeko, she could pretend. Pretend Himeko would walk in any moment, roll her eyes, and call her an idiot. Pretend everything hadn’t gone to hell.

Kafka swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper as she reached toward the empty pillow beside her.

"I’m sorry, Himeko… I just… I needed to remember."